Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 2. Erotic Saga

Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 2

Erotic Saga

Kirill Borgia

Дизайнер обложки Fooocus

© Kirill Borgia, 2026

© Fooocus, дизайн обложки, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-4363-2 (т. 2)

ISBN 978-5-0070-2123-4

Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero

The Fourth Echo

The day had unraveled quietly in the soft hum of their whispered confidences and the gentle rustle of sheets, punctuated by the occasional sigh or murmur that seemed to linger in the warm, enclosed air of the carriage. Night had folded itself over the train like a velvet curtain, and morning arrived with the low clatter of wheels on rails, the distant cries of street vendors, and the faint, briny scent of the river mingling with the earthy aroma of the city waking. They scarcely touched their breakfast before the train slowed, and through the window they glimpsed the bustling chaos of Rostov-on-Don — the stir of carts along cobbled streets, the barking of dogs, the clanging of metal — and the city, alive and unhurried, welcomed them with all its rough, vivid presence.

Their luggage was swiftly lifted down from the iron belly of the train, and the morning air of Rostov greeted them with a mixture of coal smoke, horse sweat, and the sharp tang of the Don carried by a restless wind. On the square before the station stood a ragged line of carriages; drivers, in their worn caps and fur-trimmed coats, called out hoarsely to the arriving passengers.

Yarosvet helped Taissia into one of the waiting droshkies, its leather seat polished by years of weary travellers, then turned to the driver — a broad-shouldered fellow with a russet beard and eyes narrowed from the sun.

«We need a hotel, somewhere close to Pushkinskaya Street,» Yarosvet said, adjusting his gloves with that careful, measured manner of his.

The man scratched his temple with a rein, squinting. «Pushkinskaya, eh? That’s the one they used to call Kuznetskaya, ain’t it?»

Yarosvet’s brows lifted slightly; the name stirred no memory. He shook his head.

«No matter,» the driver continued with a sudden spark of pride, «I’ll take you better yet. Newest place in town — „Moskovskaya,“ just opened this very year. Grand building on Bolshaya Sadovaya, can’t miss it. Finest rooms in Rostov.»

Yarosvet inclined his head, and a faint smile touched his lips. «Very well. To the Moskovskaya, then.»

With a click of the tongue and a lash of the whip, the droshky leapt forward, wheels clattering over cobblestones, carrying them into the broad veins of the awakening city.

The carriage clattered through the city as dawn stretched her pale fingers over the rooftops of Rostov. Hooves rang out on uneven cobblestones, scattering pigeons that rose in grey whirls above the marketplace. They passed narrow lanes smelling of coal and fresh bread, then broader avenues where chestnut trees stood in dusty rows, their branches stirring with the first breeze from the Don. Street-sellers lifted their baskets, calling out with rough voices; a church bell tolled somewhere behind them, deep and solemn, while the driver urged his horse through the living pulse of the awakening town.

At last the carriage drew up before a newly risen grandeur on Bolshaya Sadovaya. The Moskovskaya Hotel, its four storeys gleaming with fresh stone, stood like a proud announcement of the city’s new ambitions. The façade, carved into strong vertical rhythms, bore a central portico with Corinthian columns that caught the early light, their shadows falling in precise, noble lines. Rusticated masonry on the ground floor gave the whole a sense of weight and permanence, while above, rows of windows unfolded in measured harmony — rectangular at first, then gracefully arched on the upper storey, like a slow crescendo in music.

To Yarosvet it seemed less a building than a declaration, a confident gesture of modernity in this southern town. Taissia, leaning forward, let her eyes linger on the pilasters and the pediment crowning the portico, her lips parting in a quiet smile of admiration. The driver, swelling with pride as if he himself had laid the stones, swung his whip aloft and repeated, «The finest in Rostov. Sixty rooms, all new — opened this very year.»

Yarosvet inclined his head, paid the man, and stepped down to the pavement. Together they stood a moment, gazing up at the fresh splendour, as if the very edifice were an omen awaiting them. Then, side by side, they passed beneath its arching doorway and into the silence of polished marble and echoing halls.

At the reception desk, beneath the glow of gas lamps and the faint smell of fresh varnish, a clerk in a stiff collar politely extended his hand for their documents. Taissia, eighteen years old and carrying herself with the quiet confidence of legal adulthood, slid her passport across the polished wood with an almost careless air; the young man glanced at it briefly, nodded without comment, and returned it with a deferential smile.

Yarosvet’s turn, however, was less seamless. The clerk frowned, holding the booklet to the light, his eyes travelling from the inked description of age and appearance to the man who stood before him — whose features seemed too youthful, too vigorous, for the birth year inscribed on the page. A moment of awkward silence hovered, broken only by the rustle of ledgers being turned in the adjoining office.

Yarosvet, calm but inwardly tense, laid a banknote discreetly beside the passport. The hesitation in the clerk’s gaze melted swiftly; the paper vanished into a drawer with the same smoothness as the doubt in his eyes. «Very good, sir,» he murmured, sliding back the document and dipping his pen into the register.

Thus the matter was settled, not with explanations but with the quiet eloquence of the rouble.

They ascended by the broad central staircase, its marble steps faintly resonant beneath their tread, the polished banister gleaming like a stream of dark honey under the flicker of gaslight. Taissia, with that sprightly insistence of hers, had asked for the very top floor, «closer to the sky,» as she whispered, her eyes alive with mischief. The climb was long, each landing opening upon a corridor hushed and carpeted, the air tinged with varnish and the faint perfume of lamp oil. From the tall windows along the stairwell the city unfolded in fragments: slate rooftops, a glint of the Don, the pale smoke of chimneys rising into the morning.

At last they reached their room. The porter unlocked a heavy door with a brass key, bowing as he withdrew, leaving them alone in the hush of the space. Within, they found high ceilings painted in soft cream, tall arched windows that admitted a river of light, and curtains of damask falling in stately folds. A large bed dominated the chamber, its carved headboard gleaming under a fresh polish, while on the marble-topped table stood a vase with roses — slightly wilted, yet still breathing a faint fragrance into the air.

From the window, when Taissia hurried to draw aside the drapes, they could see far across the city: the bustle of Bolshaya Sadovaya below, the green ribbon of Pushkinskaya beyond, and, in the distance, a thin silver gleam of the river. For a moment, the world seemed hushed and remote, as if the lofty chamber itself were a private eyrie suspended above Rostov, set apart for the two of them alone.

Taissia’s laughter, bright and girlish, rang through the lofty room the instant the door closed behind them. «At last — just us!» she exclaimed, and with the careless ease of a child at play she began tugging at her garments, letting them fall in a careless trail across the carpet. In a heartbeat she stood bare as the day, her skin gleaming softly in the slant of daylight, and darted, fleet as a swallow, through the side door in search of the promised conveniences of so modern a house.

What she found made her pause in delighted wonder. The chamber opened into a small tiled anteroom, the walls clad in pale faience, cool to the touch, and there stood a shining porcelain tub — deep, oval, its brass claw-feet polished like gold. Beside it rose curious fittings: gleaming taps and pipes that whispered of hot and cold water at command, a marvel she had only half-believed until now. Against the far wall a cabinet concealed a flush toilet, its wooden seat lacquered to a dark gloss, while above it a polished cistern bore the discreet crest of some foreign maker. A large mirror hung over the washstand, framed in oak, and on its marble surface lay folded towels of startling whiteness, faintly scented with soap.

Taissia gave a cry of delight, turning on her heel, her nakedness unashamed, her eyes wide as though she had stumbled into some enchanted grotto. To her, raised in more modest conditions, this little sanctuary of modern comfort seemed a treasure-house; she touched everything, laughing, tugging the chains and handles just to hear the gurgle of water, marvelling that all this splendour belonged — at least for now — to them alone.

Taissia, still full of her childlike daring, perched herself upon the porcelain seat as though upon a throne, leaving the door wide so that the light fell in unabashedly upon her bare limbs. With a sly gleam in her eyes she called out, half-laughing, half-serious:

«If you wish, you may watch me while I relieve myself.»

He chuckled, deep and warm, leaning against the doorframe with folded arms, the corners of his mouth betraying amusement.

«There will be time enough for such spectacles, little one,» he said softly. «Do not hurry me with your bold inventions.»

She wrinkled her nose, then bent forward, her voice suddenly gentler, almost wistful:

«Tell me — could we not remain here forever? Just you and I, in this high room above the city, with hot water and velvet curtains, with no one to disturb us?»

The air between them held a mingling of laughter and yearning: her question naïve in its simplicity, yet carrying the unmistakable tremor of longing, as if in the glittering modern comforts she had glimpsed a promise of permanence, of shelter from the restless world that had cast her into his arms.

Yarosvet, still smiling at her audacity, inclined his head as though indulging a child:

«Yes, of course, we may remain here as long as you wish. This chamber, this city — they are yours, little bird.»

Taissia gave a sly, conspiratorial smile, her eyes narrowing with that quick spark of cunning which so often flashed beneath her playfulness. «Thank you, my dear lord,» she murmured, half in mock solemnity, as though he had bestowed upon her an empire. Yet even as the words left her lips she shook her head, her voice sharpening with a sudden realism.

«But no — I do not need such sacrifices from you. This fine city and its gilded hotel will soon weary us both. And besides» — she laughed lightly, with the cruel candour of youth — «you cannot have such coffers as would keep us in this splendour forever. I would not make a beggar of you for the sake of marble tubs and velvet curtains.»

The air quivered between jest and truth, her teasing words edged with a strange tenderness, as if she wished to spare him while at the same time reminding herself that such glitter was but a passing disguise, and that their true bond lay elsewhere.

Yarosvet’s gaze softened, and he let out a low chuckle, the sound reverberating in the tiled chamber.

«Money is not such a difficulty,» he replied evenly. «Only until you appeared, little one, it never occurred to me to build a nest of my own. I was quite content with rented rooms, fleeting roofs, places to rest without belonging. For me, permanence has always been a stranger.»

Perched upon the porcelain throne, relieving herself without the least concern, Taissia laughed — a bright, silvery ripple, shameless yet girlishly curious. The water whispered beneath her, unembarrassed, while she tilted her head to regard him through a curtain of loosened hair.

«And may I ask, since we are in such… intimate confidence,» she said slyly, «how it happens that you always have roubles at hand? You do not look like one who works, not in any ordinary sense. What is your secret, Yarosvet? A fortune hidden in a mattress? Or perhaps some long-forgotten inheritance?»

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, yet behind the jest was an eager hunger to pierce the mystery of him, to know from where his freedom and his strange, unmoored life drew its quiet strength.

Yarosvet stepped across the threshold with unhurried ease, the faint echo of his boots softened by the tiled floor. He bent toward her, fingers brushing her cheek in a gesture at once tender and possessive; his other hand found the warm curve of her breast, closing over it with quiet familiarity.

«My little inquisitor,» he murmured with a smile, «when one has a century to observe the ways of the world, one learns how to make money breed money. I was left, long ago, with a modest inheritance from my parents — a seed rather than a fortune. By the advice of well-placed friends, I invested in shares of certain industrious companies. They have grown, as such things do, while I, for my part, have lived rather simply, spending little upon myself.»

He spoke with that tranquil frankness which carried no boast, only the calm assurance of a man long accustomed to turning the invisible cogs of fortune, while Taissia — unabashed upon her porcelain seat — listened as though to a secret door creaking open in the mansion of his life.

Taissia tilted her head, a strand of dark hair slipping across her brow as she regarded him with half-mocking seriousness.

«And why,» she asked, her eyes narrowing in playful reproach, «have you not even undressed from the road? You still smell of dust and iron and all that rattling train.»

Yarosvet gave a measured shrug, his gaze drifting for a moment to the tall windows where the sun struck through the gauze curtains.

«I had thought,» he replied evenly, «to call without delay upon Inga. It is, after all, for her that I have come.»

She gave a quick, bell-like laugh, shaking her head with the impatience of youth.

«Nonsense. What is this fever to rush? First you will take a proper bath, then change into something worthy of the city, and perhaps even dine. Only after that should you go chasing new acquaintances.» She leaned against the doorframe with sudden softness, her voice slipping into a coaxing murmur. «I promise to be a good little girl meanwhile — to sit here quietly if you prefer it so, or, if you mean to bring her here, I shall go out for a walk. Whichever pleases you best. I shan’t be in the way. Truly, I will not.»

There was in her tone both generosity and that faint tremor of hurt one hears in a violin string stretched too taut — a girl’s loyalty tested against the man’s wider, older purpose.

Yarosvet paused, her words settling into him like a quiet truth. Indeed, there had been no appointed hour with Inga, no pledge that demanded his haste. The city would not vanish, nor would she. He exhaled slowly, conceding in silence, and stepped out into the room.

With deliberate motions he undressed, folding his garments neatly, and hung them — alongside Taissia’s lighter dress — within the tall, cedar-scented wardrobe whose doors gave off a faint, resinous creak. The act carried with it a subtle intimacy, as though, by placing their clothes together, he acknowledged a shared existence, however fragile.

When he returned to the tiled chamber, the sound of running water reached him first, a crystalline music echoing against porcelain. Taissia was already there, barefoot upon the cool floor, mischievously presiding over the bath she had set to fill. Steam curled in languid ribbons about her bare shoulders, and her eyes flashed with the triumph of a child caught in some delicious prank.

«You see?» she said, testing the water with her hand, her smile bright with unrepentant mischief. «I thought you might forget yourself, so I remembered for you.»

The room had grown warm and fragrant, the rising steam softening its sharp edges, so that it seemed less a hotel bathroom than a private grotto conjured for two. Yarosvet sank slowly into the water, the heat embracing his weary limbs, coaxing from his shoulders the stiffness of travel. The porcelain sides rang faintly at his descent, a muted hymn to repose. Across from him, Taissia lowered herself with a playful shiver, droplets scattering from her skin like beads of glass. For a moment she reclined against the rim, eyes half-closed, a satisfied sigh escaping her parted lips.

It was she who reached first for the soap, lifting it like a treasured jewel, turning it in her wet palms until it bloomed with white, silken lather. She leaned forward, the candle-like glow of her arms drawing near, and pressed the froth to his chest. Her fingers moved deliberately, tracing the hard planes of his torso, circling with an intimacy both practical and tender. She soaped his shoulders, his neck, lingering upon the slope of his collarbone, as though polishing some timeworn statue restored to youth. He smiled at her earnest industry, yet did not stop her — there was something oddly soothing in her girlish seriousness, her intent gaze fixed upon each patch of skin as though nothing else existed in the world.

When it was his turn, he took the soap from her, their fingers brushing, slippery and warm. He set to work on her arms, lifting them gently, running the suds along their length, until she giggled and let her wrists dangle like a marionette. He soaped her shoulders, the tender hollow where neck met collar, and then, with greater care, her back, the curve of her spine glistening beneath the sheen of lather. She arched slightly, feline in her pleasure, hair clinging damply to her cheeks. The intimacy of the act was heightened by their unhurried pace: there was no urgency, no feverish grasping, only the unbroken rhythm of touch and water, as though each gesture were both caress and conversation.

They spoke as they washed, half in jest, half in confidences. She teased him about the seriousness with which he worked, calling him a monk disguised as a lover; he replied that monks would envy such duties, and perhaps their prayers had been misplaced all along. She laughed, splashing water against his chest, only to have him retaliate, drawing her closer under the pretext of rinsing the soap from her shoulders. Their words wandered, as lightly as their hands — of the strangeness of this southern city, of the vastness of Russia itself, of how fleeting it seemed to arrive and already feel a room one’s own. She asked if he was happy, truly, in this moment; he answered not with solemn protestations but by lathering her hair, his fingers sliding slowly over her scalp, massaging the suds until she gave a low murmur of pleasure.

At last the bath was clouded with foam, their skin fragrant and slick. They sat opposite each other, knees brushing beneath the water, exchanging looks that were more eloquent than any jest. Time had loosened its grip — minutes stretched like silk threads, unbroken, delicate. It was not the hunger of bodies that filled the space, but the steady weaving of intimacy: the knowledge that they could share silence, touch, and laughter all at once, and that none of it demanded more than simple presence.

It was Taissia who slid lower first, slipping almost beneath the surface, her dark hair floating like ribbons upon the water. She took his ankle into her hands, the contrast of her small fingers upon his strong calf almost childlike, yet charged with mischief. With solemn exaggeration she soaped his shin, her thumbs circling carefully, as if she were polishing a relic for some secret rite. Down she went, lingering over his heel, the arch of his foot, until at last she lifted it from the water. Droplets streamed down his skin, caught the lamplight, and broke in tiny mirrors upon her breast. She pressed his toes together playfully, then bent her head, brushing her lips across the ball of his foot in a kiss that was both mock-ceremonial and tender.

Yarosvet chuckled, not from embarrassment but from the novelty of the act, and reached for her in turn. He drew one of her legs across his lap, pale and glistening, the sheen of soap still clinging to her calf. His hands moved reverently, rubbing the lather along the long line of her shin, squeezing gently at the soft flesh of her thigh before returning downward. He lingered upon her ankle, marvelling at the delicacy of its bones, before cupping her foot as though it were a fragile bird. Raising it above the water, he rinsed it slowly, then kissed the tender underside with the gravity of a vow.

Their laughter subsided into a hush, broken only by the faint trickle of water and the distant hum of the city beyond the shutters. It felt like play, and yet not only play: there was a strange intimacy in baring one’s soles to another, in submitting that unguarded part of the body to lips and touch. She leaned back against the porcelain rim, watching him through half-lidded eyes, her mouth curving in a smile that was both girlish and knowing.

They took turns, almost solemnly, soaping, rinsing, and kissing each other’s feet, until it seemed less a game than a ritual, binding them in some private liturgy of flesh and water. When at last they paused, their legs entwined beneath the surface, the bath was quiet save for the soft whisper of bubbles breaking. She whispered something about never having been treated so like a princess, and he, brushing wet hair from her cheek, answered that queens had been crowned with less ceremony.

The bathwater lapped softly around them, rippling over the curves of her skin and the firm plane of his chest. Taissia’s fingers drifted along the hidden landscape beneath the surface, tracing the undeniable hardness that throbbed with quiet insistence. A shiver ran through her, half from the cool embrace of water, half from the intimate, unspoken gravity of what she felt.

With a careful tilt, she rose, her thighs pressing into the bath, her knees finding the warm porcelain beneath. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself, her body aligning with his in a taut, unyielding press of flesh. Water clung to them both, glistening, magnifying every curve, every subtle movement. She lingered, suspended in that delicate balance, the bath a cocoon of murmured gasps and the slick whisper of skin on skin.

The moment was suspended, ritualistic almost, a silent communion of heat and touch. She felt the subtle pulse beneath her, the rigidity of his body welcoming her weight, and she allowed herself to be enveloped in the sensation — the firm, unrelenting presence that pressed against her, the quiet surrender to the pressure of flesh under water. Time seemed to dilate; the world beyond the tiled walls and the faint city hum receded, leaving only the warm, trembling intimacy of two bodies in fluid harmony.

Her hands braced against the edge of the bath, eyes half-closed, lips parting in a soft exhale, and she savored the strange, intoxicating paradox of dominance and surrender, of yielding to pressure and yet commanding every tremor of sensation. Water slipped in rivulets down her back, catching the soft glow of the bathroom light, accentuating the curves and tension of her form.

And there they stayed — suspended, connected, a private ballet of flesh, water, and quiet, unvoiced devotion — until the rhythm of the bath and their breathing became one, indistinguishable, almost sacred in its intensity.

She lingered there, suspended between yielding and command, every curve of her pressing into the rigid insistence beneath her. The bathwater pooled around their entwined forms, clinging and sliding with each subtle adjustment of her hips, tracing the line of their contact like molten glass. Her fingers drifted again, seeking the familiar swell of muscle and hardness, caressing not just the contours but the almost magnetic tension that seemed to emanate from him.