“Come, Little Mother,” he said.
He grabbed hold of her naked buttocks, and slowly, slowly he lowered her on top of his huge, hard shaft. Militza cried out in glorious pain as he entered her. Never before had she encountered a feeling like it. His cock was so thick and long and large she felt as if she’d been eviscerated—and yet she’d never experienced pleasure like it before. As he thrust into her, she found herself thrusting back; the harder he rode her, the harder she rode him back. The sound of flesh on flesh, her buttocks rippling, her bosom jigging . . . she had never fucked with such joyful abandon in her life. She wanted more; she wanted him deep, deep inside her, wanted to feel him high up in the pit of her stomach. Harder, faster. Deeper, deeper . . . Finally, eventually, at last, they came together. Rasputin bellowed like an ox as he ejaculated, his head falling slowly backwards against the chair. She, on the other hand, quietly quivered on top of him, then collapsed with her arms around his neck, her bosom pressing against his face, his cock still inside her.
“Naughty girl,” he whispered in her ear.
Chapter 25
December 12, 1906, St. Petersburg
IT WASN’T ENOUGH THAT MILITZA ARRIVED LATE AT THE Mariinsky that night, smelling of intercourse. Not only did she have to tiptoe in through the dark shadows of the box to take up her seat next to her husband, having already missed the opening scene of Tchaikovsky’s opera Eugene Onegin, set on the Larin estate, but she was also required to remain seated throughout the whole of the interval as she’d lost both her silk stockings.
“Darling,” said Peter, appearing at the entrance to the box, a flute of champagne in hand, “are you coming out for blini and caviar?”
“I’d rather not,” replied Militza.
“Are you sure?” He looked a little surprised. After all, half the reason for going to the theatre was to catch up on the gossip during the interval. There were some who’d happily miss the second half if the conversation was revealing enough.
“I am not feeling terribly well,” she explained, shifting a little in her seat, carefully pulling her skirts over her bare ankles. “I can feel a slight fever coming on.”
“A fever? Would you like to leave?” His concern was touching.
“Certainly not,” she insisted. “You’ve been looking forward to this for a long while. I am perfectly happy to sit here.”
“If you are sure?”
“Absolutely.”
DURING THE SECOND HALF, IT WAS ALL SHE COULD DO TO STARE blankly at the stage, letting the music wash over her. Her mind was whirring, febrile, wondering what she had done, what terrible sin she had committed. Her stomach churned, and yet she still quivered with excitement; it was as if she’d slept with the devil himself. How she wished the opera would finish. She wanted to scream, run wild, take her clothes off, writhe naked, fuck him again and again. The longing, the tightness, the tingling of erotic expectation was unbearable. What had he done? What lustful fire had he ignited? But all she could do was sit still and feel his warm wetness slowly seep between her thighs.
AS SOON AS SHE GOT HOME, MILITZA, STILL PLEADING A SLIGHT fever, rushed upstairs.
She dismissed her lady’s maid, and alone in her bedroom, her hands shook and her body shivered as she frantically removed her clothes. The smell of him was all over her: his sweat, his saliva, and the strong, high scent of his semen both revolted and delighted her. Her skin felt different. It was smooth and tingled with desire. Her breath was short, her stomach felt tight, and there was a dizzy, throbbing yearning that pulsed between her thighs. She pulled off her drawers, undid her chemise, and stood naked, looking at herself in the mirror. Was she different? What had he done to her? Where were the cuts? The bruises? Her white skin and black hair appeared to gleam in the light, and the only signs of him were the two large, dark, damp circles between her legs. She smiled and slowly stroked her fingers up and down her thighs, rubbing them against the wet surface of her skin. She then placed her fingers, three of them, in her mouth at the same time. She let out an involuntary moan. The taste of him, the sweet sticky texture of him . . . She sat down on the stool in front of her mirror and spread her legs.
There was a tap at the door, which made Militza start.
“Darling?” It was Peter. “Darling . . . ?”
“Just a minute,” she said, quickly grabbing and putting on her long white lace nightdress and picking up her silver hairbrush. “Just a minute . . . I am brushing my hair.”
“Can I come in?”
“Um . . . Of course, my darling.”
She held her breath and he opened the door. Would he notice? Could he sense the change? Could he smell the sweet smell of sex that seemed to permeate the whole room?
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Should I send for Brana or a doctor?”
“I am fine,” she said, sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long black hair.
“Only it’s so very unlike you not to have a nightcap or a glass of champagne at the theatre.” He walked towards the dressing table and stood behind her, looking at her in the mirror.
“Darling, really, I am fine. I am much better now.”
“You don’t look your normal self.” He smiled at her reflection.
“Really?” A bolt of nerves shot through her.
“Well . . .” He paused and looked down the top of her white shoulder that nestled in the lace of her nightdress. “I think . . .” He leaned down and slowly kissed it. “You . . .” He kissed her again. “Might . . .” And again. “Be . . .” He looked at her in the mirror, his lips still on her shoulders. “More beautiful than normal . . .”
Militza smiled at him sweetly, all the time trying to ride the terrible wave of panic. If she gave in to Peter’s conjugal demands—something, frankly, she was wont to do—he would surely know. He would surely notice she had already been ridden.
He leaned forward and cupped her right breast from behind as he kissed the side of her neck. He had done this many times before, and Militza usually felt nothing more than delight at being touched by her husband. But this time the fear and the panic were overwhelming.
“Peter, Peter, Peter,” she said, pushing his hands off and spinning around in her seat. “My darling . . .”
“Yes?” he said, reaching for the buttons down the front of his trousers.
“I really don’t feel well enough.”
He paused. “But you just said you felt much better?”
“It comes in waves. The headaches, the nausea . . .”
“The fever?”
“And the fever.” She smiled stiffly.
“Oh.” His arms hung limply by his sides. “Very well then,” he replied, clearly a little hurt. “I shall see you in the morning”—he turned towards the door—“when hopefully you will feel better.”
“I shall,” replied Militza. “And I really am sorry, my darling.”
“Of course,” said Peter, standing by the door. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You are not well. Very selfish of me. It was just something about the way you looked . . . Irresistible,” he said, closing the door.
Militza slowly put her head in her shaking hands and sighed with relief.
RASPUTIN HAD DRIVEN A HARD BARGAIN, MILITZA LATER EXPLAINED to her sister. Not only had he ridden her rough, like a Cossack herding stallions across the steppes, he had also demanded the icon of St. John the Baptist as payment for the favor. Her flesh apparently had not been enough for him. He wanted Philippe’s icon as well; otherwise the deal was off, he’d explained after he sucked her nipples raw. He would not deign to approach the tsarina without it. She’d had little choice.
So the icon was delivered to 12 Kirochnaya Street the very next day, and Rasputin duly went to speak to Alix.
“The marriage of the brother and the sister will be the salvation of Russia,” he told her. He was a clever man. He didn’t say which brother and which sister; he was far too astute for that. What he did do was make a simple prophesy—and any form of salv
ation for Russia during this period was obviously extremely welcome, so Alix could not ignore it. Not to embrace Brother Grisha’s prediction was unthinkable for her. Her faith in God and her blind faith in him meant to demur would be impossible. It would have caused her such unnecessary worry and heartache. And yet to grant Stana her wish was to go against all that she, Alix, held dear: loyalty, honesty, fidelity, and the sanctity of marriage before God. Yet she was prepared to give this all up for Rasputin . . .
And so on November 15 the divorce of Princess Anastasia of Montenegro and George Maximilianovich, 6th Duke of Leuchtenberg, was finally granted.
THE DOWAGER EMPRESS WAS FURIOUS. THERE WAS NOTHING now to prevent Stana from marrying Nikolasha, and she continued to tell whoever would listen of Nikolasha’s “sick and incurable” disease. She suggested he might have succumbed to some sort of “spell.” He’d been enchanted. The Black Peril, the Sibyl Sisters, had got to him. The man was a fool. A sick fool. An embarrassing sick fool. And she was appalled. But what galled her most was not only had Nicholas forbidden his own brother Michael from marrying his cousin Baby Bee, but now he was about to allow both Goat Girls to be married to two of the most important men in Russia. It was too much for her to cope with. How could Nicky have let this happen? How weak-willed was her son? How easily led? How influenced by his wretched wife? She was beside herself.
And she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
“It is the work of Satan himself,” said the Grand Duchess Vladimir to Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden as they prepared the lace stall for the Christmas bazaar. The baroness did not comment. She was not a woman who shared her opinion freely. Free opinions were dangerous, especially during these times. “Satan,” continued the grand duchess as she riffled through the lace, putting it in piles. “In fact, that whole household is an axis of evil.”
It was only a few minutes past two in the afternoon, and the four-day Christmas bazaar had just opened. The cream of St. Petersburg society was about to fill the Noble Assembly Hall on Mikhailovsky Square, although since the doors stayed open until midnight, plenty of them were taking their time.
“Is not Satan better than a large part of the human race we are trying to save from him?” came a voice.
They both looked up from the lace.
“Brother Grisha.” Maria Pavlovna smiled. “What a delightful surprise! I didn’t expect a little trifle like this would interest you.”
“On the contrary, Madame, trifles and any work for the poor are always welcome.” He smiled and nodded his head. He had changed so much from the simple peasant who’d arrived so recently.
“Have you been introduced to Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden?”
Sophie smiled. “Good day to you.”
“This is Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin.”
“Grisha,” he said. He took hold of her hand, which she had somewhat reluctantly offered to him, and he kissed it. It took all of Sophie’s willpower not to pull it away from him. She found him utterly repellent. “What pretty little hands,” he said, continuing to hold them. “So small,” he added, turning them over. “So delicate . . . so soft.”
“Thank you,” she replied, snatching them back.
“Do you know what they say about a woman with small, soft hands?” he asked, staring into her eyes.
“No?” Sophie was intrigued, despite herself.
“She has never toiled in her life.”
He smiled. Maria Pavlovna laughed. “Good God, Grisha!” she said. “You terrible thing! Who on earth thinks a hard day’s toil is good? Far better to have never toiled at all than to have ruined one’s pretty hands in the earth! Everyone knows that. Look at mine.” She thrust her little pink fingers forward. “Just like a child.”
He looked down. “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” He paused. “It is the peasants who are closer to God, my lady.”
“Really, Grisha! Who on earth wants to be close to God?”
Maria laughed again, although her mirth failed to reach her eyes. How dare he? The man was really beyond the pale. How Alix and Nicky tolerated him, she could not comprehend. Spouting his dull little platitudes. It was like conversing with a clairvoyant at a fair! Thankfully he walked off over to another stall, where a collection of delightful young ladies vied for his attention as they laid out some homemade biscuits on pretty little plates.
The two women watched as he flirted and chatted and eventually helped himself to a tray of biscuits, handing over not so much as a kopek in return.
Maria glanced around the room to see if anyone else had noticed, but they had not. Everyone in the vast atrium was busy. All along the horseshoe-shaped line of stalls, grand duchesses, princesses, and their ladies-in-waiting were arranging and rearranging their collections of decorated boxes, cloved oranges, knitted mittens, and embroidered samplers, as well as a veritable treasure trove of other knickknacks and objets d’art. Although the majority of stalls were selling homemade crafts and fare, there were other stalls, such as Fabergé, ready to take advantage of the illustrious clientele.
To the melancholy tunes of the guards’ band, whose music filled the hall all afternoon, the flower of St. Petersburg society mingled, trading gossip and intrigue, while helping the poor.
“That man really is too much,” announced Maria Pavlovna, looking down at her small hand.
“Yes,” muttered Sophie. “And look who he is talking to now.”
They both stared across the room as Militza, Stana, Peter, and now, of course, Nikolasha entered the hall.
“The Black Peril,” said Maria, raising her eyebrows. “I was wondering if they would come. Given the circumstances.”
“Unbearable,” mumbled Sophie.
“They are now.” Maria observed them all gathered together at the other side of the room as they presented a united and indomitable front. “Now that the divorce has come through and she will marry Nikolai Nikolayevich . . .”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what everyone says. Apparently, there is a ceremony planned.”
“But they are brother and sister!” exclaimed Sophie.
“Not in the eyes of the tsar.”
“But in the eyes of God.”
“It depends which God.” Maria shook her head. “And anyway, those Black Princesses don’t deal in God; they are Satan’s handmaidens, and now they are the most powerful family in Russia.”
The two women continued to stare as Rasputin approached the group.
“And with him,” sighed Maria, “they are untouchable.”
“AND HOW ARE YOU, MY CHILDREN?” ASKED RASPUTIN AS HE kissed the sisters with overt familiarity, running his thumb down each one’s cheek in turn.
“So well,” beamed Stana, who since the announcement of her divorce had bloomed remarkably.
“You are blushing like a new flower,” he replied. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “No need to thank me.”
Stana smiled and patted his arm, before graciously looking around the room. She knew all eyes were on her and him, so she continued to smile, but how she disliked being in thrall to this man. How many more times was he going to take credit for her happiness? How many more times would he take liberties? How she wished that both she and her sister had not stirred up the Fates that desperate dark night of All Hallows’ Eve. How she wished she’d refused her sister, begged her to change her mind. But Militza was impossible to refuse when she put her mind to something. And even now, when she felt at her most happy and fulfilled, Stana could not help but feel anxious.
“You are so kind, Grisha,” she continued, bowing her head slightly. “And how are you enjoying the bazaar?”
“It amuses,” he said. “And you, my dear?” He turned and kissed Militza on the corner of her mouth. Peter bristled with irritation. He’d noticed Rasputin’s fondness for kissing all the ladies on the mouth, but even so, to kiss another man’s wife in front of her husband was very poo
r form indeed. “Are you here for the biscuits or the Fabergé?”
Militza’s dark eyes narrowed while her heart beat wildly in her chest. His teasing was unbearable. It was almost as unpleasant as the smell of his hair and the heavy scent of garlic and gherkins on his breath—and yet all she could think about as she stood so very close to him was the thickness of his shaft and the way he’d ridden her so hard astride his filthy armchair . . . She felt her pulse quicken and her breath grow shallow as she tried to control herself.
He referred to the episode as a “healing” and had suggested she come to his flat for several more. It was part of the teachings of God, he’d assured her quietly, whispering in her ear as they conversed at Countess Ignatiev’s salon. God was there to help the sinner. “Go out and sin so that you don’t think yourself so holy,” he’d said, pulling her closer to him. “The Lord abaseth him that is exalted and exalteth him that is abased,” he’d added as he’d rubbed his cock up against her thighs, and she’d felt its urgent excitement even through the silk of her skirts.
So far she had resisted another visit to his apartment, although in private she’d thought of little else and longed for nothing more than to be “healed” once more.
“I am here to help the poor,” she said quietly.
“The poor?” he asked as he moved a little closer. “Now what would you know about them, Mamma?”
“Brother Grisha!” came a call from across the room. “Do come and try my biscuits!”
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 28
