F4: Anything But That

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(Author’s note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. This FAWC was based around the theme of music, with four songs given to choose from. This story is a riff on the song title “Midnight Train to Georgia”.)

* * * *

Christina’s tea cup rattled on her saucer and she winced at the sound of the heavy wooden door slamming two flights down and the sound of the wheels of the knyaz’s carriage on the cobblestones of the carriageway at the entrance of the dacha. She had no idea where Konstantin Gruzinsky was off to—to his club in Moscow or to the Moscow town palace where “she” and Konstantin’s brood squatted. Or he could be anywhere, perhaps off to a mistress who would give him what he wanted.

As for Christina, she gave him nearly everything—everything but that, and she supposed in time he would get that too. There wasn’t much that a commoner-born opera singer could deny a Russian prince even if they were married—no, especially because they were married. When an unprotected woman married into the Russian nobility, she lost all of her rights.

Not that she lost her power to control or didn’t have status in Moscow. She’d just come off a production singing the coloratura soprano role as Nightingale in Igor Stravinsky’s opera, Le rossignol—The Nightingale—at the Bolshoi Theatre. It had been the first performance on Russian soil since it had premiered in Paris the year before, in 1914. She was riding on a high, contemplating leads in several other operas now.

But, no, Konstantin, sniffing the political air in Russia, had said that this was a time that they needed to withdraw to his family’s tea plantations in the south, on the Black Sea. But what did Christina know—or care—of politics? Hers was the world of the arts. She was a woman who knew how to manipulate men. And she was at her zenith in her world.

She had lost that argument. He had told her to pack and to expect to receive a train ticket to the south, to Sochi, and from there the short trunk line ride to Gagra, the closest town to the family plantations in Georgia. He would follow when he could. She had won, at least for now, the other argument. And, as Konstantin was gone now, in anger at being defied and denied, who knew where and who knew for how long, that argument was moot.

With a sigh, Christina carefully laid the empty tea cup on the inlaid-wood stand at the side of her four-poster bed and rang for her maid servants to help her dress—and to help her decide what to take with her to a dull exile on the shores of the Black Sea, for who knew how long.

“What need does he have for that anyway?” She must have said out loud, because a startled maid looked up from setting a stool down at the side of the bed to help Christina to the floor. Christina waved the maid away, though, and continued the query in her thoughts.

“You don’t want children from me?” she had asked the first time he’d made the demand. She was surprised. She’d never been asked to endure his fetish before. It wasn’t that she was virginal or a prude. Even though she was barely beyond twenty and the knyaz—the prince—was past forty, she was a woman of the arts and the theatre. The whirlwind of attention for the beautiful young soprano’s attention and favor within the hedonist court at Moscow and St. Petersburg had brought her into the beds of several men—including Konstantin before he had put his first family aside and begged her for her hand in addition to the other parts he had already tasted. But not before she wanted to be there.

“I have quite a large enough brood festering in Moscow,” had been his reply. “I have no need for a competing set. And, besides, it is what would please me.”

“Well, there is more than you involved,” she had answered icily.

Since then he had cajoled and, from time to time, had raged. But he hadn’t forced her. He only said that she was silly, that it was no great thing, and that she would come to enjoy it.

“It’s the come to enjoy it part that frightens—and, yes, disgusts me,” Christina had answered. “I have no desire even to start.”

“Think of your career,” he said. “You will not want children until that is on the wane.”

But that didn’t work either. “I’m not a primitive,” she had answered, with disdain. “I know of better ways not to have children.”

For all she knew, her refusals had sent him into the arms of another. But, as he had married her and given her the status of wife, she didn’t really care all that much what else he did and who else he did it with.

* * * *

Christina gave a little jerk of surprised fright and withdrew into the corner of her seat in the train compartment as the door to the corridor slid open and the Russian Orthodox priest entered and sat on the padded bench opposite her.

She had been on edge all day, having received illegal bahis the ticket earlier that day for the night train from Moscow to Sochi, with the connection to Gagra. It had only been one ticket, none for her maids. The terse note had said there were maids at the family’s tea plantations on the Black Sea. He had given no thought to her need for a maid during the train journey. She had wondered briefly if Konstantin had caught on to what her maids were turning a blind eye to. But everyone did it. Surely it wouldn’t surprise Konstantin—not enough for him to take his displeasure out on her maids.

And she’d only been given the day’s notice to board the train. She hadn’t gotten the ticket and the message until early afternoon, although that was no one’s fault but hers. She had trained the maids to pretend like she wasn’t even in residence in the dacha when the baritone, Alexander Duznets, was in attendance from the previous night and into the morning and mounting and plowing her in her bed chamber repeatedly to assuage her almost insatiable needs in the absence of her husband.

She did not deny her husband sex—and plenty of it—just not everything he wanted.

Extramarital sex was a game, of course, that everyone in Moscow played, and one that the servants enjoyed observing and abetting as much as the masters enjoyed engaging in it.

It was to be a night train ride. She would not have chosen to travel in the dark herself, but, as usual, Konstantin hadn’t bothered to ask her her preferences. She didn’t know what the concern and hurry was for them to abandon Moscow anyway, although the Gruzinskys weren’t the only titled families doing so at this unseasonal time.

It wasn’t just having a priest entering her compartment—and one who reminded her so much of the hated and feared “mad monk,” Rasputin, who held the imperial family so much in his thrall. It was that anyone at all had entered the compartment.

The whole boarding process had been bizarre, her maid and footman having almost run away as she was being turned over to the conductor. And then she was led back, back, back nearly to the end of the train—certainly to what seemed to be beyond the passenger carriages. He led her through a mail car and then to this, the last, he’d said, passenger compartment before the baggage cars started. He told her she would have privacy here. And, indeed, there appeared to be no one else in the carriage at all. She was led to a compartment in the middle of the carriage.

“But is there no other . . . no seats in carriages closer to the dining car?” she asked.

“Madam finds this carriage not clean enough or well-appointed enough?” He’d asked, almost daring her to criticize the quality of the train’s standards.

“No, it’s not that. It’s that all of the other passengers are . . .” But she stopped there, uncertain. One of the aspects she had thought irksome for this journey was that there would be other people crowded into the train. Even in the first class area—and this certainly looked like a first-class carriage—she would be thrown in with people who would ogle her, wondering where they knew her from, and, if they made the connections, bothering her all night. She had prayed she’d be in an empty compartment, and now here was her chance to be in one. Not just an empty compartment but an otherwise empty carriage.

“This was the seat and the carriage that the ticket was bought for, Madam,” the conductor was saying. “But if madam—”

“No, no, this will do fine,” she said with a smile.

And it did do fine until, as the train was pulling out of the station, the compartment door slid open and the priest entered and sat on the bench across from her.

He was an overpowering presence in his jet-black rough-cotton cassock extending from his throat down to the floor of the compartment. And it was a demonic presence too, Christine couldn’t help thinking, influenced by the few glimpses she’d gotten of the mad monk Rasputin and the similarities with this priest. His ruggedly featured—not totally ugly but in no part handsome—face, with the wild looking hazel eyes, was haloed in black hair reaching down to his shoulders and a scraggly, mind-of-its own, jet-black beard, the tip of which reached down to his sternum. When the sleeve of his cassock drew back from his forearms, the hairiness of the arms—black and curly—added to the primeval aura of the man. He was a giant of a man, seemingly filling the compartment to its limits.

Christine wasn’t a tiny woman herself. She was a voluptuous blonde, with curves, and was of higher-than-average height and cleavage for a woman of the age. She struck a commanding presence on the stage. She should have done so in the train compartment, but she felt almost trapped and smothered by the presence of this foreboding priest.

Why had he been sent to her compartment when there were empty ones all up and down the corridor? Because he had a ticket for this one, she told herself, supplying illegal bahis siteleri the answer she knew the conductor would give her if she asked. If she could find the conductor.

She wouldn’t ask, though. She’d just wait until it wasn’t obvious that she wanted to flee the overpowering priest’s presence and change compartments herself. But when would that be?

“You look a bit distressed, my child,” the priest said in a deep, rich basso profundo voice. “Allow me to fetch you some tea.”

“No, I’m not distressed, thank you,” she said as a natural reaction not to reveal that she was, in fact, very distressed—and having little idea why she was, why she would find a Russian Orthodox priest threatening, no matter how much a giant of a man he was. The deepness of his voice added to her distress. The men she knew with voices that deep were . . . well . . . strongly virile. But he was a priest. Certainly he would not be threatening in that way. “I don’t really need . . .”

But he was already out in the corridor and headed for the mail car to muster tea service.

“Here, my child, drink this. It will settle your nerves,” he said, with a twinge of a smile that, itself, set Christina on edge. He handed her the tea cup in a saucer and set a small tea pot on the stand attached under the window.

Why did he assume her nerves were jangled? Of course they were, but why would he notice or care? Or give her a smile that seemed more sneer than smile?

And why did she feel faint, she wondered, after the third sip of the tea. Not exactly faint. More numb. And a bit detached from herself, like she was floating above her body in the compartment, looking down, with interest, but not exactly with concern. Knowing that the tea was working some sort of numbing effect on her, but, for some reason, this didn’t concern her much. It might concern Christina a bit, she thought, but that was Christina’s problem, not hers.

Her nerves were not an edge at all anymore. But she couldn’t say that she was comfortable in this situation. There was an underlying hint of the sense of foreboding, of loss of control.

How had the shades come to be closed to corridor, she wondered. And, thinking on it only now, had that been a click of the key in the lock on the sliding door when the priest had returned with the tea? The shades weren’t drawn down on the windows to the world, though, although it was pitch black outside, with only the lights of the countryside flickering as the train raced by. And even they were being slowly extinguished, fewer and fewer points of light as the train raced into the night. It was after midnight. The country beyond the world Christina knew needed to go to sleep in order to be able to rise again before the sun.

Her world now, at this moment, was just the compartment. And her world just now was populated by herself . . . and the overpowering presence of a brooding Russian Orthodox priest. She wasn’t tense, though. She was lying back against the deep cushions of the bench, feeling her breasts rise and fall with steady breathing. In fact, it was strange, but she could actually feel her breasts breathe, could concentrate on the tingling sensation in them.

She looked across the space between her and the other bench. The priest was unbuttoning his cassock and pulling it back from his body. Christina didn’t even question why he was naked underneath, primitive in his hairy musculature, a riot of black matting swirling around his puffy-brown nipple-branded pectorals and down his sternum, across a flat, muscled belly, to an unruly black bush. For some reason her mind had known he would be naked and primeval under the cassock. And that his body would be muscular, and young, and overpowering. Younger and more muscular than Konstantin’s. Not younger, but still more muscular than Alexander’s. And he had a staff, thrusting out of the black forest of his pubes above hairy balls the size of eggs, that put both men’s to shame—that put those of all men Christina had ever known to shame. It was erect and he was stroking it.

She knew she should be terrified, and angry, and mortified—should be checking this as just a dream. So why did she feel a purring sensation? She should scream her lungs off and lunge for the door. But all of life was in slow motion at this moment. The terror had been pushed under a veil of inevitability and a curiosity of what was happening here—and, yes, more than a bit of arousal at the sight of the priest’s virile body. A basso profundo indeed. The body of a virile god with the head of a Rasputin perched on it. For a moment she found herself wondering if Rasputin didn’t have the body of a god as well and that that was the crux of the control he held over the empress. Perhaps this was Rasputin.

She knew she should do something. Assert herself and stare him down with the frosty eye of a sensible, civilized royal. Flee the compartment. Scream, or something. And she did hear a distant sound that might be her attempting canlı bahis siteleri to scream—entirely useless, of course, as cut off as this carriage was from others on the train. And she did make a lethargic attempt to move to the door.

But this was a mistake. The priest was up, off his bench, and reaching out for her. There was not much distance to cover to reach her. When he did so, he raised her up off her bench, turned her, and embraced her. She was bent over the seat with him covering her back, his open cassock now covering them both, flapping quietly around their bodies, so that for the next forty-five minutes anyone who was able to see through the lowered shades from the carriage corridor would only see a mound of undulating black material, the coarse cotton of the folds of the black cassock rippling in the rhythm of what was transpiring underneath.

And in the space of forty-five minutes, Christina was totally undone, moved to a whole new level of sensuality and possession.

Lost in his embrace, Christina felt the back of her skirts being lifted to her waist and rough, calloused hands on her thighs and then her buttocks. Her silken underdrawers were being ripped away. This was nonsensical; it couldn’t possibly really be happening.

A hand palm fanned out on her voluptuously rounded bare belly. She was breathing nearly as hard as he was and murmuring her resistance, that being the extent of defense her lethargic body would permit her. The other hand held her close to his chest, a hand cupping one of her ample breasts, trapping her nipple painfully between two fingers through the tight material of her bodice. The hand on her belly lifted her and rolled her buttocks up to him, Her thighs spread of their own volition, knowing both the score and the cadence of what was being played with her body, as she was no novice to this. The game of penetration was no secret to her body.

The scratchiness of the hair of his thighs and bush on her smooth skin accentuated the sensations that were assaulting her, the sweet and sour of heighted awareness but dulled reactions.

She shuddered and gasped as his cock found a home and started to enter her—to make itself at home. Thick and long, slowly conquering her. Stretching her walls and making them shimmer; her channel muscles, experienced in the feel and shape of many men, beginning to undulate in remembrance over the invader; offering it a welcome her undrugged mind would not have condoned. Not to an ugly, hairy, foreboding peasant priest, at least. But, god, the cock he had.

And now that it was inside her, it was all that mattered. Everything topsy-turvy now. Resistance evaporating in the face of the need for completion. The ultimate male answer.

She was, of course—or thought she should be—outraged and frustrated at her body’s inability to care, to do anything in her defense, to this gross violation. But it was gross in another way too. He was thicker, longer than anything she had sheathed before. And she was a highly sexed woman. She began to moan as he started to stroke inside her. The arms that had been dangling, uselessly at her side, as he captured and then conquered her, raised, as if by their own preference, and her hands locked behind his neck, bringing his face down into the hollow of her neck, his lips and teeth to the tender flesh there.

Firmly saddled, his “below” hand spent enough time working her clit for him to be comfortable that she was accepting the cock, melding her body to his, and working in concert with him. At that point, the “below” hand joined the “above” hand at her breasts, unbuttoning her bodice, freeing her breasts, and kneading them and worrying the nipples until they popped out at the touch and she was moaning deeply and moving her hips with the rhythm of the fuck.

He knew now that he would not be rejected short of orgasm. Christina knew that too. The means of access no longer mattered. There would be release.

He waited to feel her explode, once, twice, three times in quick succession, and then he pulled out of her, giving a guttural laugh at her groan of the loss of him.

But she hadn’t lost him. She was being taken to a new level, to where she had never gone before. She objected and weakly struggled, crying out in angry and frustrated screams that, in reality, were probably no more than muffled squeaks, as his cock found the rim of a new hole and he started working into the tighter, virginal channel. This channel did not give way as resiliently as the other one had. The preparation had to be careful—yielding, not splitting. The night ride was to be a long one.

She writhed and panted hard and groaned the challenge, feeling every clash of the struggle, the hard-won victory of every inch of him rising up inside her, coaxing and carefully parting and expanding. But under the determined work of the priest, her passage did, slowly give way and open its gates to the conquering cock down to the tickling of the hair of his bush on the curve of her buttocks and the nestling of his balls between her thighs. She had fought him as long as she could, but gradually lost the battle and the will and relaxed, which is exactly what he needed to achieve the final inches.

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