Red Sunset

[Lucius]

Red depravity reaching the apo-fuck-gee here... The effect is pretty phantasmagorical, I'd say.

That said, the author really should stay out of Russia -- the gals having been canonized, the story runs afoul of the law against insulting the religious feelings of believers.

[HistBuff]

Red depravity reaching the apo-fuck-gee here... The effect is pretty phantasmagorical, I'd say.

That said, the author really should stay out of Russia -- the gals having been canonized, the story runs afoul of the law against insulting the religious feelings of believers.

Thanks, @Lucius !

Article 148 of the Criminal Code (Insulting Religious Feelings): Introduced in 2013, this law punishes "public actions expressing clear disrespect for society and committed in order to offend the religious feelings of believers".

All I can say is I never had the intention to offend religious feelings. I stumbled on a text mentioning Mr. Gibbes and his account of the boat river where he heard the girls scream in the middle of the night. This is what gave me the whole idea of this story. It will be a very long story. I have a good idea where it ends --- of course I'm not giving away spoilers! Moral duty to my readers not to! I do have morals.

This being said, the question as to whether the Romanov daughters were sexually assaulted by their guards during captivity is a very sensitive topic, especially in Russia. As always, my story is nothing more than rape fantasy fiction.

[HistBuff]

Chapter 8: Happy Ship, Dead Captain


Anastasia's thoughts...

I feel lost and alone and vulnerable when separated from my sisters. All my thoughts are blocked since I saw a man die in front of me! The Kommissar was strangely kind to me when he gave me a warm blanket and told me to go to sleep. I loathed him so much! His smile makes him even more of a creep, but there's always some fear and reverence in his eyes whenever he looks at me, and it seems there's some vulnerability in him that he tries his best to hide. I didn't want to bring up the subject as not to make him angry. I loathed him, but loathed the Skipper's bed even more! I was terrified of going to sleep in the bed of a dead man, while said dead man still lay on the floor in this very cabin!

Everything is confusion in my thoughts, all confusion. Bad dreams that left me with a prodigious pain down there; menstrual pain, the usual, but the stress of being moved and embarked on this journey must be magnifying things. There's also this pain in my little toe and the other smaller one that I had got from striking the leg of a sideboard in Tobolsk and know it's awaken with a vengeance. Then dreams of Ivan kissing me. Other men too. What's the meaning of all this? I dunno. I just know that the Skipper is dead and for some weird reason I felt close to him... Like an uncle you feel really close to.

The Skipper had collapsed. Heart attack, the Kommissar said. One moment he was fully alive and played rummy, the next he was a corpse. The First Mate said he was fifty-nine. I liked him. He had energetic eyes that sang the grey mists of his native Holland. He had talked to me a great deal and left a profound impression of wisdom mixed with a sense of sadness and loneliness. He seemed perhaps hurried for me to know him better, as perhaps something inside him had sensed that Death was upon him.

As I was so agitated and frightened, Rodionov ordered two guards to carry the Skipper away, while he and the First Mate sipped cognac together. They told me they were keeping me here for my own safety, that the Lithuanians had become unruly and it wasn't safe anywhere else on the ship. This had me greatly agitated again as I fear for my sisters.

"Don't worry, young lady," Rodionov said, "don't worry, my sweet angel! Your sisters are old enough to fend for themselves and Captain Sidorov is watching over them, personally. All the inner guards are around them and I was just informed that some sailors and even both stewards are also guarding them. So you need not worry! Would you like some cognac? It's the finest of the finest! Vintage 1811. So if you..."

"Did you carry me here?! How did I get here?" I asked the Kommissar, who kept smiling at me with the expression of some creep. Maybe I'm still asleep and this is all a dream. Maybe I'll wake up in my father's palace in St. Petersburg. I clung to the sheets as I realized I was wearing only my nightgown and didn't want to expose myself to him, the First Mate and the pair of guards at the door, and eventually the two others came back. Being alone with six men did nothing to comfort me, but the rowdy noises that I perceived from outside tended to confirm that the ship wasn't a safe place.

"We fetched you from your cabin and carried you here, my dear. Just in time. Then there was a fight where Sidorov and the inner guard defended..."

"Sidorov! Ivan! Is he all right? Is he hurt?"

"Not that I know of," Rodionov replied, his voice and composure suddenly colder. He looked like he could explode in anger!

"What's your little name?" I asked, smiling and putting all my actress's talent to make it look genuine, making sure my smile reached my eyes. His expression instantly warmed and he smiled back, very genuinely. I wanted to appease him, perhaps befriend him. It would be safer for me. He clearly doesn't like Ivan.

"Leonid. My mother called me Leonid, God rest her soul!"

"I'm so sorry for your loss. Please, do tell me a bit about her, and yes, I'll have the glass of cognac with you. I'd like this very much. Vintage 1811 you say? Oh, it is said it was the best year since Peter the Great! It will be my first time drinking liquor. If you don't mind, I'll keep the blanket on me. It's chilly."

I sat at the table with Leonid Rodionov, who began telling me about his mother. His father had vanished and he had never known him. He was only ten when he began to work in a local factory, putting labels on bottles seventy hours a week. Every child in the family worked. His mother worked hardest of them all. She was proud! She was also very beautiful and could have made a much easier living by selling her beauty to men, or at least to painters and pose for them.

I sipped cognac, very little at a time. It warmed me up very much, and it was indeed very good. Even I, used to the finest wines, I was surprised it tasted this good. As I sipped, I listened to his story about his mother while all men present kept looking at me. Feeling their gazes on me filled me with vain pride, and loathing. I hoped Ivan would soon come and tell me everything is under control, but the wild noises from outside told me it was no good beyond that door.

Leonid then told me how a cavalry officer began courting his mother.

"She loathed him," he said "but he was from a rich noble family and wouldn't take no for an answer. She finally gave in, thinking us children wouldn't have to work anymore, but as soon as he became my father-in-law, he began beating me and my brothers, even brutalizing my sisters! He had just bought that same wine factory and nothing changed. I was still working endless hours in this soul-killing job. One of my sisters lost two fingers in an accident. She was thirteen. He sent her some place away and we never saw her again.

"I had begun to get involved in pogroms against Jewish. The violence was a form of escape from my unbearable life. I didn't even know how to read! I was trying to learn by myself, but without much success as I lacked proper guidance. My sister's disappearance proved to be the breaking point. My thoughts were bent on devising a plan to kill my evil father-in-law, but my mother beat me to it. She stabbed him in his sleep; just like that. No plan, no forethought. She didn't escape justice. She was arrested and promptly sentenced to death by hanging. I saw my mother die before my own eyes. They had arrested my elder sister too for some far-fetched reason. She took her own life not long after. Sixteen! Nadja was only sixteen! I've kept strands of her golden hair; it's my most prized possession. She is the first girl I ever kissed, I mean truly kissed. My fondest memory. Would you like some more cognac, my dear?"

I nodded and he went on with his story. I liked this cognac, very much. I was starting to understand why he hated the Empire so much, why he had joined the Red Army. I began to find it difficult to blame him. I had always seen him as a depraved monster, but now I saw he had something human in him. Human and broken. A bit like me since my own world was turned upside down.

"When my beloved Nadja drowned herself, that was the true breaking point! I vowed to have my revenge! I hated the Empire. This happened at a time when the Czar was all-powerful and feared by us Marxists and by the Anarchists, but I became an expert in sabotage and stealthy actions. Five years later I took part in the riots in 1905. I was there in the Bloody Sunday massacre on January 22. We were only protesting, unarmed, and the soldiers opened fire on us! They killed a great many of us, more than a hundred!



"I involved myself more and more in the Bolshevik movement, feeling the old regime needed to be overthrown, but as long as the military would remain loyal to the Czar, we would have to remain in hiding. I lost many good friends. I learned to read. I rose in their ranks. Then the Great War came. It weakened the Czar's military and opened the door for the big push. The famine early last year was all it took! But I think you're getting sleepy, my dear child!"

I was indeed feeling sluggish. I caught sight of that funny-looking German cuckoo clock and was shocked to learn that it can be two o'clock twice a day. My eyes were closing on their own. I vaguely remember I had been sleeping when they had first brought me in this cabin, and then I fell in the void without even knowing if I made it to the bed by myself or was carried in it. I was then in a nightmare.

The Winter Palace. Hundreds of gunshots filling the air. The hallways are dark with caustic smoke from the rifles being fired on and on by members of the 1st Russian Women's Battalion of Death making a stand against thousands of angry soldiers and proletarians assaulting us. What am I doing here?! Why am I standing amid war's dangers?! I'm royalty! I defy this reality! They keep firing. These brave soldiers are all wearing their hair long, as if they had made themselves beautiful for some special purpose. Their hair is supposed to be short just like male troops. Very strange! But not as strange as me being here.

"We're getting low in ammunition!" cries a soldier, her soprano voice on the verge of breaking down. She have tears in her eyes!

"They're breaking in! They're breaking in!!!" another shouts.

"Noooo! Nooo! Not this! Not this!"

"We're lost!"

"God take my soul!" POW!

A deep, hopeless sense of oppression darkens the palace. Darker than the caustic smoke where the hallways are filled with screams and wails. It's here. Evil. The caustic smoke takes shapes, terrifying shapes that herald my future demise. I'm going to die young! "You're going to die a horrible death. A horrible death." The voice inside me. Rattling like some reptilian being. Terrifying! Am I buried alive? "I'm alive! I'm alive!" I scream, or try to. A strong hand is oppressing my mouth. My soul. I can't move! Buried.

***

Rodionov watched Nastya as she slept while Stefan, Mikhail and the First Mate began another game of rummy. Yuri was gone on deck and only one guard was left standing watch at the door.

Rodionov sat on the bed to watch her from a closer distance. Nastya reminded him of his elder sister, not physically, but through her very essence. Nadja was a tall, slender girl with pure gold in her long hair that once flowed in the breeze on a sunny day. Rodionov gazed at the sleeping maiden, seeing all blurry as tears welled in his eyes.

"Nadja" he tenderly whispered. "Oh, Nadja my love! You were so beautiful! A gift from the gods of love! Pure opium for my soul!"

He wanted to stoop down and kiss Nastya, but something stopped him. She was not Nadja. He felt a horrible sense of loss as he thought of his long-dead sister. Nadja had been his one true love. Incestuous perhaps, but love all the same. Each time he looked at Nastya, he felt a bit farther from Nadja, because Nadja had loved him, while Nastya hated him.

Each time he violated a girl, and there had been many such times, Rodionov increased the distance between himself and Nadja, who still lived in the realm of love, while he was lost in the realm of evil. The rope between him and Nadja was already stretching thin, and the more he raped, the more he stretched this link. One day he would reach the breaking point. What then? But he loved to rape, for this was the only way he could experience again the insane sensations he had found in the arms of Nadja.

He would never forget that magic summer when she was more beautiful than ever, and he had just been spurred by nature into being curious about girls. They had been feeling something weird and special for one another for the past two years, but now it had got so strong! It happened just like that, on a Sunday. Sun in the forest, quiet ripples in a rivulet, and the wind caressing the birch leaves. A day in June in the twilight of the last century. They knew they were meant to be together. "Leonid! Oh, Leonid! I'm so happy with you!" Nadja had said when they kissed for the first time and made love.

Nadja! She was, still is a song in timeless poetry where spring is eternal. Nadja, the only girl he ever loved.

Only rape gave him sensations strong enough for him to feel a deep sense of closeness to his long-dead sister. Only for a brief moment of pure ecstasy. Then he felt he was being moved away from her, always farther away from the wonderful place where she had been sleeping inside him for two decades. But one day he'd close the circle and they'd be reunited.

All these memories stormed like a demented hurricane of spring and flowers in his twisted mind as he kept watching Nastya as she slept so peacefully.

There was no escape for him. He needed to rape. It was both his bliss and his poison. But not to-night. Tomorrow he'd have Tatiana in the train. He would keep his sap for her! And when he'd relieve himself inside Tatiana, he would fill her so much that her eyes would turn white! For some ungodly reason, he was becoming obsessed with Tatiana Romanova.

He also felt a genuine, strong affection for Nastya and he couldn't leave her in this cabin alone with those men. She was the first person he had talked about Nadja with. But then, how could he contemplate raping her sister Tania?

"No rape tonight," he thought. "Cognac will do fine. Oh, sweet beautiful Nadja! How I wish you were here!"

***

Tatiana's thoughts...

Surrounded. Outnumbered. How easy it is for them to submit us! Father was one of the world's most powerful sovereigns. And yet he's a prisoner of the Soviets. His daughters are being gang-raped by celebrating peasants and unwashed soldiers. Even coloured men are partaking. Coloured men! I can hear all they're doing to Olga in the next cabin while they keep me in Nastya's bed, where I've peed myself. They're not sparing us. Only Nastya is being spared, hopefully.

My ears are assaulted by their bad Russian, by their worse Lithuanian, the lewd tone of which I understand. Then slightly comforted by French, but it comes from negroes.

"Ah, c'est une vraie beauté! Allez mon fils, monte-la encore!" (Oh, she's a real beauty! Let's go, Son. Mount her again!"

The confusion of lewd hands move me around. Hands everywhere, never leaving me. Two hands on my loins. I feel youth in those hands. The boy! The steward!

"Oui, père! On la viole! On la viole! La salope blanche!" (Yes, Father! We're raping her! We're violating her! The white tramp!)

He's inside me. The boy. The African boy and his hard cock. It furthers my pain, moral and physical. On Nastya's bed. It intensifies the pain, multiplies it! I keep crying as the young negro mounts me; I have no tears left. Now he's kissing the back of my neck, and he takes monstrous proportions as he remains pressed upon me, like a fantastical being raping me while heralding my future death.

"Long live the Grand Duchess!" he whispers in my ear amid his hard panting. Such strength and confidence in his strokes, and yet so young to be a rapist! He's a monster. I don't believe him. I'm going to die young.

"Ahh aaah aaaaah aaah oui! Oui! La salope blanche! AAAHHRRMNNNN YYYAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHrrrrrr..." (.... ... ... Yes! Yes! The white tramp! ... ...)

He's finished. They aren't. This night's still young, says one of them. A sailor. No, an officer. Two stripes of gold down his dark sleeve. He too mounts me. He tries his best to be more brutal. His pride is at stake. He's Russian and won't allow a negro boy to be harder and more brutal inside me! Oooh, the pain! He's hammering me so heavy! But... What is he doing? He pulls out. So soon? What... "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH"

Sodomized!

Each second, I'd rather be dead. I'd rather never have been born. Someone's screaming like a banshee. Olga?! Yes, Olga. Her voice a grotesque travesty. A low grunt that could serve as a fog horn. Sodomized too.

"How do you like this? Enjoying your boat trip, Your Highness?"

Whose voice is this? Oh, the pain! Are they sawing me in halves? I refuse to think this voice could be that officer whom I loathe even more than the Kommissar. Oh, it hurts! The man behind me is like a gorilla with a monstrous phallus. Sacrificed to save Nastya. Sacrificed on the altar of fate.

His relief comes with a void. I pass out.

Liquid on my face! Are they peeing on me? It smells so strong! So vile! It's vodka. Very cheap vodka. What else can we expect from such a mob of illiterate ruffians?

I'm used again. Again. Again. Faces hoovering over me, smiling down on me. One spits in my face. How dare he! Bearded, smooth shaved. Why am I seeing those cocks with their veins? Lithuanians. Sailors. Guards whose faces are painfully familiar. Younger. Older. All are so ugly for what they're doing to me. I want to die! No escape for me. Only death. Death would be so still!

But their ugly mugs keep hoovering above me. Vultures. Where's the eagle of the Romanovs? It's dead. They've butchered it and feasted on it. It was their barbecue. Red fire. Red-hot poker. There's the red pain again. Deep. Inside.

More vodka on my face.

More men inside me. The same ones going at it again.

***

On deck, Tamara has long lost count of the soldiers and sailors who broke her in. That stout bearded man renews his pleasure inside her. Once again, he takes her lying on his side while she lies on her back, in this nice position her body forces her to like. His fatherly hands hold the small of her back and her tummy, skin on skin, as he impales her young cunt and starts raping the spring of her youth, again. She's only nineteen. Part of her says it was about time she had a man inside her. Most of her is horrified. Horrified at herself for even partly accepting this. Consenting to her own rape!

"It's a surrender. I'm just surrendering..." she whispers as the stout musician keeps enjoying her, always holding her waist and driving her harder against him where her legs are bent and she rests her bare feet on his hip, her body forced to like this weird, yet uncannily comfortable position. She shivers in a small climax that grows into a big one where she screams out of blissful pain. She feels his eyes on her feet. It warms them. She's naked and yet he keeps looking at her legs and feet. Lithuanians keep touching her feet, commenting on their small dainty shape. Men are so weird! She can understand their touching her breasts, her face, her hair, her buttocks. But her feet?! And yet they really like them.

"I knew she'd be gorgeous naked!" says a Corporal.

"And she speaks our language!" replies another as he drinks vodka out of a bottle.

The stout man is grunting. His hands on her waist... his heavy strokes inside her... He's well-girthed... Her small body is so enduring! Thank God she's so young! But that's because she's young they do this to her, she silly girl! Her feet resting in this large naked musician. The night's chill makes her want to seek heat in his arms. She's being fucked, her head gently bobbing on the deck amid their comments. No more catcalls. The orgy is quieter now. Lithuanians are lying down left and right in a drunk man's slumber. Most of the ones left standing are tipsy.

There's a strong convulsion in her rapist's hands at her waist. His stout bearded face is dark with effort. Is he...

Dying? He sounds like it.

"Are you all right, Sir?" the half-crazed girl says in Lithuanian. Tamara realizes her own hands are on his hand, over her navel. He keeps caressing her there in his deep convulsions. He feels fatherly to the troubled girl. He groans, she senses his convulsions where her feet are pressed on him, while his hands around her waist keep her warm in a gentle vice. She can understand why he does this. He had always found her beautiful, had always wanted to fuck her and flood her with his sperm. All along. Why does she like him? She should hate him. She ought to!

"... Hgggghh... Yes! Yes... Aaaaah! I'm... I'm all right. S-sorry, Milady... I'm so sorry for doing this."

"I understand," Tamara replies.

Then she's used again by a broad spectrum of men. Sailors wearing Chinese tattoos on their arm and a silver ring in a pierced ear. More Lithuanians. Then this handsome Russian officer by the name of Petia, who proves especially brutal when he rapes her and keeps slapping her tits while the men hold her floating in their midst once again, making her float amid their lewd debauchery as they pass her around. Always with her father watching. And Tamara, through the veil of her suffering, can't help but feel there's something disturbingly erotic in all this. Those awful men seem to love doing this to her. She can understand. She's young and pretty. The more foul names they call her, the prettier she feels. At least her cat is safe; she remembers seeing Daisy running to some dark corner of the cabin, long ago, back when she was still a true maiden.

They make her kneel on the deck, naked as always, shivering from the endless night's chill. They surround her, a wall of men with their brutal collective stench. Smegma on their non-Jewish cocks. And yet it's a sort of pogrom. She's the lamb amid wolves, but she's no longer scared of them. Because she understands.

They tell her to be a good girl or else they'll kill her father. She knew they were going to say this. They don't need to threaten her. She's the troubled girl who surrendered to their cocks. She's kneeling amid a forest of male gazes that rape every pore of her exposed skin. In a forest of Lithuanian cocks. She understands them. The castle of her childhood has been overrun by the local peasants. She understands them. They've always wanted to do this.

She opens her mouth and takes one cock that stinks and she wants to vomit. She holds on. She's a brave girl. Tamara takes the cock and sucks it. She holds it in her hand when the soldier orders her to. He floods her mouth and orders her to swallow.

"Drink! Drink it all, bitch!" the Lithuanian hollers at her while slapping her, causing her to spit out some of his revolting slime. Then he slaps her again for losing "some of the precious elixir". And as she swallows all the rest of it and fights not to retch, with her head ringing in stars from the hard slap, another cock takes her nostrils prisoner and engulfs her in its stench. Hands grab her head and the foul thing gets pushed inside her mouth while the man compliments her on the beauty of her long dark hair.

Head shaken! She doesn't see anything around her. She no longer hears anything. Her world is a shaken head where her jaw muscles are painfully strained as the man pinches her jaw cruelly. He doesn't trust her. He fears her teeth. "But I surrendered! Please, go easy!" she wants to blurt out, but her mouth is filled with stench that violates her!

Another helping of sludge! Disgusting. But it feels a tiny bit less worse. Is she getting used to this?! She wishes she were still in the Czar's palace, dancing clumsily at a ball and getting mocked and snubbed, by noble maidens who by now must be whores in Bolshevik barracks; at least some of them. "Good for them!" Tamara thinks with a sense of revenge as the man groans and pulls out of her mouth. Only to coat her face with a blanket of sticky heat that leaves her bathing in a pungent smell of staleness that reeks of a poor man's liberation.

The next man takes her head and violates her face just as hard and brutally. Another load of sperm on her face amid laughter. Another man. A customer. She's a whore now. So are those vile maidens who used to mock her. She loves her revenge. It comes with a high price. She loves it all the same. Lithuanian sperm tastes better now. It's the taste of her own revenge.

Amid all this, she catches a look on Countess Hendrikoff and her flawless body on all fours, there, so gracefully naked with her full-grown buttocks for all to watch. Tamara feels jealous of those full buttocks; hers are so slim! With General Tatischev behind her?! The soldiers call him "the fighting general" in a most unflattering tone; they're mocking him while he rapes the Countess with loud groans that almost sound like a barking dog! "Aahrrwff! Ahrwff aarrhwf... Aahhrrwwf aahrrwf ahrrwff..." The General's silver moustache is as wide as ever, straight and hard in arousal on his straining face where his eyes are bursting with a sordid brand of joy. Evil! The Countess looks behind and gazes at him with a mix of anger, distress and contempt, but he ignores her and just keeps his hold on her hips and slams her, on and on and on, groaning like a barking dog while the mocking Lithuanians keep calling him "the fighting general" while pouring vodka on his bald head!

"Tamara," says an old Lithuanian, "Oh, beautiful Tamara, take me in your mouth and old Jonas will be very gentle!"

As he speaks, Jonas puts a fatherly hand on her head, and indeed he pushes himself gently inside her mouth. And she rewards him with long tongue strokes that he likes; she feels his sensual approval through his fatherly hand where it rests upon her semen-polluted head. And there she is, kneeling amid the pack of Lithuanians and sailors, naked and sucking the cock of an old man, amid this hole of stench, semen and vodka, and doing her best to pleasure him in exchange for him being gentle with her.

Glimmers of gray loom in the eastern sky. Through the press of men, Tamara gets another glimpse of Countess Hendrikoff. The Countess is kneeling in the same predicament as her. Tamara and the Countess seem to be the only women left on deck, as there are no further signs of the serving maids. The Countess looks sad and angry where she kneels amid the men who take their turns in violating her face.

"She doesn't understand!" Tamara thinks while pleasuring Jonas and his fatherly cock. "Can't she see that what these men want with her is just natural?" Tamara feels there's something beautiful and erotic in this troubling scene where the nude Countess is kneeling amid the press of soldiers and crewmen, each of whose cocks demands its due.

Jonas yells, "For the Revolushnnn NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNHHH!!!"

He has pulled outside her mouth and now adorns Tamara's cleavage and most of her left breast with a deluge of heat from an old man who sounds very, very happy as he spews this big load and leaves her breasts smelling like stale semen.

More men come. So many of them! More cocks! More semen. She's alone. She doesn't have enough mouths! They don't wait! As she does whatever she can with her lone mouth and her lone pair of hands, holding and massaging two cocks at a time while she sucks, the noble Tamara Palhen gets caught amid a full-blown deluge of sperm where men masturbate with a frantic hand until they spew their memorabilia on her face, on her head, on her breasts, her back, down on her butt... Her own father's there! He's sorry, he says as he masturbates. But it's all right. She understands. All's clear now. She's at peace with her fate. No longer troubled.

A black man materializes in their midst. Her father screams with rage, then gets silenced with a punch. Someone says the Skipper's dead. Her world crumbles down in oblivion as the negro shoves his cock inside her mouth, and this last man in the mob proves he's not the least. He's huge and damaging. He rapes her face without mercy, each stroke speaking volumes about the fate that would await a white girl in a town overrun by an army of African warriors.

Tamara is greatly troubled by this clash of civilizations. Fate is smiling down on her like the Devil. She did not expect THIS. The big brown cock overruns her face, unimpeachable. She had been tricked where she thought she had sunken so low she couldn't sink any lower. Fate proved her wrong. As if this wasn't cruel enough, the brown bastard is speaking French! The very language she was so often mocked and mortified for not knowing it! He speaks it like a Frenchman... Europe's most learned and civilized language out of his big African mouth! While she keeps tasting his erection that fills her mouth to capacity!

"The Skipper's dead?!"

"What?!"

"Yes. As dead as a door-nail."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHRRR YEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!" the negro utters, his terrible grip all around her head as he yells something joyfully savage in French while flooding her mouth and keeping her mouth shut so she's forced to drink his hot cream. And he has a lot! Her head explodes in a throbbing confusion where stars and nausea dance together amid a strong sea of exotic musk.

Tamara is left naked on deck, in fetal position as the coming morning paints the eastern sky in a delicate gray that now turns off-white with nascent gold. White Venus is there as Lucifer to herald the new day. Someone puts a blanket on her. She doesn't care. She can't fathom what just happened. She can't accept the disturbing truth. She's just been raped by a negro in front of Father. How frustrating! Just as she thought she was handling her ordeal, then life threw a big fat turd in her face!

A pail of water gets put down near her.

Men gently take her and make her stand as they remove the blanket, uncovering her nakedness. She's frightened. Frightened and exhausted. They begin rubbing her with water. Washing her? So it seems. No more hostility in them. They all smile and grin as they wash her, calling her "pretty Miss" and "Milady" insisting on her butt and her breasts that remain pushed out of her chest in their usual modest size, there for all hands to rub with water. One man kisses one breast and gets rebuked. This is no longer the time for this! He must wait until she's on the train after Tyumen. She understands; understands with terror that she's to be gang-raped again next night. Negroes among them. This is what terrifies her because this is the one thing she can't understand. This is too unthinkable. She didn't count on this.

They wash her. Amid those low-status men who seem to worship her body by rubbing her everywhere with their wet hands and rags, Tamara feels bizarrely promoted. She is the mere daughter of some foreign Baron, but they're treating her like royalty. She feels like a Byzantine princess being bathed by an army of eunuchs. All those men look tired in their dirty uniforms that reek of vodka and piss.

Then the sun breaks the Siberian horizon and bathes Tamara in a golden light amid fantastic shadows. Eternity now lives in her.

Sidorov is there. He loves the little pearls of water on her breasts. That tiny drop of water on the tip of her nipple is a small world that summarizes an impossible night that he will never forget. Neither will she.

[Blue]

@HistBuff
In this way, the rapes almost sound poetic.

[Lucius]

That's... one infernal boat trip.