Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 2. Erotic Saga

Inga laughed, soft and genuine, a quick sparkle in her eyes. «Oh, that’s much better,» she said, still smiling, «I think your tongue might manage to linger just right this time.» Her amusement was warm, effortless, and unmistakably sincere.

With a faint, teasing arch of his brow, he said, «By the by, speaking of Liza, may I ask — how many years grace your count?»

Inga’s smile softened, and she met his gaze without hesitation. «I have reached twenty,» she replied, her tone calm and assured, carrying neither boast nor bashfulness. «Though, I daresay, most would have given me more.»

He shook his head with a faint smile, a shadow of mock reproach in his gaze. «Ah, I see — it must be the office that takes years from you. But tell me, why waste your time there, instead of reveling in the pleasures that befit a young woman of twenty?»

Inga sighed, a soft, measured sound, as if the air itself carried a hint of resignation. «I am obliged to attend to such matters,» she explained, her gaze steady on him, «and not merely for the sake of coin, though one never scoffs at a little extra.» Her tone carried no bitterness, merely the quiet weight of circumstance. Then, as if acknowledging a shadow that had lingered too long, she added, almost sotto voce, «Mr. Petrov… he is, in fact, my fiancé. A match arranged by my father, who has known him for years — he is hardly remarkable in appearance, but he holds weight in Rostov, and that matters to him.»

Yarosvet ’s eyebrows rose in a faint, incredulous arc. «I’d wager,» he said with a teasing lilt, «from what I’ve seen of him, Petrov is more interested in money than in women.»

Inga gave a small, wry smile. «He is wealthy — and frugal — but my father deems him a desirable son-in-law.» Her tone was almost factual, yet a subtle thread of irony lingered, as though she relished the incongruity of it all.

«And you?» Yarosvet asked, leaning just slightly closer, curiosity bright in his eyes. «What do you want, in all this? And why… why agree to my visit?»

Inga looked down, a gentle smile playing on her lips. «There is another gentleman, one Mother favors for me, and I, truthfully, prefer him far more than Petrov. Yet… alas, he is often away on military duty, and Mother fears such distance would render a proper courtship impossible.»

Yarosvet fixed his gaze on her, calm and intent. «And do you, Inga, fully grasp the purpose of my visit? Have Liza’s hints reached you as she intended?»

Inga nodded, a faint curve of acknowledgement touching her lips. «Yes, I have,» she admitted quietly, just as the waiter arrived with their order. She fell silent, offering no hint of the conversation, yet her eyes followed each movement, attentive but guarded.

Once the waiter departed, her voice dropped to a near whisper, yet carried a startling frankness. «Your visit,» she said softly, «gives me a chance… a chance to bear a child unlike any other, from a man unlike any I have known.»

Yarosvet ’s eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle mix of curiosity and something darker threading his expression. «And how many men have you known, Inga?» he asked, his tone careful yet probing.

She met his gaze without hesitation, her voice measured, almost serene. «Only one,» she replied, a faint inflection of respect in her words. «Mother’s protégé. He is the only one I have truly known.»

Inga lowered her voice, her tone both candid and composed. «You see, children born to officers — ober-officer children, as they’re called — are entitled to certain privileges. They receive preferential treatment in education, access to military service, and often, a smoother path in life. My mother believes that aligning my future with such a man would secure these advantages for me and any children we might have.» She met his gaze steadily. «But I am not seeking a mere alliance for status. I desire a child who is… exceptional. And you, Yarosvet Alexeyevich, are the only man I know who might fulfill that role.»

Yarosvet’s eyes held her steadily, calm yet questioning. «And you would have me, in this fashion, be at ease concerning you?»

Inga’s lips curved in a faint, confident smile. «Indeed, and with good reason,» she replied softly, her tone measured yet unmistakably earnest. «A pregnancy would bind my father’s hands — he does, of course, care for me deeply — and he would be compelled to desist from pressing the match with Petrov. Thus, in this matter, your involvement offers not only the extraordinary child I seek, but also the freedom for me to choose.»

Yarosvet took a delicate forkful, letting the flavours linger before speaking. «You have a remarkable eye for the agreeable, Inga. Each dish, though simple, carries a certain wit, a suggestion of care that elevates the ordinary to something… engaging.»

A delicate arch of her brow accompanied a smile that danced just at the edges of her lips, and her reply carried a hint of mischievous restraint. «I trust you find more delight in the arrangement of food than in my modest attempt at taste, yet I am gratified that it meets your approval.»

He laughed softly, the sound like the quiet rustle of autumn leaves. «I confess, it is both — the taste and the subtle thought behind it. One rarely encounters such harmony without a hidden hand guiding it, and I see yours here, unmistakably.»

Their words wove around the table like a subtle game of shadow and light, each remark a brushstroke on the canvas of conversation, lightened by laughter, shaded with a gentle challenge. He paused, his gaze tracing the curve of her smile, the faint sparkle in her eyes that had caught him from the first.

Then, as if pressing a finger to the pulse of the moment, he asked, his tone lowered yet firm, carrying neither urgency nor doubt: «Inga… when might I have the honour of seeing you again? I would not impose, yet I am compelled to know when the next meeting may come to pass.»

The words hung between them, not as a demand but a soft invitation, and the quiet in the room seemed to draw nearer, as if the walls themselves leaned to hear her answer.

Her gaze met his with a quiet, knowing light. A faint, elusive smile curved her lips. «It seems your stay will be longer than you intended,» she said softly. «Two more weeks, if my calculations are correct — your passport ensures it.» She spoke plainly, with just a trace of amusement, acknowledging the small twist of circumstance that granted them this unexpected interlude. «As for timing,» she added, lowering her voice so that only he might catch it, «the best days are Wednesday, Friday, or Sunday… and always under the waxing moon. Nature itself, it seems, has a preference.» She spoke with a calm assurance, as if revealing a delicate, hidden rhythm to which only a few were attuned.

«I remember seeing the waxing moon from the train window,» he said, his tone casual, as if recalling a familiar sight rather than marveling at it. «And today, by chance, is Friday itself.»

Inga’s eyes held his, a sudden, quiet awareness dawning that she was gazing upon the man who might father her child. There was no mistaking it — she liked him. She had liked him from Lisa’s tales, and she liked him now, in the flesh, here before her. Yarosvet, reading the subtle play of her gaze, allowed a faint, teasing lift to the corner of his mouth and asked, voice edged with tender irony, «Shall you surrender to me without delay, or will you keep your patience until Sunday?»

Inga paused, as if awakening from a dream, a soft flush brushing her cheeks. Then she replied, with a measured breath and a hint of decisiveness, «Today… yes, today, if need be… and then again on Sunday.»

Inga’s lips curved into a soft, startled laugh as she realised she had spoken aloud what had only been thoughts a moment before. The sound, light and unrestrained, carried a hint of mischief, as if she were half-chastising herself for letting the secret slip into words. Her eyes danced with the awareness of her own daring, meeting Yarosvet’s with a spark that spoke both of amusement and anticipation.

Yarosvet chuckled, a low, warm sound that matched the teasing light in his eyes. «And should you find today agreeable,» he murmured with a playful gravity, «there will be another Wednesday… and a Friday to follow.» Inga felt a rush of color bloom across her cheeks, her gaze dropping shyly to the plate before her, as if it could shield her from the gentle audacity of his words. The air between them thickened with a sweet, quiet tension, each moment charged with the unspoken promise that lingered just beneath the surface.

Yarosvet let the pause stretch just long enough to let her cheeks cool, then leaned forward a fraction, his tone light though edged with intent.

«Tell me then, Inga, where and when would it best suit you? I have taken rooms at the Moskovskaya — convenient, yes, but hardly discreet.»

Her lips curved in a quick smile, touched with mischief and caution alike.

«Oh, Moskovskaya will not do at all,» she replied softly. «Too many eyes, too many ears — one might as well proclaim one’s secrets from the balcony.» She toyed with her fork for a moment, then added in a murmur, «There is a dacha my uncle keeps just beyond the city gardens, where the vineyards spread towards Nakhichevan.» Mother holds a duplicate key — I know where she hides it.»

She lifted her gaze, steady now, though the colour in her cheeks betrayed her excitement.

«The question is only this: where shall you meet me, so that we may go there together tonight?»

Yarosvet’s calm gaze lingered on her a moment longer, noting the precision in her words.

«Then I shall wait for you with a cab near your office. It will spare you the trouble of wandering far alone.»

Inga let a smile touch her lips, as if measuring how much to reveal.

«That will suffice. Half past six, then. It gives me just enough time to leave the office at closing, make a brief stop at home to change, and alert Mother. She is never one to be left in ignorance, and besides…» She let her words trail for a heartbeat, eyes glinting with mischief, «…it pleases her that I take such matters with decorum, even while following my own inclinations.»

Her voice was serene, yet threaded with a subtle daring, as though every syllable carried the knowledge of what awaited them — and the unspoken understanding that Yarosvet was no ordinary man, but the father of her carefully envisaged child.

Inga rose first, smoothing the folds of her skirt with a measured grace, her gaze briefly catching Yarosvet’s. «Thank you for the lunch,» she murmured, the corners of her mouth tilting in a faint, conspiratorial smile. «I shall await the evening with some impatience.» She inclined her head, offered a whisper of a curtsey, and stepped out into the cooling streets, leaving behind the quiet warmth of the café.

Yarosvet lingered a heartbeat longer, observing the sway of her figure as she disappeared into the shadowed thoroughfare. Then, with deliberate calm, he signaled the waiter, settled the bill with the precision of a man accustomed to affairs both minor and weighty, and stepped out himself. The city’s evening air greeted him, brisk yet familiar, and he chose to walk back to the hotel, the cobbled streets echoing softly under his boots.

Yarosvet returned to the hotel room, guided by the faint, lingering scent of lavender and the warmth that still clung to the air. The bathroom was a soft haze of steam, curling in lazy spirals that blurred the edges of tiles and fixtures alike. There, in the shallow embrace of water that reflected and distorted the dim lamplight, Taissia reclined, her body half-submerged, the contours of her skin glimmering as the last warmth of the bath caught the light. Her shoulders and arms floated just above the surface, glistening, while the swell of water obscured the gentle slope of her hips and thighs, leaving only hints — fleeting, teasing — of the form beneath.

Damp strands of hair clung to the planes of her temples and neck, dark against the pale sheen of her skin, and tiny rivulets traced patterns along her shoulders, catching the glimmer of the lamp as they fell. Her breasts were partially concealed beneath the water, nipples just brushing the surface, the curve of each softened and diffused by the rippling warmth. The bath hid enough to preserve a sense of mystery, yet revealed enough to ignite the mind, leaving nothing explicit yet everything suggested.

She breathed in slow, even rhythms, eyelashes brushing lightly against the damp skin of her cheeks, lips parted as if caught between sleep and some dream she alone inhabited. Yarosvet lingered at the threshold, the quiet pulse of his own anticipation tempered by awe, by the accidental intimacy of witnessing her like this. He observed the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the subtle arch of her neck, the way her fingers rested lightly on the rim of the bath, and he felt the tender irony of his presence — unseen, yet utterly drawn into this private tableau.

For a long moment, the world beyond the bathroom ceased to exist. Steam, water, and pale lamplight conspired to render Taissia both ethereal and fleshly, a creature suspended between dream and reality. Yarosvet’s eyes traced every curve, every subtle shadow, not with crude desire, but with the meticulous attention of a man recognizing a rare, delicate beauty. It was as though the bathwater itself had become a veil, softening the edges of her form, yet leaving enough of her exposed to draw his thoughts unwillingly forward. He allowed himself a slow, silent smile, aware that the intimacy was accidental yet unavoidable, the space between observer and dreamer pregnant with quiet tension and promise.

«So, you’ve kept the lady content, and now shall we move on?»

Her words slipped through the heavy, fragrant steam, soft and laced with a deliberate, teasing slur, as though she were drifting between sleep and wakefulness, yet seeing, hearing, remembering everything. Eyes closed, her body curved languidly in the bath, the water clinging to the swell of her breasts, the slope of her belly, tracing each intimate contour. A subtle, knowing shift of her hips sent tiny ripples across the surface, and her fingers, gliding with casual intent between her thighs, spoke in quiet, insolent commentary of her awareness. Each syllable, each gentle touch beneath the water, dripped with a mischievous, unmistakable invitation, turning the steamy enclosure into a private theatre where desire and audacity entwined with the soft, seductive rhythm of her breath.

«You may continue to indulge yourself, Taissia,» he said gently, his tone even, almost conspiratorial. «At the dacha, I will be occupied with Inga at her dacha, so you can remain in here undisturbed — no one will intrude, and nothing will trouble you.»

Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing a gleam of mischief as she stretched luxuriously in the steaming water. «I’m… hungry,» she confessed, the word spilling from her lips with playful reluctance, as if waking from a dream yet fully conscious of his presence.

He considered her for a moment, his measured gaze tracing the curve of her shoulders and the delicate rise of her collarbones, then asked, «Would you prefer to descend to the restaurant, or shall I have the meal brought to our room?»

Taissia shook her head, letting the water drip from her hair and skin in rivulets that glimmered like molten glass. «No,» she murmured, a quiet defiance in her tone. «I don’t wish to dress yet.» With a fluid motion, graceful and self-assured, she lifted herself from the bath, the warm water cascading down her bare form, leaving a trail of glistening moisture along the contours of her body. The air seemed to cling to her, carrying the faint scent of lavender and soap, and the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her amusement and the undeniable awareness of her audacious freedom.

Naked and bare-footed, she approached him with a deliberate grace, taking his hand and raising it to her lips. Her mouth brushed his skin in a soft, lingering kiss, a whisper of warmth and audacity. With her eyes half-closed and a mischievous tilt to her head, she murmured, her voice, velvet-soft and teasing «Did you enjoy Inga… have you seen her unclothed yet?»

He watched her with quiet amusement, the calm of his voice a gentle counterpoint to her bold playfulness. «Inga is pleasant, clever even,» he said, tracing a slow, deliberate circle on the back of her hand. «But she has a fiancé; there’s no reason for jealousy.» He paused, letting the words sink, then added with the same measured ease, «It turns out she works at the office that handles all manner of documents. I’ve already arranged for certain changes in my passport… and if you wish, I can take care of your name change there as well.»

She let her fingers linger on his hand, the warmth of her touch teasing yet deliberate. «I wouldn’t refuse a name change,» she said softly, her voice carrying that familiar mix of mischief and calculation, «but only so that it appears nowhere — just a new passport, nothing else.»

Her gaze, half-lidded, met his with a spark of daring; she was careful, yet entirely self-possessed, testing his intentions without need for words. Steam curled around them, draping her naked form in a private haze, as though the room itself softened the edge of her request. Even in the quiet, the meaning was clear: she trusted him to make it happen discreetly, yet she held the reins, daring him to respond with equal subtlety.

He explained that they would linger in the city for a while longer — his own documents, he said, were promised to be corrected in a fortnight. If the officials were honest, they would manage it, and then it would be her turn.

«I’m in no hurry,» Taissia murmured, her eyes still half-closed, her voice soft but yielding, «I’ll do as you wish.» She paused, then added with a playful lilt, «If you insist on going down to the restaurant, I’ll dress.»

He noted, with a faint smile, that her options were pitifully few: only the clothes she had arrived in. «Then we shall take a walk,» he suggested, «and find something more suitable for you.»

A light, delighted laugh escaped her lips, and she leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to his hand, the simple gesture carrying all the warmth and gratitude that words could not contain. Her bare feet whispered over the polished floor as she moved closer, the steam curling around her like a soft veil, and he could not help but marvel at the quiet confidence in the ease of her gesture.

His fingers closed firmly around the tips of her breasts, drawing her close with an insistence that was gentle yet undeniably commanding. He pulled her toward him, and their lips met in a deep, lingering kiss, a collision of warmth and desire.

Taissia dried herself with brisk efficiency, the towel wrapping and unwrapping around her body like a fleeting caress, before hastily pulling on the only set of clothes she had brought. Yarosvet, observing her movements with a faint, approving smile, reminded her gently not to catch a chill, and they agreed that the evening meal would be safest in the hotel’s restaurant rather than venturing into the afternoon air.

They descended the grand staircase together, the soft echo of their footsteps mingling with the low hum of conversation and the subtle clatter of silverware. The warm glow of the chandelier above cast a gentle light over polished wooden banisters, and the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread drifted up to greet them as they entered the dining hall. Waiters in dark uniforms moved with quiet precision, their white gloves catching the light, offering the impression of a carefully orchestrated ritual.

The restaurant was pleasantly occupied but not crowded; small groups murmured across linen-draped tables, the atmosphere a comfortable hum of evening relaxation. They were shown to a secluded table near the windows, where heavy drapes framed the darkening city streets outside, a scene softened by gas lamps and the occasional passing carriage.

Menus were opened, and Yarosvet perused the selections with measured interest, commenting on the local specialties: tender roast veal, golden-crusted pike, a delicate medley of seasonal vegetables. Taissia, following his lead, allowed herself a lighter choice — an aromatic consommé to start, followed by sautéed chicken with a gentle herb sauce, each selection a deliberate echo of her desire for comfort and warmth rather than indulgence. Yarosvet, noting her preference, smiled discreetly, then ordered a modest portion for himself, having already satisfied his appetite with Inga, but now willing to share this quieter, more intimate meal with her presence.

As the dishes arrived, steam rising and mingling with the faint scent of lavender still clinging to Taissia’s hair, they fell into an easy rhythm of conversation. The clink of utensils and the muted laughter from surrounding tables formed a gentle backdrop, allowing the two of them a sense of shared solitude, an oasis of warmth and attentiveness in the midst of the city’s evening stir.

Taissia stirred her consommé lazily, the spoon barely disturbing the surface, and lifted a gaze that was both playful и внимательно изучающая. «Describe her to me,» she murmured, a slight tilt of her head betraying curiosity as delicate as it was teasing.

Yarosvet leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the angles of his face as he measured each word. «She is… pleasant,» he said, his voice steady, almost clipped, «Her hair is dark, pinned neatly, framing a face that is intelligent rather than overtly striking. Eyes are alert, brown, quick to notice detail. She carries herself with a certain composure, perhaps a hint of hesitation at first, but nothing that diminishes her… overall presence.»

Taissia’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly, at the corners. «And her figure?» she prodded softly, letting her gaze flick toward him with a quiet amusement.

«Slender enough,» he replied, «yet not without subtle softness. Not someone to inspire envy, though she is far from plain,» he added with a faint, almost imperceptible emphasis.

A faint, knowing smile passed over Taissia’s face, and the casual elegance of her posture seemed to assert that she had already understood — and perhaps accepted — the boundaries implied in his words. Still, there was an unmistakable glint of mischief lingering in her grey-brown eyes, as if she were cataloguing everything with the quiet amusement of one who had learned to wait and see.

She shifted just enough for him to notice, her gaze catching his in a flash that suggested amusement rather than inquiry. «And her lips?» she murmured, voice low, careful, yet carrying the tiniest edge of curiosity. «Have you kissed them already?»

Yarosvet’s eyes followed the faint curve of her cheek in memory. «Full, well-shaped, with the subtle firmness of youth… inviting, yet not provocatively so,» he said, deliberately slow, each word measured. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added with a faint smile, «No. Not yet.»

Taissia leaned closer, her voice low and teasing, «Do you wish to feel Inga’s lips… on your beautiful member?»

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. «That, my dear, is a rather idle question,» he said smoothly, his tone carrying a gentle amusement. «It is no more pressing than asking whether you would taste the spoon from which the broth has cooled, though you proclaimed yourself hungry just moments ago.»

Yarosvet’s smiled. «That, my dear, is a rather idle question,» he said smoothly, his tone carrying a gentle amusement. «It is no more pressing than asking whether you would taste the spoon from which the broth has cooled, though you proclaimed yourself hungry just moments ago.»

Taissia narrowed her eyes with a sly sparkle, the corner of her mouth lifting in that impish curve he already knew too well. As if making a point, she dipped the spoon deeper than needed, raised it high, and with exaggerated relish began to sip the broth, letting the sound of it linger with a teasing deliberation. The gesture was a little performance, half-mocking, half-girlish in its play. She ate and ate, spoon after spoon, as though proclaiming with each noisy mouthful that her hunger had nothing to do with the feast he had hoped for. All the while her smile remained, glinting with mischievous triumph — her lips silently saying: see, I was starving indeed, only not for what you imagined.