Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 4

The first light of morning spilled softly through the curtains, warming the room and gilding the quiet forms lying together. Yarosvet stirred awake first, feeling the combined heat of two bodies pressed close against him. The blanket lay discarded on the floor during the night, leaving them all bare, the lingering warmth wrapping him like a living cocoon.

He turned slowly, eyes tracing the curves and lines of the two women. Taissia’s body was supple and flexible, the lean muscle of her limbs taut beneath smooth skin, her chest rising and falling with measured breaths, nipples brushing lightly against his fingers as he let his hand drift along her side. The curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips, the soft slope of her thighs — everything pressed close, intimate, yielding under his touch.

Beside her, Lena was a study in contrast. Her form was stronger, more athletic, the definition of muscle visible along her abdomen, arms, and legs. Even in sleep, there was a subtle tension in her body, a readiness that hinted at controlled power. When his hands wandered over her hips and thighs, the firmness beneath was unmistakable, her skin warm, responsive, each contact sending small shivers through him. He traced along the soft swell of her chest, feeling the hardness of her nipples through the skin, the subtle rise and fall of her body beneath him.

Yarosvet’s fingers explored freely, gliding over shoulders, ribs, the gentle swell of bellies, hips, and the subtle press of buttocks, tracing every curve and plane, every line of muscle and softness. Taissia stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips as her hand found the length of him, moving with careful deliberation. Lena’s fingers followed, pressing along his side, cupping him, coaxing a response, the warmth and friction of skin on skin sending waves of awareness through him.

Their movements grew bolder as consciousness fully returned. Taissia pressed herself closer, letting her chest brush against his arm, hand gliding over his stomach, teasing with a softness that contrasted Lena’s firmer, more deliberate touches. Lena’s strength was evident in the way her hands explored him, along his hips and thighs, gripping and sliding with a confident rhythm, fingers brushing and circling, coaxing, urging. Each of their reactions was different — Taissia’s fluid and yielding, Lena’s deliberate and precise — but both equally alive in their desire to touch and be touched.

Yarosvet’s own hands traced along the planes of their bodies in turn, over breasts, hips, thighs, shoulders, chest, feeling the contrasts: Taissia’s tender curves, soft yet alert; Lena’s muscular firmness, responsive and exact. The three of them moved together in a silent, intricate dance of warmth and touch, the room heavy with the scent and heat of skin, every gasp, murmur, and subtle shiver a wordless conversation of intimacy and trust.

Time seemed to stretch in that golden morning light, the three of them entwined, exploring each other freely. The contrasts — Taissia’s softness and flexibility against Lena’s athletic strength — made each motion electric. Fingers traced and pressed, teased and lingered, over bellies, over buttocks, over thighs, a symphony of sensation that spoke of closeness, abandon, and the quiet surrender of bodies in perfect, unspoken harmony.

Lena shifted closer, the soft weight of her hair brushing his chest as her cheek traced a path downward. Yarosvet felt the tender press of her mouth on his shaft, the heat and moisture a stark contrast to the smooth skin of her hands sliding along him. His lips parted, a word on the verge of escape, but before he could speak, Taissia leaned in, her own mouth pressing against his, a sweet, insistent kiss that silenced him.

The juxtaposition was electric — Lena’s lips moving with delicate precision, the subtle motion of her tongue and teeth over his member, the gentle friction sending shivers up his spine, while Taissia’s kiss held him captive, soft and firm at once, claiming him with the familiar confidence of someone who knew exactly how to dominate and soothe simultaneously.

He could feel the heat pooling at the meeting of their bodies, the contrast between Lena’s tender attentions below and Taissia’s fiery, sweet insistence above. His hands moved almost on their own, tracing the curves of hips, the line of thighs, the softness and firmness that shifted beneath his fingers. Their breathing mingled with his, a shared rhythm of awakening, touch, and need.

Every movement, every sigh, every brush of skin on skin was amplified by the closeness of the three of them — the subtle differences of their bodies, the tension and release in their muscles, the yielding and the firmness, all converging into a single, electric intimacy. Yarosvet’s voice, suppressed by Taissia’s lips, became a low hum, an accompaniment to the delicate, deliberate exploration unfolding around him, a testament to the trust, desire, and abandon they shared.

Both girls already knew that he did not like kissing lips that had just enclosed his cock. Their awareness made every movement deliberate. Taissia lingered briefly on his lips, tasting softly, before letting her mouth drift downward along his chest, her tongue tracing a slow, teasing path over the warm skin, fingers following, gliding along ribs and the gentle slope of his abdomen.

At the same moment, Lena shifted lower, her attentions deliberately focused. Her lips and tongue pressed over his scrotum, teeth grazing lightly, exploring with a careful, coaxing rhythm. She yielded the main length to Taissia, letting her friend guide and claim, while she attended to the sensitive flesh just below, the contrast between the two approaches sending sharp, electric shivers through him.

Yarosvet closed his eyes, letting the morning light blur at the edges as his hands roamed over the smooth curves of the two bodies pressed against him. One hand slid over the gentle swell of Taissia’s buttocks, kneading softly, feeling the subtle firmness beneath his fingers, while the other traced the roundness of Lena’s hips, pressing and caressing with equal care.

He felt Taissia’s lips envelop him, warm and deliberate, sliding over his cock with slow, teasing movements, each press and glide sending sparks of sensation through him. At the same time, Lena’s hands and tongue explored his scrotum, her fingers brushing lightly over the sensitive skin of his testicles, coaxing and teasing, a deliberate counterpoint to Taissia’s attentions. The rhythm of their touch, one consuming and one teasing, wrapped around him like a living pulse, each sensation heightened by the contrast between them.

A subtle shift beneath his hands made Yarosvet pause, and as he opened his eyes slightly, he realized without a word that they had silently swapped places. The sensations changed immediately, and the difference was electric.

Taissia’s lips, tongue, and teeth now moved over his scrotum, tracing and teasing his testicles, the flicks of her tongue delicate yet insistent, the soft nip of her teeth sending sharp, thrilling jolts through him. Every press, glide, and careful nibble was precise, measured, different from the broader, more yielding warmth he had felt before.

Meanwhile, Lena’s mouth now enclosed him, her lips sliding over his taut, rigid shaft, straining upward with eager insistence through slow, deliberate suction, the movement firmer, deeper, more commanding than before. Her tongue traced intentional patterns, circling, pressing, coaxing, every motion distinct from Taissia’s teasing. He felt the contrast sharply — one soft, precise, playful; the other deeper, warmer, more encompassing — each stimulating him in its own way, heightening every nerve ending in a pulse of pure sensation.

Yarosvet’s voice broke the moment, casual and unhurried, as though discussing breakfast rather than the intimate contact between them. “Well, did you sleep well in the new place?” he asked, the words slipping out with the same calm tone he used when they had stayed with him before, only now carrying a subtle implication — that before, with Inga and Zlata around, such closeness had been impossible.

Both girls responded with equal nonchalance, fingers and lips still busy. Taissia released him for a moment, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Yes, perfectly,” she said, her voice calm and playful. “Though… it was so hot last night with the three of us, I think it’s time to replace the blanket with some lighter sheets or a duvet cover.”

Lena’s fingers lingered, teasing over his cock, her tone equally casual. “Absolutely,” she added with a grin. “Much easier to move like this without the heavy blanket.” Their words were everyday, lighthearted, almost domestic, yet every syllable carried the warmth and intimacy of their morning, making the casual conversation pulse with quiet, shared desire for Yarosvet.

Yarosvet let out a quiet, measured sigh and spoke in the same calm, almost casual tone. “Perhaps it’s time to get up?”

The girls understood the hint immediately. Slowly, they began to slide off the bed, their bodies tracing a languid path downward. Taissia pressed soft, lingering kisses along the length of his left leg, from the curve of his hip to his toes, every movement teasing, intimate, yet measured. Lena mirrored her, hands and lips moving over the right leg, the warmth of her breath and the gentle flicks of her tongue sending shivers through him.

Their motions were unhurried, each kiss and caress an exploration of familiar terrain, playful yet tender. The contrast between Taissia’s fluid, graceful slides and Lena’s firmer, athletic touch made every second a vivid, electric sensation, as if the morning itself were bending around their quiet, deliberate devotion.

They lingered there a moment longer, their breaths slow and even, their lips tracing the tender arches of his feet. Each kiss, each soft stroke of tongue upon his soles felt almost reverential, as though the ritual itself carried a quiet, wordless gratitude for the night before. Then, with the same calm grace that had marked every motion, they withdrew — Taissia first, straightening, her hair falling over her shoulders like a spill of dark silk; Lena next, brushing a stray lock from her cheek with a shy, sunlit smile.

Without a word, they slipped away to their rooms, their bare feet whispering against the polished floorboards, the morning light following them through the open doorway. The sound of water soon came from the adjoining rooms — splashes, faint laughter, the rustle of linen. The scent of soap and warm skin began to drift through the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee that had already begun to rise from the kitchen below.

By the time they gathered again at the breakfast table, the scene had shifted entirely. The air was bright, filled with the hum of quiet domestic life: the gentle clatter of porcelain, the creak of wicker chairs, the distant cooing of doves outside the veranda. Taissia appeared first, hair still damp, the narrow mahogany collar gleaming faintly at her throat; she wore a light morning dress that brushed her knees, the fabric pale and translucent in the sun. Lena followed in a similar mood — fresh, alert, her skin glowing faintly from the cold wash, her eyes alive with an unspoken spark.

Yarosvet greeted them with his usual composure, as though the morning had been nothing more than a pleasant dream. Yet in the quiet exchanges — the meeting of eyes over steaming cups, the brief brush of fingers as they passed the bread, the faint, knowing curve of Taissia’s lips — something lingered, intimate and warm.

Outside, the day had fully awakened: sparrows darted in the garden, the scent of lilac drifted in from the veranda, and the world seemed once again peaceful, renewed, as if the house itself had drawn a deep, satisfied breath.

Breakfast unfolded in quiet brightness, the morning air drifting in through the veranda, carrying the scent of dew and warm earth. The table gleamed with simple, pleasant order — fresh bread, steaming eggs, a pot of jam, and the soft aroma of coffee mingling with sunlight. Over the clatter of cups and the faint rustle of linen, the conversation turned to the day ahead: the girls planned to continue their acrobatics on the lawn, still amused by yesterday’s near success, and Taissia, with her usual spark, insisted that Yarosvet finally teach them some boxing — “for discipline and grace,” as she put it, though her eyes betrayed a hint of mischief. Yarosvet only smiled, agreeing that perhaps a few lessons in footwork might indeed suit the morning.

At that moment, Marfa entered, carrying a fresh dish of butter and a basket of rolls. Her presence, brisk and capable, always seemed to shift the air from playfulness to quiet order.

“Marfa,” Yarosvet said as she set down the tray, “the other day you mentioned that the Polivanov estate somewhere west of us stands empty. Why is that? What happened there?”

The maid gave a short, knowing sigh. “Ah, that place, sir? Been standing empty these two years now. The old master, merchant Polivanov, died sudden — heart, they said. A good man in his way, though not lucky with his sons.”

Taissia looked up with quiet interest. “What do you mean, Marfa? What sort of people were they?”

“One played cards, lost near everything,” Marfa replied, crossing her arms. “Thought he was cleverer than the world. The other tried to patch it up, borrowed from the bank — and that was the end of it. The land’s in pledge now, though the house still stands. Only it’s not the same without people: the garden’s overgrown, the shutters hang crooked, and the place looks lonely. Used to be fine furniture there — French mirrors, velvet chairs — but when the servants scattered, they took what they pleased. Some say even the old samovar walked off by itself. As for the sons — one’s said to be in Rostov, drinking what’s left of his pride, and the other vanished south, maybe to Odessa. Neither’s been seen here since.”

Lena frowned slightly. “So no one lives there at all?”

“Only the wind,” Marfa said simply. “And sometimes foxes. They say the shutters bang at night, as if someone’s still walking through the rooms. But I wouldn’t go near it after dark, not for all your acrobatics, young ladies,” she added with a knowing glance. “Though they say, sometimes, if you’re very still, you can see a light moving behind the shutters, as if someone — or something — still wanders the rooms at night.”

Taissia laughed softly. “Then we’ll visit it by daylight.”

Marfa only shook her head, muttering something about the folly of youth, while Yarosvet sat thoughtful, turning his spoon slowly in the cup, his gaze distant — as if already picturing the silent, abandoned house hidden somewhere beyond the rolling fields.

Yarosvet lifted his cup, letting the steam drift across his face, and said in a measured tone, “Yesterday, we saw someone riding across the fields in that direction.”

Marfa gave a small, weary sigh. “Ah, that was likely one of the bank’s men, or some creditor come to see to the property. They’re the ones deciding the fate of the house and the land now, I’d wager.”

Yarosvet’s gaze lingered on the distant fields. “And the merchant’s wife — where did she go?” he asked quietly.

Marfa shook her head, her expression somber. “Ah, Varvara Petrovna… she passed away several years before her husband, struck down by consumption. Delicate woman she was, never strong, poor soul. After she died, the family seemed to be shadowed by one misfortune after another — debts, bad judgments, servants leaving, and the sons… well, each took his own path, and none could restore what was lost.”

Yarosvet stirred his cup thoughtfully. “And by misfortunes, you also mean… the merchant expanded his business recklessly?”

Marfa nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Yes, sir. He’d traded in grain and flax at first — usual for these parts — but then, they say, he became… fascinated with live merchandise.”

Taissia frowned, leaning slightly forward. “Live merchandise? What do you mean, Marfa?”

The maid exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t know the details, miss. Just what people whispered… that somewhere down in the Kuban he began buying young girls from unscrupulous men, and then selling them on to different estates. That’s all I’ve ever heard, and it was only gossip, of course. But that sort of business… well, it never ends well, as you can see.”

Marfa gathered the empty dishes and bustled toward the door, her steps brisk, leaving a faint trail of lingering warmth and the soft clatter of porcelain behind her. Once she had gone, Yarosvet and the girls exchanged a brief, silent glance, the weight of her story still hanging in the air.

Taissia’s eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and excitement. “After a tale like that,” she said softly, “I can hardly wait to see the abandoned estate for myself. Perhaps that’s where we ought to start our day. Acrobatics, boxing, even the horses… they can wait a little while longer.”

Lena nodded, her smile quick and conspiratorial, as if agreeing to a plan that promised both thrill and adventure. Yarosvet only allowed a faint, indulgent smile to touch his lips, sensing the energy and curiosity that would carry the morning forward.

When Andrey heard that his master intended to visit the neighbouring Polivanov estate, a faint shadow crossed his face — so quick it might have gone unnoticed, yet Yarosvet caught it at once.

“What is it?” he asked evenly. “You seem less than pleased with the idea.”

The coachman straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Nothing, sir,” he said after a pause. “I’ll have the tarantas ready in no time. Just…” — he hesitated, glancing toward the distant line of trees where the old estate lay hidden — “you’d best be careful there. Folks say the place isn’t right. There’s been talk — voices at night, lights behind the shutters, you know. And the dogs, they never go near that road. They howl and turn back every time.”

He fell silent for a moment, then added quietly, “Still, if you wish it, I’ll drive you. Only — don’t linger there after dusk.”

Not half an hour after breakfast, they were already rolling together along the sunlit road that cut through the fields — the very one where, just the day before, they had spotted that mysterious carriage passing toward the west.

The road narrowed as they drew nearer to the Polivanov estate, the soft rumble of the tarantas wheels sinking into the hush of tall, uncut grass. The morning sun slanted low, gilding the fields and glimmering faintly on dew still clinging to the wild oats along the verge. Ahead, through a thinning line of poplars, the house slowly emerged — first the white tops of its chimneys, then the grey, weathered roof and the pale façade beneath, veined with the dark stains of years without care.

It was a broad, once-elegant manor, two storeys high, its windows shuttered unevenly, like the blind eyes of an old animal that still breathed but no longer saw. The porch sagged slightly to one side; a single shutter hung loose, tapping now and then against the frame with a dull, hollow sound. The courtyard, once swept and gravelled, was overrun with grass and thistles. Here and there, pieces of old harness, a broken wheel, and the splintered remains of a trough lay half-buried in the weeds.

To one side stood the remnants of a stable, the gate hanging from a single hinge, its timbers green with moss. Beyond it stretched what had once been an orchard — rows of gnarled trees twisting against the light, their branches heavy with unpicked, half-wild fruit. A faint scent of rot mingled with the sweetness of apples carried through the air, mingling strangely with the quiet hum of insects and the far-off rustle of reeds by the river.

The estate had not collapsed, yet it seemed to breathe a long, tired sigh with every gust of wind. It was not ruin so much as abandonment — every corner still holding the trace of what had been: an echo of laughter, the ghost of voices, the shape of vanished life. Even Taissia, always quick with a jest, grew still as the tarantas creaked to a halt before the gate.

Stepping from the tarantas, Yarosvet glanced around, letting his eyes take in the courtyard’s small intricacies. “See how the stones have sunk unevenly into the grass? No one has tended this path for years,” he remarked, nodding toward the scattered remains of the old cart.

Taissia crouched slightly, brushing her fingers over the moss-covered log. “And look at this,” she said. “The trough’s split cleanly along the grain — someone must have tried to move it in a hurry.”

Lena’s gaze drifted toward the orchard. “Look at the orchard — rows of trees, gnarled and bare, their trunks scarred and leaning. No one has pruned them in years; the ground is littered with fallen branches and dried leaves left from last autumn.”

Yarosvet’s attention shifted to the stable. “Even empty, the stalls seem alive somehow. The beams groan with every whisper of wind.”

Taissia, stepping closer to the house, added softly, “It feels as if the place is watching us, waiting for someone to stir the silence.”

Lena nodded. “I’ve never seen a manor breathe like this. Abandoned, yet somehow… aware.”

Yarosvet inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Keep your senses sharp. Even a quiet courtyard can hide more than weeds and splintered wood.”

A sudden, heavy thud echoed from somewhere behind the manor, followed by the startled whinny of a horse. The sound seemed to shake the still air itself. Yarosvet and the girls froze, exchanging quick glances, each sensing the tension in the courtyard rise like a living thing.

Before any of them could move, the front doors of the house creaked open. A figure stepped onto the sagging porch, his posture measured, hands resting lightly at his sides. The wind caught the edges of his coat, and for a moment, he simply watched, quiet and deliberate. No introductions were offered, no name was given. For now, he was simply a presence — a stranger in the abandoned estate, and an unexpected one at that.

Taissia shifted slightly, her eyes narrowing, while Lena instinctively moved closer to Yarosvet. Even the horses in the tarantas snorted uneasily, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The manor, which had seemed merely tired and abandoned moments before, now felt alert, almost alive, as if it, too, were watching the newcomer.

Yarosvet’s hand rested lightly on his coat, his gaze steady. “Stay calm,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “and observe.”

The figure on the porch shifted slightly, and the morning light revealed him more clearly. He was a man of middling height, neatly built, dressed in a dark frock coat that seemed almost formal for the abandoned courtyard. Yellow gloves covered his hands, a faint sheen of dust clinging to them, and his face was lined with habitual frowns, as though each sunbeam and waft of wind were an inconvenience.

He adjusted his posture with a stiff, precise motion, the very embodiment of official neatness. There was an air of meticulousness about him: the crease of his trousers, the polished edge of his boots, the faint scent of papers carried beneath his coat.