It was a hot summer night in New York city and Illya Kuryakin sat out on his fire escape trying to get some relief from the oppressive conditions inside his apartment.
Whether it was the temperature, or the fact that he'd let his mind wander to thoughts about Napoleon and his rendezvous with a stunning brunette from the stenography pool tonight, he wasn't sure, but he was definitely feeling hot and bothered...
The woman was drop dead gorgeous, and Illya though not a monk, as his partner had often accused him of being, even stopped and stared at the woman as she walked down the halls of UNCLE. He found the swaying of her hips, hypnotic, as they simply evoked feelings of lust in him, and he wondered what it would be like to go be bed with her. As usual, Napoleon had his luck that served him in so many different ways...
And now those visions and the fact that Napoleon at this time of night as most likely in bed with her and making passionate love to her, gave Illya an itch. Not the type of itch that could be taken care of by scratching, though there was a way of manually relieving said itch...but that wasn't as satisfying as having sex with a beautiful woman.
Though many believed it; Illya wasn't shy, and once in bed with a woman he could rival his partner in technique and staying power, but he tended to be too fussy about finding the right woman.
Unlike Napoleon, he wasn't one for casual sex, and preferred knowing the lady for a while, establishing a sort of rapport with her, a friendship of sorts as it were. There were times like this though, when he had the urge, so to speak... and well, that made it difficult.
He could wander out into the wee hours to a bar and probably pick up a willing partner, or if that failed, the court of last resort could be a hooker.
He'd been with prostitutes on very rare occasions though he disliked paying for sex, and felt those sort of women were members of the downtrodden masses, having to sell their bodies in order to survive. Engaging their services felt wrong, as though he were taking advantage of them.
That was the Communist coming out in him, but his political beliefs didn't help him much when he was feeling outright randy.
Illya leaned his head back against the metal railing of the fire escape and sighed as he recalled when he was much younger living in Moskva. He shared an apartment with six other people, five men and one woman to be precise. One of the men, Grigory and the woman Masha were married, and that afforded them the privacy of a bedroom all their own, for the making of new Soviet citizens.
He would lay there in his cot in the darkness and hear their grunts and moans as their bed rocked and squeaked into the night...such sounds would lead to his arousal, and of course he had to either take his need into his own hand, or force himself to forget about it and just go to sleep. A third and rare alternative was to get dressed and walk the streets to find a lady of the evening.
Illya did just that one night when he just couldn't take the sound of the two fucking like rabbits again and he felt compelled to find a girl for him to fuck as well. He was seventeen, and full of raging hormones, and tonight thanks to his roommates, his body was howling like a wolf for sex.
He dressed himself and wandered only a block away, searching along the stark concrete streets of Moskva for someone who would suit his tastes. There was a young girl, perhaps twenty, standing beneath a streetlamp not far from an apartment building, and he knew why she was there this time of the morning. She wore a cheesy rabbit coat, a very short red skirt, and a pair of high-heeled black boots.
He walked up to her, and she stared at him for a moment, perhaps wondering if he were the police or not, as prostitution was frowned upon the Soviet Union; though he looked too young to be a cop.
Illya's hungry eyes looked her up and down, giving away his intentions.
"Ten rubles for a blow job, twelve rubles for...well you know, but that would be in the alley. If you want to do it in a bed, fifteen rubles," she smiled at him.
Her face was pretty in a natural sort of way as she wore no makeup. Her blond hair, piled wildly on top of her head, had a long strand falling down across her brow. Illya had to admit she was damn sexy even for a hooker. He'd seen them on the streets before and most appeared hard, and worn thin, but she didn't have that look yet.
"Fifteen rubles Miss?" He muttered with disappointment in his voice. That was a lot of money for him and on what was left of his stipend, he didn't have enough for any of her services. He guessed it was back to 'self service' to take care of his needs.
The girl looked into his beautiful blue eyes, thinking he was very handsome and seemed like a nice guy as his voice and demeanor were quiet. The men she usually serviced were brawny, hairy creatures with all the manners of a Russian bear, but this one, had called her Miss. She couldn't recall when someone had spoken to her that politely, as if she mattered and deserved respect.
"How much do you have?"
Illya dug into his pocket. "Eight rubles, I am sorry I know that is not enough for coitus." He turned to leave.
"It will do." She held out her hand, thinking this one sounded educated, and taking the eight rubles, she escorted him upstairs to her nearby room.
It was very small, just a single room but neat and clean, a few magazine photos pinned to the bare walls and there was a beautiful multicolored silk scarf draped over a lampshade on the table beside the small bed against the wall. The colors from it cast a very sensual glow around the room.
He was surprised a prostitute managed to have a private living space, but then who was he to question it. Perhaps it belonged to her pimp, if she had one. Though he had not noticed anyone nearby, pimps usually kept an eye on their 'girls.'
"Sit,' she said, giving him a little shove towards the small bed.
"Would you like a drink?" She held up a bottle of State approved vodka, the label slapped crookedly on the crude glass.
"Everyone had vodka, there was always plenty of that, ever since the prohibition on alcohol had been lifted so many years ago," Illya thought. It was a way for the government to make profits, control the masses, and keep them compliant by having them be just a little dependent upon the drink, as there were few other comforts in their lives. It created a Soviet State of alcoholics. That wasn't hard to achieve when there was little else for workers to do but drink when they had finished their six day work week.
"Yes please," he answered her politely. Illya wasn't an alcoholic, and handled his drink well enough as he'd begun imbibing at the age of nine out of sheer necessity in order to help him survive the first winter he spent on the streets of Kyiv during the Great Patriotic War*.
She poured him a glassful, and one for herself and together they swallowed them down in one gulp. Following that same routine another was poured and another.
Apparently she was ready now and reached over, pulling off his jacket, tossing it to the floor and she unbuttoned his shirt, feeling his soft pale skin beneath it. She kissed his chest, slowly running the tip of her tongue across it. Illya just stood there, not moving as she caressed him.
"Do you always treat your customers this way?" He whispered, finally leaning forward and nuzzling her neck. She smelled of lavender...
"No, only special cases," she smiled, shoving him down on the bed, and climbing on top of him; she undid his belt buckle and opened his zipper with deft hands.
"It is good to be a special case," Illya smiled back at her as she reached into his pants, taking hold of him. She let her mouth begin the work, and as he reached up, opening her blouse, he took hold of her pert breasts, playing with them and pinching her nipples. Finally he took one to his mouth and teased it with his tongue and lips while he fondled the other with his hand.
The girl moaned at his touch, tugged his pants down to his thighs in one quick movement, and lowered herself onto his substantial erection. That elicited moans from both of them.
She moved slowly at first, matching the speed of his thrusts and as the minutes passed, they quickened their movements; she cried out as she orgasmed, not once but twice. It took only a few moments longer before Illya thrust one last time, closing his eyes and arching his back as he exploded within her.
They lay together on the bed side by side in the tight space, catching their breath. Moments later she laughed aloud.
"What is so funny?" Illya asked, hiking up his trousers.
"I never come with a John, yet I did with you...more than once."
"Really?"
"Yes, I said you were special, and what you did to me...that was rare. What is your name, if you do not mind me asking?"
"Not at all, my name is Illya, and yours?"
"Svetlana," she answered, adjusting her clothes as she slipped from the bed.
Illya rose, tucking his shirt into his pants, and picked up his jacket from the floor.
"Spacibo Svetlana," he smiled, heading towards her door. He knew not to dally with her as she needed to make her living and had to return to her street corner.
"Wait, Illya...here." She held out the rubles he'd given her.
"Nyet, that is yours, though I wish I had more to give you. I have not felt this good in a long time."
Svetlana wouldn't hear of it, and insisted Illya take back his money.
"I haven't been treated this nicely by a man in a long time, Illya. Thank you."
He left with a smile on his face, heading home to bed and no doubt a good night's sleep.
A week later, when Illya received his next stipend, he returned to Svetlana's apartment, planning to give her the money he felt he owed her, but she was gone.
Illya asked a neighbor what had happened to the girl, and was told she had been taken away by the secret police. His heart sank. There was nothing he could do about that; he was just a greenhorn, a junior agent for GRU, and going up against KGB over a prostitute that he knew only by the name of Svetlana was an impossibility, much less too dangerous a move.
He sighed at his helplessness and hoped one day he would be in a positions to help innocents like she, a girl who had no choices in life...just as he.
.
Illya returned from his recollections, startled by the sound of a blaring car horn from the street below. At first he thought about heading out as he looked over the city that never slept, but after his recalling the girl Svetlana and what had happened to her, he had suddenly lost his yearnings for sex.
He never saw the girl again, nor did he ever find out what happened to her...that sad memory was enough to dampen his desires.
Closing his eyes, remaining on the fire escape; he took a deep breath and was asleep within minutes...
.
* ref "Beginnings" Also related to tmy new story on "The Test"