Captain Sidorov’s Thoughts
I woke up alone at the sound of the army drums. There was no sign of little Magda. Maybe she had already risen and was preparing breakfast? But when I cleared the cobwebs of my slumber and saw the heavy population of spiders and cobwebs where the walls meet the ceiling, I noticed I was in an empty house that had not been lived in in years. Magda wasn’t to be found anywhere, and there was nothing to make breakfast with. I found my silver ruble on the coffee table near the bed; with the portrait of the now-dead Czar on it.
And yet my legs were still filled with a pleasant sensation that told me plainly that my time with Magda had been more than a dream.
Outside I met townsmen to whom I inquired about Magda and whoever lived in that small house. They all seemed too busy to answer. A newspaper-boy finally answered me…
“You must have dreamed, Captain Sir! Not that I want to mock you, Sir, but the only Magda I’ve known to live in this house was a very ancient woman by that name.”
“Was? Ancient?! But she’s just about your age, sonny!”
“Old Magda she was. A kind-hearted woman, living there alone, who sometimes treated me to some hot coffee, that is, until she died two years ago. She must have been a hundred years old! I miss her… You know, she was such a kind-hearted girl…”
“A hundred years old?!”
“Yes, there’s a late picture of her in the hall, if you’d like to look, Sir. And another photo of her when she was younger. Nobody’s lived there ever since!”
The boy left me and carried out his news-announcement duty further down the street. The headlines said that the White Army kept beating the Reds back to the west. I had no doubt that we would celebrate Christmas in Moscow and restore the Czar monarchy next year.
I returned inside the empty house and soon found some dust-covered pictures in the hall, on an antique shelf of dark wood that was covered with more dust and stuck in cobwebs. Once I cleared the dust, I saw the picture of an ancient woman whose face had been so stricken by the passing years that it was left devoid of any youth and grace, and yet she still had a lot of dark hair. The second picture, however, showed a woman who was young and beautiful, in her thirties or late twenties, wearing a dress that seemed to be from the middle of the last century! (see image)
I looked intently into the younger woman’s eyes. Same dark hair, same dark eyes. Magda! It was her all right. Short and slim, and rich as part of a fallen society. I knew that having met her when she was fresh out of her child years was physically impossible, but so many weird things had happened as of late that I felt anything could be. Just me wearing the uniform of a White-Army officer was an impossibility that had somehow materialized. The lingering bliss I felt down my legs was proof enough I was with her last night.
I took the picture with me and I was about to leave the empty house when I heard a spring-beauty of a voice…
“Don’t even think about it! Leave my picture here, Daddy!”
I put the picture back on the dust-covered ledge and fled the haunted house. And yet the notion of an erotic encounter with young Magda positively fascinated me. I felt sad knowing there wouldn’t be a second time. I knew I would nonetheless return to this house, hoping for a second night with Magda. Knowing this would not be.
My empty stomach called me back to my soldierly duties. Since I still had my Captain’s uniform and insignia, I ate breakfast at an inn that was occupied by the White Army and had organically become the place where all officers ate their meals.
While eating pirojkis and drinking chai flavoured with vodka, I learned that the Admiral had already left and was on his way to Omsk, along with his newfound girl, the raven-haired Baroness. And where was Countess Hendrikoff? I felt heavy guilt upon remembering the horrible things I had done and caused to be done to both of these fine ladies. I remembered seeing Tamara’s cat and was happy she still had her companion.
“Yes, Baroness Tamara … from Latvia. I’ve heard of her. I think she’s only nineteen, but I daresay she looks even younger!” I told my breakfasting neighbour, while my recollections of my time with her at the train station in Tyumen caused some stiffness in me under the table.
“Yeah, only nineteen! And the Admiral is almost forty-five!” he said, a Captain in his late thirties, with an expression showing he’d love to be in the Admiral’s shoes.
“Wouldn’t you do the same, Sir? If you had the chance?” replied a young Lieutenant.
“Of course I’d take her! Her or this Countess Hendrikoff!” the Captain replied, drinking his chai and looking inside it as if a naked Tamara would spring out of it any moment to grant him his wish.
“What about her?” I inquired. “Do you know where the Countess is?”
“She’s on her way to Omsk as well,” the young Lieutenant said. “The Countess and the Baroness are inseparable. They were with the Czar and his family, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess what those awful pigs did to them when they were under the Red Army’s custody!”
“I bet that those guards also took the Czar’s daughters! All four sisters! Without shame!” the Captain spat out, finishing his cup of chai and pouring himself some vodka.
“Don’t say such a profanity, Igor! Don’t you say this!” a fellow Captain intervened. “God wouldn’t have allowed such a sacrilege! The Grand Duchesses are inviolate!”
“Were inviolate”, I said. “Didn’t you hear? They’ve all been shot and bayoneted.”
“Who do you think you are?” replied the fellow Captain, a thin man wearing a moustache that looked like he tried his best to look like the late Czar. “Look at how you eat! Look how low you carry your pistol! A peasant!”
I stood up and called him on his snobbish words, that if he cares to back his words with his own pistol against mine, but then someone imposed a hand on my shoulder. I turned and recognized the long-faced Colonel who had sat at the court martial, and whose eyes never left Tamara when he did.
“Now, gentlemen!” the Colonel bellowed. “Must I remind you that dueling is strictly forbidden? And besides, we’re tragically short in officers. In fact, I’m looking for a brigade major myself! Damned Red snipers! Now, both of you, shake hands and forget all this nonsense.”
I was the first to shake hands with the fellow Captain, whose eyes told me he still held a grudge while he swiftly took his hand away. Then the long-face Colonel pulled me apart and led me to a table in the corner of the dining room, as a group of junior officers promptly made way for us. As soon as we were seated with a bottle of vodka between us, my new superior spoke in Czech:
“I’m Colonel Krawkovski, and I command the 2nd Brigade of the 2nd Division of the Czech Legion. I like the way you pleaded for those thirteen poor devils who got flogged for doing what any of us would gladly do with this lovely little Baroness. You’re the man I want! If you want, you’ll be my brigade Major. Now, what do you say?”
“Well, if it’s all right with the Admiral I…”
“The Admiral is gone, and whatever he thinks of you, he has no say as to what happens to the officers in the Czech Legion, and where would he be without us, eh? So it’s settled! Major S… Sidorov? Yes, Major Sidorov, to you’re good health! Na zdraví!”
“Na zdraví!” I replied, still astonished at my newfound knowledge of Czech.
And on this, we emptied our cups and poured ourselves some more for the road. For the Brigade was moving up to the west to-night. Of any orders about my demotion to Feldfebel, I heard nothing, nor did anyone else. I no doubt owed this to Tamara and the effect she had on the Admiral, who must have had forgotten all about it after a night with the Latvian Baroness. My demotion must have been a dream that had vanished with day-light.
When the skyline was fiery orange with drunk-looking clouds, I left Yekaterinburg with my new brigade. I had arrived there as a Red-Army Captain. I left it as an Imperial Army Major. I had some devilish baraka!
I was quite busy for the next weeks as we kept beating back the Bolsheviks toward Moscow. We all felt so close to victory as we kept advancing through the forest-covered mountains of Ural. More mountains, more hills, then farmlands and villages in some valleys, then more hills.
As the Soviets retreated, they left villages with only old men and women whose clothes were a patch-work of put-back-together dresses that had been torn when they were gang-raped. There was no more life in their eyes.
Whenever a village was re-taken, the local folks would have some Red prisoners to give us, especially when our advance was swift and the Bolsheviks had to scramble away. There were nearly always some female Soviet partisans in the lot; and we would find those young women in a most pitiful state as they had all been publicly stripped naked and humiliated, then gang-raped by angry boys and old village men. They were fortunate that the local men were either dead or gone to fight.
Nonetheless, the Colonel would have these women seized for questioning. That’s when he and I would select the prettier ones for ourselves and our officers. The Colonel preferred blondes, I had a thing for the dark-haired ones. Raping eventually gets dry. The fun of it dies off and it becomes just as mechanical as half-hearted masturbation.
Once, we took a small town, and some twenty girls wearing the hated dark khaki uniform fell in our hands. I happened to be close enough to use the binoculars and watch their initial gang-rape at the hands of our forward-most company of Czechs, joined by some local old men. They handled the ladies such a grim happening that I knew there wouldn’t be any fun left for us gentlemen.
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed a British Major standing beside me as he looked at the far scene with his own binoculars. I could see the poor girls waving their arms amid the angry crowd of uniformed young fellows and local old men who smiled at them like horny devils! It was getting hard to see much, but this was a bright afternoon in early September.
Those Soviet dark tunics got opened wide as their tits were made to spring to life under the sun! Free-moving! Now buried under hands! The wind carried faint screams. Now there was nothing to see as the men were pressing themselves on the Bolshevik girls, who were no doubt getting stripped out of their uniforms and then stretched on the dusty street to receive their legion of suitors, young and old.
I knew from experience that the youngest girls in their lot would be about seventeen or eighteen, and these Bolshevik sirens would be the most urgently stripped and gang-raped, especially by the wrinkled old buggers, who would let drip more slobber on their tits than their petering old branch.
The Major from England took off running toward the village! He wanted to partake. I understood. He was new to this fox-hunting sport, just as I was new to his weird language. I just returned to my tent and grabbed some vodka offered by my orderly. Rape. I was so tired of it! If only my orderly was a girl! A girl with whom I could share something secret and forbidden. I knew that a few officers didn’t mind genders and nonetheless fucked their orderly, but I wasn’t into such things. My orderly was somewhat Mongol with jet-black hair and beautiful golden skin. Bilguun was his name. He would have been very pretty had he been a girl!
This Major was part of a British contingent that had joined us the month before. Their officers kept complaining about the lingering summer heat, about their wives being left in England, about silly orders not to bring them here. Silly men! Didn’t they understand that at the first set-back their own men would mutiny against them to get a pass at their wives?
The Brigadier in command of this British force had two orderlies who looked quite young with a slight build. I suspected the sick old bastard was secretly keeping love boys for himself. He had a large head of red hair that made him look just as comical as his name; something like Mac Donahue or Mac Donaldy, I can’t remember. He and his officers are snobbish and he acts as if he’s the Division commander, although our Colonel, as Brigade commander, is on equal terms in the chain of command.
The English Brigadier and his officers have no knowledge of the terrain and don’t speak a word of Russian, let alone Czech. I was once in our Division command tent, where our Lieutenant-General simply looked at the red-haired Brigadier and pointed on the map to show him where he wanted the British brigade to be—out of the way!
The village we had just captured with its surrounding region was a large one called Belyyfontan, meaning White Fountain.
I eventually went to the captured town, be it out of boredom. Staying behind the fighting with my long-face Colonel was generally safe, but getting boring.
By the time I arrived at the scene, the Soviet girls were utterly used up with shreds of their torn uniforms unable to hide their modesty. Every single one of them was terrified and utterly exhausted. I saw one with jet-black hair, but failed to get aroused, as I found nothing erotic in this too-familiar sight. I swiftly made for that shamed part of the camp where some female followers offered carnal services for a modest sum, but there was already plenty of lined-up of soldiers there! And besides, I was a busy man. As the brigade major, I was the chief of staff and had to make sure the men were properly deployed and supplied as we needed to move further west and secure a proper perimeter around the small town.
There was chaos! Two attack planes went into strafing duty on our men! I took shots at one of these planes as they motored away, but it was way too far and I was out of luck.
I found the British soldiers in town, searching each house for “Soviet spies”. Nearly every house was filled with female screams as the English soldiers, perhaps frustrated for having been kept out of the fighting, perhaps only cowards who hated themselves, eased up their pent-up steam at the expense of housewives and daughters who had wrongly thought themselves safe now that the Bolsheviks had been driven out.
They were constantly chanting and calling them names as they had their way with those girls. I barely understood anything they said. I only understood the cries and the begging from the Russian girls being raped by the brave King’s men.
As for our own Czechs, they were raping half the town in their own right, and there would be no stopping them. Fortunately for us, the Soviets had fled.
In the plaza at the town’s heart, the twenty-odd Soviet girls were still held on the ground and being raped by dozens upon dozens of troops and old men, and boys too. Boys from the town who perhaps felt more curious than angry. Drummer boys from our own ranks as well.
One of the Soviet girls was about twenty-five. Her wide-open shirt had collars with a pair of red squares that said she was a Captain. She was naked from the waist down, held down spread-eagled by a pack of old men and young soldiers. One man had just got out of her while an old man feverishly laid down upon her, while most of the men kept masturbating as they waited for their turn to rape the Soviet officer.
They kept calling her a Red whore and a cheap Soviet bitch and listened to her whimpers, as the old man grunted into her pretty face and told her he was going to dump a massive one inside her. She had quite a beautiful pair of tits and a majestic mass off loose golden hair, freed from its military strings that had kept those threads disciplined in stern style under her garrison cap, which now lay in the dust. I was bored with those scenes, bored to death, even though I had not had a woman in over a month.
“Did you try her from behind?” I asked a smiling Sergeant who was busy masturbating in his attempt to revive his spent manhood.”
“Uh, un… No Sir! We’ve been so busy teaching them a lesson that we didn’t think much about how. But it’s good to fuck one of their officers!”
“Well, I’ll show you, Sergeant!”
And as soon as the old man was done with dumping his load inside the lovely Captain while torturing her ears with his granpa’s groan, the Sergeant helped me in turning her around while I threw her shirt off and away, and a Corporal picked it up and brandished it as a trophy.
“WOU-WOU-WOU-WOU WOU WOU! Some ass!” the men shouted in Russian and in Czech alike.
Indeed, she had a curvy ass that made my cock suddenly hungry.
Once the Red bitch was naked on all fours, her face in the street’s dirt, her hair a golden carpet on the dirt, I kissed her butt and furthered my painfully hard status, before I freed the beast by dropping my pants and I screamed as I thundered inside her, then I basked in my basest instincts amid the men’s jeers, chants and catcalls.
I raped the Soviet blonde while thinking of Countess Hendrikoff when she was brought up on the Russ’ deck and unceremonially gang-raped after being stripped out of her fashionable dress, first by myself and the higher-ranked men, then by the rank-and-file along with the other young ladies of the Grand Duchesses’ retinue, while Tatiana and Olga were being gang-raped themselves in their cabin and while I dared not thing about Nastya, the Merry Little One. Nastya was still only sixteen on that hot night in May.
My mind was fraught with confusion as I forcefully ejaculated inside the Soviet Captain, barely aware of her enduring whimpers and even little aware of her superbly soft curves, as I emptied my balls while thinking of a Grand Duchess’s youth and Countess Hendrikoff and Tamara’s lovely little youth and feet in a maelstrom of sensuality, this while I so powerfully erupted inside the captive officer that I screamed out of sheer bliss!
I then had some vodka poured on the blonde’s ass and proceeded to lick the strong liquor off her lovely skin, where her dark khaki trousers used to polish that skin where she used to sit with authority. The men congratulated me for being a stylish rapist as they remembered how I had raped the Mayor’s youngest daughter in Yekaterinburg.
I stood back up and watched the men take their turns as the unfortunate officer took the endless punishment with her face in the dirt while more vodka was poured on her. Old men lost frothing slobber under astonished eyes as ther jaw trembled out of unspoken bliss. A drummer boy yelled loud as he looked up at the serene sky and lost his virginity inside the enemy Captain. A Corporal was absolutely brutal. Another one was gentle and said “Sorry Ma’am, but I can’t help myself.”
We were just as much prisoners as she was. The prisoners of war. At least, my beloved Sümeyye was safe in Saint Petersburg.
***
Sümeyye Sidorov’s secret journal (written in Turkish)
Petrograd, July 10th 1918
What just happened cannot be conveyed in words. Even when the city went in unrest, I had no sense of the danger me and my sister Sibil were in. Things are hard here in Petrograd. Everybody is starving. No electricity. The daily ration of bread has been dropped to just 50 grams last April, but I enjoy more as an officer’s wife, so yes, Sibil is more than happy to be living along with me. Hopefully there will be a way to get coal for heating before next winter.
There was a way. I’m thirty and my body says I’m still twenty. Sibil is a fortune-teller offering extra services to men, in exchange for food and money. Food is more precious.
I became part of my sister’s extra services so we could hoard some provisions to trade against coal for heating in case the electricity remains unavailable next winter. The government officials offer a numerous pool of customers.
Within a few weeks, we made a name for ourselves as the “sweet-tongued sisters”. We would both kneel at our customer’s feet and lick his cock, both our tongues at the same time. For an extra fee, I would strip myself naked, only I. Sibel would hide the revolver under her clothes, just in case, for there’s an element of danger in this business. And this danger had me aroused to a surprising degree.
I felt thrilled each time I licked a stranger’s branch while feeling his caressing hand on my hair as he kept complimenting me on my dark Turkish beauty. Two times out of three, he would aim his load on my face or on my tits while Sibil’s face remained without any gloss tribute.
For a further fee, he would be allowed to suck my tits! I felt so naughty! I felt guilty for liking this so much. Ivan must never learn about this! But the money is good.
Once, a well-off father came with his virgin son… and I agreed to allow both of them to penetrate me vaginally. I took the son first. I was naked and bent over the kitchen table while the boy held my hips. There was force and confidence in the way he took me and then I knew this boy was no virgin like his father had said. Something was off.
I wanted to stop, but the boy was tall and strong and he kept a strong hold on my hips as he intensified his barrage. He was now hurting me and I cursed at him in Turkish. I saw the father holding Sibil, and she wasn’t strong enough to break free and reach the hidden revolver.
“All right! Come on inside, boys!” the father shouted. And as the son emptied his sauce inside me, I heard many footsteps and realized the appartment was now crowded with men!
“Nooo! Lemme go… Nooo not this again!” Sibil cried in our Turkish. That’s when I knew for sure that my young sister had already been raped once and that was how she had become pregnant. And now it was my turn. And hers too, again.
It lasted the whole night. They ripped my best dress, the bastards! Ripped it off me while saying I was about twenty-two years old. They made us both stand side by side, me and Sibil, naked, and compared our physical attributes, like people appraising meat at the market.
By the living Czar, what happened next is a nightmare that I keep trying to forget, and the more I try, the more I remember every little minute detail of it.
A boy with acne in his face. They’re encouraging him as he climbs on me. It’s him! The newspaper boy! They have taken me to the bedroom while I hear others ordering Sibil to “suck this revolver”. I try to move, but all my limbs are restrained to the bed, men keep caressing me everywhere, even my wrists and ankles where I keep struggling while the boy is attempting to penetrate me. I can tell this one’s a virgin and feel some morbid sense of pride knowing that this handsome newspaper boy finds me erotic.
Yes he does. He does succeed in penetrating me. As he does, I forget the men who just raped me. My body even wants to wrap my legs around the boy, but my ankles are painfully restrained on the creaking bed as the boy’s panting bathes my face while others keep caressing my hair where my head keeps gently bobbing under his repeated thrusts, as he soon passes his edge and screams as I receive his tribute…
“AAAAAAAAAAAYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!”
Then a long succession of men also take their turn, their face awfully close to mine. Most take this opportunity to kiss me. I know some of them. A neighbour in his forties who says he’s always dreamed of this, shortly before growling like a sick bear. The local butcher with his thick stinking beard has also come and now comes inside me, after gleefully sucking my breasts and saying they’re even prettier than he imagined. Then his young assistant takes me while sobbing and saying he’s doing an awful thing, and then accelerates into a frenzy while his cock rubs me in a way that forces me to explode and orgasm in his arms, in their arms, as he ejaculates while calling me his Turkish delight.
And as they keep playing with my body, I clearly hear Sibil’s long-enduring whimpers and the kitchen table’s creaking where they rape her ad nauseam.
The gray morning found us naked, covered with dry sperm and crying together.
The last man’s leaving. “Thank you, damsels! It was a pleasing visit. Don’t you worry, we’ll bring you food tomorrow when we come back. Your asses for food.”
Indeed, I soon find that they’ve eaten or taken all our food! And taken my husband’s revolver.
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