Dark Soul, Vol. 3

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Sergei sat down on the cot against the wall, couldn’t help but watch Vasily’s cock pump into her, her long graceful legs opened wide, and Vasily’s teeth near her throat, biting and sucking on her neck, throat, face. Sergei swallowed hard, but what could he do? She got paid for this, and if that was how Vasily wanted it, then that was what he’d get. Sergei just wished she’d open her eyes so he could tell if she was all right.

  Vasily pulled out as he started to come, tore off the condom, and jerked himself off with a few harsh motions over her, coming all over her face and chest. Pavel protested at that, but the hooker only opened her eyes. Her expression was hard to read: wholly lucid, wholly in control, it seemed, despite her being alone in a room with four men, all stronger and heavier and more vicious than her. It was an “I’ll remember your face” look. Sergei suppressed a smile.

  Pavel next. He flipped her onto her belly, lifted her hips, and she pushed her ass out, offering him full access. Pavel waved Vanya over, who sat down on the bed and guided her head to his swollen dick. Sergei watched, enjoying both that blowjob and the skill that reduced stoic Vanya to pieces in mere minutes, amused at how both men tried to coordinate their efforts. They were much better in the field than in bed.

  Vasily touched his shoulder with a vodka bottle, looking sated but still dangerous. Sergei took the bottle and swallowed two mouthfuls, welcoming the slight burn.

  “Getting ready for round two?” Vasily asked.

  “Not me.” Sergei shrugged. “Help yourself.”

  Vasily glanced over at the bed, at groaning, sweating Pavel with his rather uncoordinated, clumsy moments of tenderness; and Vanya, who was all spaced out. “I never had a boy,” he conceded eventually.

  Sergei glanced up, but said nothing.

  “Can we keep her all night? I got some more bullets to shoot.”

  Sergei shrugged. “We’re meeting the guy in the afternoon. Should be plenty of time for target practice.” He stood somewhat heavily, patted Vasily on the shoulder, then took the bottle from his hand and walked outside. Once alone, he settled on a pile of roof tiles in the dark, dejected garden in the back, and listened to far-away cars.

  Nights like this, he felt every day of his age, and sometimes, he didn’t actually want to be penned in with the same men in the same room. Things had been different once, but the memory of that didn’t touch him anymore. Family or things he’d wanted to do with his life. Never in a thousand years could he have imagined he’d end up in, of all places, America, a mercenary to men of bizness. He finished the bottle with measured sips, watching carefully how much he drank and how it affected him. The pleasant buzz never covered what he knew was going on in that bedroom.

  All in all, he spent an hour outside in the darkness, then got to his feet and returned to the bedroom. The scent of sweat, sex, semen was heavy in the air. Vanya was asleep on the cot. Pavel was stretched out on the bed, Vasily half on top of the hooker. Sergei nudged him aside and gathered the hooker up. She smelled of all of them, flecks of dried semen on her skin. Her black eyes snapped open, but she relaxed again when she saw him, melting into his arms not unlike a small, trusting animal.

  He carried her into his own bedroom and put her down on the bed, but motioned for her to sit up.

  She looked at him, tired and worn, her makeup smudged, her wig and clothes in complete disarray. Still, no fear or cringing away when he touched her shoulder. “Come, clean up.”

  She shook her head. “I can just go home.”

  “In that state?”

  She shrugged. “Unless you want me.”

  He did, but it was an odd kind of desire there. Not in her state. He wasn’t drunk enough. “Shower’s just that way.”

  She looked up at him, listless, so he got down on his knees, pushed one of her legs to the side and pulled down the shiny metal zipper running along the length of the latex boots. He pulled her foot free, the skin sweaty in his hand, set her foot down on the ground, then freed her other leg. Her calves were hairless, strong and perfectly shaped, both graceful and functional. Smallish feet, meticulously cared for, with silvery nail polish on her nails.

  She looked at him with something like irony. “Don’t mind me if I fall asleep.”

  “That’s okay.” Sergei helped her up, noticed her wince when she straightened, and led her into the bathroom. “Get undressed.”

  She looked at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” She padded over to the basin, looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head, no doubt at the devastation of her get-up.

  He stepped closer as she washed her hands, and didn’t turn away when she reached for the wig. Like her eyes and eyebrows, her hair was black. Short, sweat-damp and flattened against her skull.

  Sergei reached for the shirt she wore tied over her breastbone and pulled the knot free. She breathed deeply, maybe sighing, maybe releasing tension, as he pulled the damp garment off.

  The padded bra was next, and she shuddered when he opened that, then covered her chest when it slipped away, not unlike a woman would do. “Why do you want to see this?” she asked.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “What? Hooking?”

  Sergei dropped the bra on the floor atop her shirt, then pulled the zipper of her skirt down. She stared at him as if increasingly disturbed by the fact that he was undressing her. Her johns never did that, he assumed.

  “Yes. Hooking.”

  “For the money.” She reached up to her face and pulled the artificial lashes from her eyes, then blinked at him. “For the surgery.” She pulled her skirt down and walked past him into the shower, one hand covering her pubes, but he noticed a metallic sheen.

  He shed his clothes while she turned the water on and ran the showerhead between her legs and against her front, one hand against the tiles, facing away from him. After a few moments and some gentle pulling, a mass of wet duct tape and toilet paper came away. She gathered it all up in one long-fingered hand and placed it on the soap dish.

  Sergei stepped into the shower and ran his hands along her lithe, strong back. Short-shorn black hair at her neck, and he caught a whiff of her smell. “Turn.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You want to be a woman. With tits and without . . .”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, makeup already beginning to stream from her face, taking everything away, the blush, the touch of glitter. The face underneath was just as elfin, delicate yet sharp, the dark eyes just as intense, if not more so. “Why do you ask?”

  “There has to be a reason why you do this.”

  “For the money.”

  “Not everybody would do what you do for money.”

  She bent her neck, stared at the water gurgling away between their feet. “The surgery is expensive. I’ll never make that kind of money in any other job.”

  “How much more do you need?”

  She huffed, but hesitated, then turned around to face him fully. Water was running down her flat chest, small dark nipples looking sore—one most definitely, with teeth marks on the pec around it. From Vasily? Not even a hint of cleavage, no breasts. A male chest, boyishly bare, flat but for some well-defined muscle that probably helped pull off the illusion. The hooker’s midriff was a thing of beauty—all lean, long muscle that screamed athlete or dancer, with a line of text tattooed across his heart.

  His, Sergei noted. It was impossible to refer to the hooker as female now. There was a cock, balls, all shaved; lean hips; the same long, graceful legs as before; the same long neck. He reached up to the hooker’s throat, took hold of the collar, then reached around and opened it. That bared the small Adam’s apple, of course.

  The hooker looked up to him, studying his face, a hint of mistrust in his eyes, as if expecting violence or mockery. How many men fooled themselves and turned violent once the illusion was shattered?

  “Your body is fine,” Sergei said and reached for the shower gel.


  “Yours isn’t bad, either,” the hooker told him, and allowed Sergei to touch him, clean him, wash the makeup from his face, thumbs brushing the high cheekbones, the angular jawline, the lips, removing who knew how many layers of carefully applied makeup. Then down to the chest, washing everything away that clung to that skin, the night, the memory, everything but the two bite marks and bruises from Vasily, one on the chest, the other on the deltoid.

  Sergei’s hands trailed lower, washing the flat strong belly. “Did you come?”

  The hooker laughed softly. “What kind of question is that?”

  “You acted as if. But I figured you can’t come that often.”

  “No, I can’t.” The hooker took the shower gel from his hand and began to wash him in return, before Sergei could touch him lower. “Yeah, I did. You almost got me there, but your bite-happy friend pushed me over.”

  “Vasily?”

  “Him.” The hooker’s hands felt nice, sure, not exactly gentle or teasing, but friendly enough. “If you’d kept fucking me longer, I’d have come from you. You’re a big guy, and you know how to fuck.”

  Sergei chuckled. “And after that?”

  “After that it gets painful. Sore.” The hooker shrugged. “My body doesn’t work like a woman’s. I come once and then I want to rest, too. And that’s not going to change, I don’t think.”

  Still, he’d gotten fucked for more than an hour when he was already sore and acted as if he’d enjoyed that. Sounded like a shit job. Sergei leaned in, lifted the other man’s chin and kissed the thin, sharply defined lips. The hooker seemed surprised, but kissed him back, allowed him to explore, touch, taste, leaned into him, his erection poking Sergei’s thigh. Sergei let one hand fall down and wrapped it around the hooker’s dick, stroking him slowly, feeling him harden and lengthen in his hand. It seemed perfectly natural to him, and such a pity that the other guy wanted nothing more than to cut all that off, because he was beautiful like this, too.

  “What am I to you now?” the hooker asked.

  “Something very pretty.” Sergei kissed him again, kept stroking, oddly gratified that the other man responded so readily to his touch. That act of the hooker was done, the brazenness had vanished—what he was touching was the actual person underneath, vulnerable, delicate, yet strong.

  The other man thrust into his hand, groaning, slung one arm around Sergei’s shoulder to steady himself and kept pushing into his hand. He’d have been okay with just that, but then the hooker stopped and turned around. “Fuck me,” he said, and leaned against the tiles.

  Sergei ran his hand down the curve of the man’s ass, noticed another bite mark there. “You’ll be sore.” How many times had he been fucked? Anywhere between four and eight, probably, all in two hours.

  “Yes.” The man widened his stance. “Fuck me.”

  Sergei stepped up close and stroked the man’s dick. “I just get condom.”

  “No. Just put it in. I want it now.”

  Sergei hesitated. He remembered too well how “she” had faced down Vasily over this.

  “I’m healthy. I’m usually really careful. Besides, as the catcher I have a better chance of getting anything. Odds are against me. Come on, give me what you have.”

  Sergei pointed his dick at the hole that looked red and abused, but much looser now. There was enough water and residual lube to allow him to push into that naked heat. He groaned and thrust forward, relishing the sensations and willingness, but he noticed the hissed breath from the man. He reached around and resumed stroking him. “You okay?”

  “Hurts, but that feels good.” The man laughed tonelessly. “I’m a sick puppy. I like the pain. Give me more.”

  Sergei moved, the man greeting him on every thrust, fucking his hand on the way forward, controlled yet passionate at the same time. An odd moment, removed from the other men, just him and a stranger, like it hadn’t been in forever. A rare moment of privacy, his own emotions, guard down . . . and that with somebody who changed from male to female and back again with such ease.

  The man came first, spilling into Sergei’s hand, clenching all around him, and Sergei thrust harder and faster to get off, too. He pulled out afterward, pushed his hand into the stream of water and was surprised when the hooker turned, pressed up against him and kissed him again. “Thanks. I did need this.”

  Sergei felt an odd twinge in his chest. He’d needed it, too. But in a different way. “Stay here tonight. We drop you off tomorrow.”

  “No. I . . . I have no way to replicate ‘the look.’”

  “I’ll take you home before they wake up.” Another stolen moment of being alone. “Sleep in my bed.” Not with them.

  “What are they gonna say when they see me?”

  “Nothing. They aren’t stupid.”

  The man stepped out of the shower, reaching for a towel, but then offered it to Sergei and grabbed the one underneath for himself. “Okay. I’m too tired to go anywhere.” He toweled off and walked into the bedroom, completely naked, still damp between the shoulder blades and along the legs.

  Sergei dried himself, tried to make sense of the fact that he’d be sleeping in the same bed with a naked man for the first time. Doing this under the shower was one thing. But actually going so far down the road—

  He tossed the towel into the shower and walked over to the bedroom, where the other man was just slipping under the covers. He set the alarm on his phone, then switched off the light and joined him. They smelled of the same shower gel, and how smooth that skin was now. The man turned toward him in the near dark and kissed him again. “I hope you sleep well.”

  “You too.” Sergei closed his eyes and relaxed. He could fall asleep at the press of a button, but he was still very aware that he wasn’t alone in bed. At the same time, he felt more alone, more at peace with himself because it was a stranger.

  He dreamed of shooting, killing, dreamed of houses turned to rubble, explosions tearing out windows, the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Small arms fire. Enemy soldiers, partisans, attempting to crawl away and getting shot in the back of the head. He dreamed of Vasily high on his perch, killing like God.

  Before he was fully awake, he jumped to his feet, almost crashed into the wall with the sheets tangled around him, and knocked the lamp off the nightstand. In the light from the open door, he saw a human shape point a pistol at him and dove for cover.

  Still, impact in his back, and he fell, uncontrolled. It was a terrible punch, the force of it spreading through his whole body. Blood was rushing from a wound. Center of his back. He twisted, turned to look at the bed, the hooker, hoped she was okay, then saw the shooter move closer.

  He was the hooker, a Makarov in his hand, moving slowly toward him.

  Sergei stared, tried to get away and realized he couldn’t move his legs at all. He didn’t even feel them. He clawed for the bed, tried to push himself up, but then the shooter pointed the gun at his face, black eyes deep pools of complete, light-defying darkness, worse and darker than the muzzle of the pistol.

  “You shouldn’t have woken up,” the shooter told him.

  “Well, I did.” Bastard. Sergei pressed his lips together, again tried to move, but his legs were dead weight. Too much dead weight. “Fuck.” He looked to the door, hoped one of the others was awake, but then he noticed the shooter was half covered in blood spray. Like he'd cut a throat or two. Or three.

  “Your comrades are dead,” the hooker confirmed.

  “Okay.” Sergei stared at a blood drop traveling down that smooth chest like savage makeup, realized he was going into shock, all emotions frozen, lacking urgency. “I’m last?”

  The shooter’s gaze traveled up and down his body. “Did I hit you in the spine?”

  “Yeah. Legs are gone.” No use denying it. His uncoordinated movements would have given it away.

  “I did consider just putting you out of business,” the shooter said.

  Sergei laughed. “How?”

  “I’d have shot you in the kne
es.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You killed some of my friends, Sergei. That’s your name, right? Sergei.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You shot two of my friends yesterday and beat up my boss, Stefano Marino. It’s war now. I’m here to kill everybody who’s threatening Stefano.”

  “I thought you looked . . . Italian.”

  “I’d have told you I was Greek. Or Mexican, or Latino. You’d have believed me. You wanted to believe me.” The shooter crouched near him, but not close enough to reach him or fight him.

  Sergei felt his blood drenching the cheap dirty carpet around him and tried to move again. Fuck. Everything around the wound was on fire, but there was no feeling at all below that line. Like he stopped right below his ribcage. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

  “Fuck, I liked you.”

  “I know.” The shooter’s sharp features softened, and he transformed back to the young man Sergei had kissed and fucked in the shower. Sergei glanced toward the bathroom; the shooter noticed. “You weren’t like them.”

  Not like them. That summed up his whole life.

  The shooter moved closer, close enough to touch, as if luring him into a movement or an attack. Sergei tried to move his legs again, but as far as his spine was concerned, they weren’t there and had never been.

  “Okay, so finish me off.” Job well done. Infiltrate the enemy’s safe house, put them all to sleep, then kill them one by one. It would send a strong message. Few men he knew would have been able to accomplish that. None of them would have played a cross-dressing hooker and taken it up the ass all night. He grimaced with the pain. “Yeah, it’s spine. You put me out of bizness.”

  The shooter pointed the gun at his face—at a low angle, less threatening than pointing it right between his eyes. Surprisingly, Sergei wasn’t afraid. If this was how he’d die, he’d take it. Beat being torn apart by a shell or sniped by a partisan. Even though it didn’t really matter how he died.