Business trip
Stepan Rannikov


"Business trip" is a psychological erotic novella that blends seduction, power, and betrayal in the high-stakes world of Moscows elite. Lyudmila Antonovna, a 48-year-old CEO from Tula, travels to the capital to negotiate a lucrative defense contractonly to be lured into Sakura, an exclusive massage parlor with a hidden agenda. What begins as a gift from her cunning Cypriot rival, Tina Kovedidi, quickly spirals into a web of manipulation, where pleasure becomes a weapon and submission is the ultimate currency.

Behind one-way mirrors, Tina orchestrates Lyudas downfall, using a blend of aphrodisiacs, psychological profiling, and the irresistible skills of her masseursSaleh, the Thai master of sensory torment, and Grigoros, her Greek bodyguard with a body carved from marble. As Lyudas inhibitions dissolve under their hands, she discovers a side of herself she never knew existed: a woman who craves domination, who needs to surrender. But the real game isnt about sexits about control.





Stepan Rannikov

Business trip



"She came for a deal. She stayed for the sin.In Moscows shadowy salons, power isnt takenits massaged out of you."



PROLOGUE



It was oil. Or so it seemed at first. A bright amber liquid, thick as honey, with air bubbles suspended inside like insects trapped in ancient resin. It didnt flow so much as oozeslow, deliberate, intoxicating. The scent was sweet, almost edible, and Lyuda watched, mesmerized, as it dripped from the bottle, inching closer to the valley between her breasts.

If only hed rip this bra and panties off.

The underwear was the flimsy, disposable kind they give you in massage parlorspaper-thin, the kind that would tear if you so much as looked at it wrong. But it was still in the way.

She wasnt spying on him. Not really. Just peeking through the gap between her cheek and the edge of the sleep mask (the kind they use in salons to lull clients into a state of mild sensory deprivation). From that angle, she could see the masseurs handsevery movement, every stroke, every deliberate manipulation of that oil.

Honey. It has to be honey.No, not honey. But close. Not the candied, homemade kind that sticks to the spoon like glue. The kind beekeepers age for years in flat, squat jars with screw-top lidsthe kind that glistens like liquid gold, viscous and slow, the kind that clings to your tongue and makes your teeth ache with its sweetness. Store-bought. Fake. Synthetic. But who cared? It was beautiful. The manufacturer knew what they were doing.What pleases the eye pleases the mouth.

And just like that, Lyudas mind flickered to Nine and a Half Weeks or Wild Orchidthose old films from decades ago. She braced herself, ready to arch the moment that first thick drop slid down her sternum, over her stomach, lower

Because arching was erotic.

God, was it ever. 

A womans body bending like thatwhat could be more beautiful? For that amber, red-hot lava to trickle between her breasts, climb the slope of her belly, pool in her navel, then spill over, branching into rivulets, lower still, through the thicket of her pubic hair, over her clitoris, straight between the lips of her vulva.

He needs to help it along. Guide the flow. And firstGod, firsthe needed to get rid of these damn paper panties. And the bra.



CHAPTER 1



"So, Tinochka, any plans for tonight in the capital?"

The two women sat in a cozy caf, nursing lattes as the day wound down. Both pretended everything was fine. It wasnt.

Lyudmila Antonovnasole owner and CEO of Vision, a company specializing in advanced guidance systemswas furious. Tina Kovedidi, that slick Cypriot with the oily eyes of Queen Medea herself, had her claws in deep and refused to let go. The price on the table was insulting. Lyuda had poured years into this project. A third of her forty-eight years, if she was being honest. And now she was supposed to hand it all over to the gun lobby for peanuts. Shed at least like to negotiate with someone who actually wanted her scopes.

Not this bitch.

"This is Moscow, Lyudmila Antonovna," Tina said, swirling her coffee. "Entertainment? Please. Theres something for every taste here. I could recommend a few thingsif youd give me some idea of what youre after. A hint, at least."

Lyuda sighed.

"Im heading back to Tula tomorrow. No time for adventures. And, if she was being honestmy backs killing me from sitting all day."

She rubbed her neck through her blouse, wincing.

"Osteochondrosis?" Tinas voice was smooth, almost sympathetic. "I know the feeling. By the end of the day, my lower backs so stiff I can barely move."

She paused, then reached for her Birkin bag.

"Here." She rummaged inside, then pulled out a sleek, light-gray card. "My personal pass to Sakura massage parlor. They work miracles there. After a session, I feel like Im floatinglight as a feather, body and soul."

Lyudas eyes flicked to the bagenviously. That was a Birkin. A real one.

"Oh, Tinochka, thats too much," she said, though she was already reaching for the card.

"No, nodont think of it as a bribe. Or even a gift." Tina waved a hand. "Business is business. But you do look like youre carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. And I" She hesitated, just for effect. "Id like you to leave this trip feeling lighter."

The card was unlike any Lyuda had seen. Not cardboardsome kind of thick, textured paper, the surface shimmering like the dial of a Grand Seiko watch. Tiny snowflakes, frozen in place, dusted with violet sparkles. Magnetic, almost. A delicate sakura blossom, a phone number, and the digits 0009all embossed in deep silver.

She didnt want to let go.

"Just call and give them my card number," Tina said. "When are you leaving for Tula?"

"Tomorrow morning. Ill stay at the hotel tonightI dont like driving in the dark."

"Perfect." Tinas smile was sharp, her million-dollar veneers glinting. "Go tonight. Youll sleep like a baby. I guarantee it."

Medeas eyes gleamed.



***



"Good evening. Sakura Salon. How may I help you?"

The voice on the phone was warm, smoothmysterious, even. It wrapped around her like a promise.

"Uh, a friend gave me a card. Recommended your place. I have it here."

"May I have the number, please?"

"Three-zero-nine."

A pause. Then, softer:

"Ah. Your friend is a very valued guest. Almost family." Another beat. "What time would you like to book?"

Lyuda hesitated.

"Is tonight possible? Eight oclock?"

"Of course." The mans tone was effortless, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "Ill send you the address now. Well be waiting."



CHAPTER 2



Lyuda had only ever had two massages beforeonce in Turkey, once in Egypt. Both times, the therapists had been women. As she stepped out of the taxi in front of a small, unassuming building tucked away in the backstreets of Kitay-gorod, she prayed this time would be the same.

Please, let it be a woman.

She pressed the intercom.

"Yes?"

"I have an appointment for eight."

The door buzzed open.



***



This plumpness. Lyuda couldnt do a damn thing about it. And it wasnt the kind of soft, feminine curves that turned heads. At forty-eight, her body had settled into something compact, barrel-like, with a narrow ass and a back that ached from the weight of osteochondrosis.

Men at work barely glanced at hereven her D-cup breasts, pressed flat against her stomach, didnt hold their attention. Her husband hadnt touched her in nearly two years. No lover. No dates. She was too self-conscious about her body to even try, though every inch of her ached for a mans hands.

"Its the cortisol," her childhood friend Verka had said over smoothies one summer evening.

"Cortisol?" Lyuda had scoffed. "Whats that got to do with anything?"

Verka was into all sorts of alternative thingsenergy work, mysticism, the kind of nonsense that made Lyuda roll her eyes. But she listened anyway.

"You need to release, Lyudka. Youre a feminine powerhouse. Always have been. Thats why you run your own company. But you bottle everything upstress, anger, desire. You dont let it out. And where does it go?" Verka had gestured at Lyudas midsection. "Right there. Youre bursting at the seams."

Lyuda had taken a bite of her cake, chewing thoughtfully.

"Try intermittent fasting," Verka had gone on. "Its all the rage now."

Lyuda had just sighed.

"Ill think about it."

But Verka wasnt done.

"Orbetter yetscream. Remember that cartoon, Vrungel? The Crooked Bandito yelling at De la Voro Gangsterito? Mama mia! Cretino! Mate goat, cretino sciamacotto! Like that. When those idiots at work drive you up the wall, yell. No swearingjust sound. Your employees already know youre a tyrant. Put a punching bag in your office. Let them laugh. But let it out, Lyudka. Deflate. Or the salt in your spine will never leave."

Lyuda had groaned.

"And my osteochondrosis too, I suppose?"

Verka, slender and effortless, had taken a drag of her cigarettethin as her wristand exhaled, unfazed.

"Youre carrying it, Lyudka. Like a yoke. Hunched over, terrified of spilling a single drop from those heavy buckets. Your need for control is crushing you. And suspicion? Its turning you into a coiled spring. And springs break."

Shed remembered that conversation now, sitting in the taxi, staring at the salons unmarked door.

Just please, God, let the masseur be a woman



***



"Profiler, Tina Georgievna," said Aram Davidovich, a tall, gaunt man in a tailored black suit. He stood behind his boss, peering over her shoulder through the one-way glass. "Kolmanovskys man. The one who builds psychological profilesfacial expressions, reflexes, behavior patterns."

"And is he any good?" Tina didnt look away from the glass.

"The best."

She trusted Mardis judgment. An Assyrian Jew with a shadowy pastformer Mossad, gaps in his rsum during Middle Eastern conflictshe was the perfect head of security for her operations. His connections in Moscows Cypriot diaspora didnt hurt either. But even the best needed oversight.

"The stakes are high, Aram Davidovich," she said, her voice low. "You answer to me for this profiler. And for the entire operation."

Mardi glanced at her, then back at the glass. He said nothing.



***



The room beyond was dim, deliberate. The lighting was calibrated to induce nirvanasoft, diffused, like a dream you never wanted to wake from. The sound was a seamless blend: rain, wind chimes, a warm breeze rustling through leaves. Every detail was in its place.

The massage table was wide, comfortabledesigned so a client would forget where they were within minutes. A dispenser released fragrant smoke above Lyudmila Antonovnas head, trapping her in its sweet embrace. Hot towels, wrapped around her from head to toe. Rows of oils, their bottles glinting on low shelves.

And there she lay. Alone. Motionless.

Salehthat was the name the receptionist had usedhad already finished the "warming session," as he called it. Hed kneaded her shoulders, her withers, her lower back, her thighs, her calves, even her feet. His hands were slippery, strong, relentless. Oh, how shed craved hands like those. The Japanese herbal tea the girl had given her while she filled out the questionnaire had been too pleasanttart, refreshing, intoxicating.

Now, Lyuda felt light. Warm. AndGodaroused. Not from anticipation. Not even from shame. The embarrassment of being handled by a man had vanished. Though, as shed changed in the private room, pulling on the disposable panties and bra, her cheeks had burned with a mix of excitement and humiliation.

But now? Now she was wet. Soaked, as if someone had poured half a bottle of that massage oil straight into her. Her breasts ached, swollen with tension. A tingling spread through her body like fine needles. She couldnt control it. Her thighs, beneath the thick terry towels, pressed together at the knees. Her fingers dug into the damp fabric, gripping it against her sides. She shuddered, writhing slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips.

She was waiting.

For the next session.



***



"Why no analysis yet?" Tinas voice was sharp. She didnt take her eyes off the glass.

Mardi didnt flinch.

"Its a special questionnaire. Not your standard client intake." He adjusted his cuffs of his shirt. "Beyond the usualhealth, exercise, daily routines, menstrual cyclesit includes hidden questions. Designed to uncover deviant traits. If youve seen The GameMichael Douglass test for the game? Kolmanovskys work. Hes got dozens of these. His team knows how to ask, how to watch for reactions. Your client was interviewed by one of his specialists today, not Katya. Trained to guide the subject without scaring them off."

Tinas fingers tapped against her thigh.

"And the tea? Ours or Kolmanovskys?"

"His." Mardi smirked. "More potent."

She uncrossed her legs, planting her heels firmly on the floor. Both hands rested on her hips, just above the hem of her skirt. The glass was dark, glossya mirror to the outside world, a window for her.




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