Chapter 4
The rather callous view which Gerhart P. adopted as part of his stance towards those of the opposite sex who served him or desired to serve him is not without duplication in men's attitudes towards women servants elsewhere in the world. Even the Soviet Union, a land that once was viewed by some as an eventual Utopia where women would truly have equal rights with men, has long had its share of women abusers. And though the servant problem is not recognized to exist in a land where theoretically all are members of the same class and therefore cannot theoretically use another person's labor, yet it very much exists. And women as servants, whether they are called servants or not, are exploited sexually.
Boris J. is an ex-commissar now residing in Paris. He crossed the Iron Curtain on an agricultural inspection tour of farming methods used in
Western countries, and he applied for asylum in one of the nations he visited and subsequently never returned to the U.S.S.R. He is the primary source about information regarding the Soviet Union, sex, and the servant problem here to be related. His knowledge of the problem deals specifically with the collective farm practices as they pertain to the problem. This is his statement:
I'm a product of the Russian Revolution. I came of age after it was done, and I caught the first wave of Stalin's brainwashing. I belong to that generation which was indoctrinated thoroughly in the principles of communism at a time when they still emphasized humanity and not merely material gain. I belonged to that time when the old Marxists still had something to say about our educational system, and their high ideals infiltrated the classroom despite Stalin's despotism.
I suppose that's why I realized the plight of women early. For one thing, I had two sisters, Ida and Eva, and I saw what could happen even in the Soviet Union. We were poor farm laborers and we worked for the kulaks. I'm sure you've heard of the kulaks, whom Stalin obliterated. Well, we all worked for the kulaks, my two older sisters and my widowed mother, my father had been killed in the Civil War between the Reds and the Whites, and myself.
Then Stalin began collectivizing the farms. The kulaks began to be eliminated, at first gradually and then swiftly. And the propaganda people came into the villages and told us of all the blessings we would receive if we joined a collective farm. Pictures of tractors were shown to us and I was told that one day I would run one, and the girls were shown milking machines besides all kinds of imagine kitchen equipment which they would operate when they worked in the kitchens of the collective farms.
Now that latter point is vital to understand. In the first arrangement of the collective farms in Russia, everyone was really supposed to live together. After all, that was the commune idea. Nobody was supposed to own anything, not even the place where we ate. We were all supposed to live together happily.
Well, of course we children were very impressed. My mother had her misgivings, but she didn't know any better, we thought, and we were of the younger generation and the future belonged to us. So we prevailed upon her, and she willingly left the kulak we worked for, and we all went to a nearby collective farm which had been newly established. It was just as well, perhaps, because in a short while our particular kulak was eliminated anyway, and everybody who didn't come willingly when the propaganda people visited us all were ordered to join us anyway.
So we had a head start and perhaps that explains why I rose through the ranks rapidly and became one of the youngest agricultural commissars in my generation which of course is now a past generation. But too there were other reasons for my rapid rise, some of them very painful.
I am thinking of the way I learned to keep my mouth shut even when my heart ached when I saw what was being done to others on the farm. I am thinking of the women. I am thinking too of the young girls. I am thinking perhaps particularly of my sisters.
I was but a child, and they were in puberty. Ida was thirteen and Eva was fifteen. They were assigned to the community kitchen as helpers. Of course they were not designated as servants; we were all comrades in arms. I am being ironic.
But they were servants. And they served a big beast of a man who was the cook and was in charge of all kitchen preparations. Petrov was his name. He reminded one of Rasputin. Do you know of Rasputin? Petrov had the same diabolical cunning of the famous monk who controlled the Czarina. And in his way, Petrov controlled the woman of the farm, especially those of the kitchen.
I was but a child, as I have said, and I did not know yet what sex precisely was. It is strange how a child can see so much and yet not know what is happening. He sees action, but he does not understand the emotion. So it was that I saw Petrov take one of the women cooks in the pantry one day when I had been arranging sacks of flour on a far shelf.
"Come here, my little dove," he said, smearing his greasy hands on a soiled white apron. "Come here and let me make sweet music." And he laughed in his soup-drenched long brown beard.
"No, Georgei Mihailovitch," she cried, using the patronymic in diminutive as is the custom. "No, sweet sire, seek that not of me."
"Natasha dove," he whispered, "come and see what the good cook has brought you." And he laughed again, but with that he ripped wide his fly, hoisted his dirty apron, and unleashed a great and ugly force. Before that I had never seen a man's weapon, and it was strikingly large.
Natasha shrieked. She backed away. She clutched at her skirts and would protect herself against his advance. She neared where I hid behind the flour sacks in an effort to be free from him.
But of course she moved in the wrong direction. He followed her into that aisle and she was trapped. It was a cul-de-sac among the flour sacks. He leered at her. He was fiendish. And ever his great rod marched before him like the Kaiser's armies against us to Brest-Litovsk. And he held that proud red army in front of him as he came. It struck me between the eyes with its sheer size. I wondered if it was possible that anything, which with me yet was so small, ever could be so big.
And he said, leering ever at her as she hovered directly before me where I hid beneath the good Russian wheat, "You're going to feel it up your cunny, honey. Honey, do you want to feel it up your cunny." I use those words, "Cunny" and "honey" to simulate the Russian words which rhyme in the same pattern and refer to the same objects, one of endearment, the other of dear meat.
"No, Petrov," she now cried, calling him directly by his last name. "No, I won't take it. I won't take it. Please do not make me take it."
"Say you won't take my dick, sweetheart," he whispered greedily. "Speak those words, 'I won't take your dick.' Say it darling, say it."
She shook her head. She was frightened. She was sore afraid. Fear gripped her, and terror stalked her like a cat after prey in the mad full jungle. "No, Petrov," she finally begged, and fell to her feet before him, pleading with him and clasping prayerfully her hands together. "Sweet Petrov, violate me not. Violate me not, dear Georgei."
He laughed down at her. He wagged his great dick before her. "Lick it," he whispered, "and I'll think about the issue. Lick it and I'll decide what I'll do." And he shoved the prick at her mouth.
She hesitated and then was lost. She bowed before its majesty, and gently, slowly, ever hesitantly and yet surely, went down upon its head. I was shocked by what she would do. To me it seemed vile and ugly and horrible. But she did it. She did what he told her to do. She licked and kissed his ugly great dick while he held his soiled apron to one side and looked down at her and laughed fiendishly. Oh Rasputin, he.
Then he commanded her to take off her clothes. "I have decided to fuck you in a different way," he told her. "I have decided to give you a treat. Remove your garments." And he pulled her hair while she cried, and thus he raised her from the pantry floor.
Terrifiedly, she began to undress. She wailed and gnashed her teeth and turned against the wall. But she removed her clothes. She undid their clasps and allowed him to assist her in their removal. And soon she was bare before him, and I saw her great and pendulous breasts, and I thought upon my mother whose breasts once I had seen as she washed herself over a tub in an hour when perhaps she thought I slept. Natasha's breasts were great and heavy like the earth mothers', the fruit of the peasant Russian soil.
"Nice big jugs," he said, slapping them upward, cracking them with the flat of his hand to their undersides, making them flop up and then down. "Nice big soft pleasant Russian boobs," he said, laughing. "Yes, I like your boobs, Natasha darling. I always have liked your boobs. Even when you worked for the kulaks and I suspected they were sticking their capitalistic meat up your vag, and that you were betraying the cause of all our comrades in arms, I liked those jugs you carry. Oh, they are not so pleasant as once they were in the olden times, but they are yet satisfactory for my purposes. Come, Natasha, sweet, lie against the flour sacks. Rest yourself against the flour sacks so that I can fuck you on a straight run."
She looked at him and gasped. "What would you have me do, sweet Georgei Mihailovitch?" she begged. And her eyes were wide as he grinned at her. "What, pray tell, would you have me do?"
"Just lie against the flour sacks on a slant, on an angle, Natasha dove, and you'll soon see." He tugged at his sloppy beard, and nodded in my direction.
She backed towards me and did as he bade. "Is it right as I am?" she begged. "Am I as you would have me, sweet Petrov?" She obviously was very afraid.
"Fine, Natasha dove, fine." He now ripped away his apron completely and started to her. "Lower yourself, just a little, dove. Just a little." She did as he bade, and I saw him arrange his dick between her titties.
I was struck. What would he do? What was this he did to Natasha? And she too was astounded, for, with wide eyes, now she cried, "Oh Petrov, don't fuck my tits. Please don't fuck my tits. Fuck my cunt, but don't fuck my tits."
"Why?" he demanded, laughing hideously as he arranged his great meat between her milk factories. "Do you still pride yourself on your vaunted globes? Do you still dream upon the time when they were mighty, when they stood of their own strength and did not flop like great hangers? Why, Natasha? They are not worth saving." And he continued to laugh.
She broke into tears. In later years, I have come to realize that she wept for what once had been. His words cut her to the core, and she remembered a better time. Surely she saw herself in the glorious summer of her youth when, standing before a mirror, she looked nakedly upon herself and prided herself on the marvelous marble marvels that were hers to witness alone. Now she was broken, and her tits were barter in the market.
And she gave them to him. She yielded up her tits, and he went between them with that massive red rod. He speared the valley she formed when he ordered that she hold together her fleshy orbs for his penetration on the run between them. He went back and forth as she lay slanted upon the flour sacks before me where I hid in the far dark corner down that aisle. And his red knob kept thrusting itself towards me as he made every run down her tit valley.
He laughed as he fucked her. "You're a nice lay this way," he said. "Once I would have fucked you straight. Do you know that? Once when you were a kulak's whore, I would have fucked you in your precious sweet cunt. But that was long ago. Now I am your master in a system where we all are equals." That made him laugh perhaps at its irony. "Now, I am the party hack in the combine, and you are but a poor peasant comrade in arms. Now, it is different, and I may fuck you as I please. And sweet Natasha, if you do not like this fucking, report me to Comrade Stalin. I'm sure he'll be interested in your case at the next meeting of the party secretariat." And he laughed fiendishly as he speared her tit valley again and again.
She cried. Oh how she cried. She held her tits together for his fucking, and she cried. And all the while he laughed as he rolled down her valley again and again with that massive red ripe meat.
Finally he reached that point which, since puberty as all boys learn, I have long known that no man can stop himself. He reached that instant where time itself collides with Space and there is an eruption such as the world never knows in one man's life otherwise. He reached that moment when he drove further and recklessly more furiously and forced everything out of him in a belching tornado, a veritable hurricane of explosive violence. He unleashed his molten white fury and spilled everything over her neck and chest. He hit her chin in a sudden wild burst of hot come. And he exploded again and again all his steamy cream until everything was out of his balls and upon her chest and neck and chin.
And then he sucked air deeply, retrieved his senses, and suddenly, hideously laughed riotously again. Oh how he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
That was the first time. Petrov was a villain. It was not the last time. One after another he took each of the women, whittling them down with his masterful rod. And soon it seemed as if none would escape his bludgeoning's bird's blows. Soon it seemed as if all would fall prey to his cock.
It was then I said to my mother, for my mother and Ida and Eva were still among those few who not yet had been taken by his great cock, an instrument which many times after Natash's fall I saw in crude cruel action, "Sweet mother, what is it with Petrov? What is it with Georgei Mihailo-vitch that he-likes so many women? I am but a child, and yet I wonder if it is good."
"Shhh," she said to me in the night as we whispered together in our corner of the great common bedroom where all the workers of the farm slept and loved and cursed. "Speak not loud. He is yonder."
"He is with Svetlana," I whispered. "She is new to the farm, only here recently, fled from the cruel kulaks afar. He takes her this night, doesn't he, dear mother?" And already I was realizing what "takes" truly meant.
"Speak not that word," she whispered in fright. "Say it not so, little one. Speak not lest it come to pass that..." And she let her words fall as one superstitious might do before the Great Curse.
I said no more, but in the morning, I watched Petrov as he brewed a stew. I saw him linger near my dear mother and by my sisters. And I sensed the imminent arrival of still the greatest and most shocking experience of all. And when I saw him stroke dear Eva's arm so familiarly, I whispered to Ida who was near me, "I'll kill him. If he touches Eva again, I'll kill the monster."
"Shhh," she said. "Shhh. Don't speak so loudly. He will hear you, and then it is finished for us all. Be quiet and let things pass that pass."
"But how can you say that?" I whispered harshly. "How can you say a thing like that. Do you not know what it means for you as well?" And I looked at her fiercely.
She nodded, but seemed truly unconcerned. I was surprised.
Then he called, "Eva, Ida, little mother." And he nodded to my kin. "Let us see what exists in the pantry. Let us check our larder." And he signalled that they should accompany him to the room where so often I saw so many succumb to his diabolical charms. And while they followed him hesitantly and yet obediently, I heard around me whispers of the other women in the kitchen. All knew what would transpire, and I saw them look to me expectantly.
I knew they watched me, and I ignored them, and I went away in such a direction that they might think I was unconcerned with the matter. Yet surreptitiously, I returned by another hall and entered the pantry through a narrow window that only I could reach up a narrow pipe which I shimmied before I slipped through the meagre opening and made my way down again among the flour sacks where so often I had witnessed everything. None knew I was there.
He was ordering my mother and sisters to undress themselves. He was out from his own pantaloons and he was stroking a great red hard-on and was playing with his nuts. He was ugly in every way, self-indulgent and mean, cruel and horrible. And he lounged upon the flour sacks, his back to me as they faced him now after a moment when, all turned away, I had slipped into the room.
"Please, sweet Petrov," my dear mother was pleading, "Take me if you would, but spare my lush young daughters this cruel fate."
"Ah yes," he hissed, "true it is when you call them lush. How lush they are." He smacked his lips as he eyed my sisters. They seemed so sweet, so tragically demure before him. And he added, "But they must learn to work for Mother Russia. It is a new time, and they must learn to serve the blessed motherland."
"You are a beast," my mother then said abruptly. "You hide behind the party folderol and prattle sweet slogans while you seize the day for your ugly purposes." And she glared at him.
"Spit fire," he said. "If I did not relish the thought of taking your lush young daughters' cherries, I'd spend the while fucking hell out of you. But since I want cherry cunt very much this day, I'll pass the opportunity to embroil myself singularly with you. Rather, I have other sports planned. Now undress, all of you, and be quiet."
My sisters began to disrobe. I watched them peel away their clothes even when my mother demanded that they cease their action. But Eva spoke for both my sisters when she said, "Mother sweet, it is our fate. Our tragic fate."
Petrov laughed at that. "You see," he told my mother. "They know what is necessary in the new Russia. They know the ways of our great new society."
"You make a mockery of the new society," my mother raged. "You exploit worse than the worst kulak. You are a capitalist in bear's clothing."
He laughed. "Be quiet, old lady, and strip too. I need you as well. I feel in need of a great work-out for the motherland this day. Strip quickly, old woman. Make yourself ready for my use."
She refused to undress. My sisters meanwhile were free from their clothes. They were beautiful in their youth. Eva was full and round and lovely, developed as is a girl of fifteen always. Ida was past the first pubescence and nearing the maturity of the young maiden's figure. She was exquisite, as a fruit newly ripe is precious. Together they were delightful specimens of what the good Russian soil could produce.
Petrov stood at an angle now from me, and I saw him lick his lips as he ogled my sisters. "Let me touch your precious young titties," he whispered, ordering them to him. "Let me know the succulent flavor of your excellent young orbs." And he waggled his two hands that they should go to him.
My mother blocked their path even as, in a strange trance perhaps, they moved on a line towards him. "No," she cried. "Whores, young whores. Give yourself no man merely for his asking. Whores and sluts, pride you not on your innocent flower?"
But Petrov slapped her aside. With one fell swoop, he sent her sprawling against the flour sacks behind which I hid, and I saw my mother's face flush crimson where he whacked her, and her eyes dripped tears of sorrow as, stunned, she lay momentarily only to witness Petrov kissing my sisters' titties.
Then she was off the sacks and was rushing at him. He swiped her again with a backhanded thrust and sent her sprawling anew. Yet she once more moved at him, and now she sought to knee him. "Oh ho," he roared, "one of those, are you?" And he grabbed her feet, flipped her so that she fell upon the sacks anew, and this time he ripped her bloomers from her flesh, tore wide her dress and petticoats, and rendered her naked before him. And he laughed fiendishly. "Hangers," he roared. "Lousy sunny-side-up eggs. Ugly things. Horrible things. Vile things." And he spat upon them in his disgust.
I was furious. Until then I had taken all. I had watched through so many times upon all that occurred and I had done naught. But now I was driven to leave my place of hiding, to emerge angrily, and to face him, straddling those very flour sacks upon which my mother, mortified and destroyed thus, lay in wracked agony as her daughters, my sisters, would be violated.
Petrov saw me. "What ho," he exclaimed. "Now comes the avenger. What ho." And he would swipe at me.
I ducked. He swiped again, and I leapt aside. Then in a furious dash at him, I grabbed his massive cock with both my small hands and would rip it from him. He howled in his agony. I clutched it wildly and yanked and yanked.
But then my sisters came upon me. "You idiot fool," the cried. "What would you do? You mad child. Would you destroy that which is inviolate? Would you ruin a good thing?" And they boxed my ears angrily.
I backed away. I was shocked. They had defended him. They had supported the man who would destroy them. They had called inviolate that which was destined to violate them. What madness was this?
And my mother cried out then, "See, son? You would avenge them. You would protect your sisters. I would defend them. But we both are wrong. They do not deserve nor want our defense and protection. They are whores and sluts. They want only meat for their cunts. They want nothing else. Their eyes are for his meat."
"But my meat is for the avenger's little ripe ass-hole," Petrov suddenly shouted angrily and yet strangely gleefully. "I want to rip his rosy butt apart for what he has done. I like the brave kind. They make the best ass fucks." And suddenly he gripped me. Rapidly in a swoop he fell upon me, twirled me about, gripped my hands behind my back, raised them as if to smash me so, and then unbuckled my kneebritches and dropped my drawers, and began spreading, with one hand wildly, my ass cheeks as I shouted at the immediate realization that something dreadful must happen.
"We'll hold him for you," my sisters cried, and they leapt upon me even while my dear mother, aware too what transpired, leapt anew into the fray in an effort to halt my sisters from their collaborative assistance to Petrov's fiendish cause.
But it was too late. I suddenly experienced the most painful slashing attack I have yet to recall in upon a high hook. My ass was ripped, reamed and ripped. He was into my bunghole, and I was screaming my agony. And he was gleefully shouting, "A cherry boy, a cherry boy. Why hadn't I ever thought of it before? The little fellow is a dandy cherry." And he plunged and soared up and down my destroyed ass-hole.
It was not long before he erupted inside me. I knew only the ache and torturous pain. I gritted my teeth against the agony of his terrible prick up my slender little bungy, and I cried wildly as I desperately would fight to be free. But he lasted within me sufficiently long to explode the contents of his balls up my behind. I felt the fire of his seed breach me and knew the hot searing blast of that great come. And I wept in my agony while again and again I clenched my teeth against the pain, gritted my teeth and gripped my hands into small balled fists against my terrible agony. And he ripped my behind repeatedly while he poured out my long life. In a driving sweep, he was up my ass-hole with his long red ripe rod, and I was splayed, his cream into my bowels.
Then he joyously yet tiredly pulled his rod from my hole and said, in a laugh, "So much for the servant class." He looked around. To my sisters he said, while they fought off my mother and ironically blamed her that he spent his first seed up my tail, "I'll be fresh in a few minutes, my sweet female buckoes. I have enough and more for all. The festivities have just begun. Count that an apera-tif." And he tousled my hair as I flailed him impotently with weak small fists.
Ida and Eva were pacified when he assured them he had sufficient strength to take them shortly after my turn had been completed. And they immediately began to vie with each other for first place in his affections. My mother cursed them and called them every vile name that might apply, but they ignored her and concentrated upon Petrov, seeking ever to gain his choice first.
Then Petrov said, "I'd like to have a little chain.
Mother dear, would you care to join a chain?" When my mother quite naturally refused, he turned to my sisters and, with a shrug, announced that he didn't think he would bother with them unless my mother was more cooperative.
Naturally those stupid girls demanded immediately that my mother show Petrov more kindness. They angrily denounced her for selfishness which ironically they claimed was incompatible with the interests of the new Soviet state. It was bizarre and yet they preached that.
And Petrov said, "Yes, it is bourgeois thinking that will undo all the works of Vladimir Ilyitch. It is imperialist claptrap which sunders the new motherland." And he ordered my sisters to persuade her to join them in the chain he proposed.
To that she cried, "Do they even know what a chain is? Do they even know?"
But my sisters quickly acknowledged that they did, and Ida even raged at my dear mother, "We've been licking each other's cunts long before this, dumb little mother. We've been feasting our mouths on our lovable cunts a long, long time already."
While my mother immediately fainted to those words, unable to stand the terrifying shock of such candor and such revelation, my sisters immediately turned to Petrov while he laughed loudly at my mother's faint, and they urged him to advantage himself of her brief and temporary demise in order that they all fulfill themselves at the fount of pleasure.
He acknowledged their suggestion to be a good one, but insisted that my dear mother be included, and he insisted as well that I be counted a member of the party too. When I angrily refused to join them, he told my sisters that he then would fuck my mother's mouth while she slept. I was horrified. He saw my reaction, and quickly added that he would reconsider his position if I was willing to join the pleasure.
In an effort to save my mother from such a fate, I agreed. But I never should have agreed, for next he placed upon me the burden that to this day I carry in my raging memory, a memory that haunts me down through all the years of my wasted life. He demanded, if I was to be a part of the festivities as he called them and was to prevent him from fucking my mother's mouth, that I should eat my own mother.
I wanted to faint. I cried and begged him not to make me do it, but he insisted that this be done. Though my sisters were themselves somewhat horrified, they, in their own private lust, agreed with his demand. And in the chain that ensued, I was assigned the task of eating my mother's box while my sister Ida sucked my dick and played with my pre-pubescent balls. Petrov licked Ida's vag, and Eva had the dubious honor of sucking his great dick.
To this day I live the horror again and again of the eating upon my fainted mother. Always I see her, propped against those flour sacks in that narrow pantry aisle, and I am between her legs cuddled to her great black vag, and I am tonguing her twat while Ida licks my little dick and gives me a strange pleasure. I am eating my mother's snatch and I am crying great tears and moaning in my agony. And Petrov occasionally is rearing his ugly head to peer upon me and to say, "Eh boy, how-tastes the old fish? Eh boy, what ho."
Sweet mother. I love you so even now in long lost memory. Dearest precious little mother who birthed me, why did I eat your cunt that day? Yet I did eat you out, mother dear. I did suck your juices, and I even, while you were strangely in that faint, caused you to spill fresh juices as you grew warm to my tongue's touch. In later years I was to realize the signs of a woman's erotic development, and I was to know upon every sexual experience the remembrance again and again that I once had made my own fainted mother hot, exceedingly hot.
Yes, mother, hot. You became hot. In that time I knew it not, but in later years I grew aware how hot that day you became even in your swoon. Your vag turned warm and then glowing hot from my tongue's touch upon you. Your cunt juices flowed, and you began to quiver. It's true, mother dear of my memory, you began to quiver in what another time I learned to know was the first pulsing rhythmic fuck jabs of a ride to a big come. You grew hot at my tongue's touch and I brought my own mother pulsingly towards a great come.
Meanwhile, my sister Ida worked on my dick, and I grew strangely excited in that childish way that knows no convulsive eruption but experiences nevertheless the brilliant small flashes of heat and erotic excitement. I knew the strange new joys of a pleasure much later to be known so well and so thoroughly. I knew what it was to want to fuck even if I could not fuck, even if I really did not know fully what a fuck actually was.
And Ida moaned while she sucked my dick from the joys that coursed her fresh new loins as a result of Petrov's own masterful cuntlapping upon her. She twisted abandonedly to his questing tongue at her vulva and when it speared her hot wet vault, she moaned and sighed while she licked my dick, turning to his every touch of tongue upon her clit and vulva and cunt lining. She moved towards the great explosion that would release her new-found tension.
Petrov, for his part, reacted to the probably inexpert and yet tingling touches of my sister Eva upon his massive cock and balls, and there was a moment when, taking his mouth from Ida's vag, he reared his head and wheezed, "Eva love, you are the finest young cocksucker in the entire Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. From the frozen north-land to the hot south, you are the mistress of the suck. From the Pripet Marshes to Far Siberia, none can match your emerging talent." And he gurgled his pleasure and returned with avidity to the licking of my sister Ida's cunt, an action doubtless newly re-inspired by my sister Eva's work upon his great dong.
So they rode to their comes. My mother heaved and sighed in her own wild state, and it is my only solace that she did not reach a climax. Perhaps I am selfish to say that. Perhaps I really should have brought her to one. But my memory is sufficiently sordid without being burdened further with such a terrifying thought.
Suffice it to say, the others all reached grand conclusions. They rushed to their comes like savage dogs in the Siberian snows. They leapt and gurgled and mouthed each other monstrously in their wild greed for their own pleasure. They climaxed like the guns of Borodino firing on the fiend Bonaparte. And Petrov's balls chimed with his fresh come like the bells of Tschaikovsky's great Overture. It was a brilliant, sparkling, fireworks laden come for one and all.
But now I pause. I have said so much. I started to speak of the servant problem in Russia, the way servant girls are exploited by those who would believe perhaps that they were nobody's masters. In a classless society there exists sexual exploitation, I would reveal. And in that revelation, I faced myself with the bitterest memory I possess. I see not only servant girls, my sisters in this case, who in a sense actually prostituted themselves for such exploitation, but I see myself being usurped and then committing that heinous crime of which I still accuse myself.
I am sure it is that memory which has haunted me down the corridors of my personal history, daily lingering with me and making my nights into nightmares; that memory which, despite my rise in the party hierarchy, despite all my obvious other fortune, finally caused me to flee the land of my crime, to seek refuge abroad and away from that world where once I committed such an act.
The mind is a strange phenomenon, is it not? A horrifically strange phenomenon.