The Avox

AN: Rated T for sexual references, themes, and general Klerkov-iness.


We walk in silence for a long while. "Where are you taking me?"

"To rest," Klerkov answers cryptically. "To the sauna."

I flush. "Saunas are for men." Small bathhouses are common on the lakefronts in 6, where men go in to drink, smoke, and sing bawdy songs about women's tits that carry in the cold winter air. Then they emerge naked and sweating to plunge into the water's cold depths. They come up, shivering and sputtering, shaggy manhood erect to run back to the sauna as their fingers and feet turn blue. It's a privilege, a luxury, a rite of passage for boys to become men, so sacred even the pleasure-women aren't allowed.

Girls get blood, the right to wear soft, pretty underthings and to join the old gossip's tables to learn to attract and pleasure a man. Or, if you're ugly, to be mercilessly teased and bullied by your peers and their grandmothers alike.

Klerkov chuckles. "I had no idea you were such a traditionalist. Besides, Petra Angelovna, you are hardly a woman." No, Victor Ivan Klerkov, I agree silently, that I'm not.

"The Capitol, you will find, is more…shall we say modern, in their acceptance of our traditions," he explains. "Perhaps you are a woman, moya Petr'enka, but I see no reason you may not enjoy this. You are of 6! It is your heritage, and therefore your right."


In the Capitol, a sauna is a much different thing. Far from a shrine of rough-hewn wood and smoke it is a stone room filled with pungent, steaming fountains and the pleasant, musical lilt of trickling waters. It is also far from the haunt of only men.

Seven handsome, hairy Avox women with strong, oiled hands lounge carelessly amidst the steam. They are naked.

"I see they're not so picky about pleasure-women being here, then." I snort. "Or is this what you meant by modern?"

"It is a tradition for the masseuse to be so," Klerkov says sorely. "But if it offends you, moya Petr'enka, tell them to dress."

Offends? Hardly. Incites to jealousy would be more apt: every one of them has a pair of magnificent, pendulous breasts for which Victor Ivan Klerkov fails to hide his approval. He claps his thick hands delightedly, and the nearest rises, turning to display her full figure for our viewing. He fondles the dusky skin of her breasts with a sigh of satisfaction, not a trace of blush on his face that I should see him do so. "You do not mind, do you?" He asks, never taking his eyes off her sculpted figure.

"I suppose there are other 'traditions' as well," I state drily. "I'd hate to deny you your rights or heritage."

He grins wickedly with an appreciative nod, twisting the tail of his beard in excitement. "Ah, yes. I only ask that you not tell Natalayia. Being from the Capitol I fear she is not so…traditional as you or I." He's right: Tasha Pushkina would positively murder him.

Hardly does he disappear into the steam before I hear the rattle of his chainmail shirt against the stones. Low, rhythmic grunts, soft, sobbing sighs and the occasional agonized scream interrupt the sound of flesh smacking on flesh. I grew up in a one-roomed house, and the sound of two adults fucking is hardly new to my ears. As a child, I didn't understand, but as I grew older it became a choice between enduring the mortification with my back turned or standing outside in the cold. Winters in District 6 are unbearable, dark, and long. Needless to say, it soon ceased to embarrass me.

It's been a long time since I've heard those sounds, though. It's been years since my sisters died, and I suppose after losing them my mother didn't want the sorrow of bearing more children, or perhaps my father grew too old or too tired to sire them. Here in the Capitol, two days from the Hunger Games, I find the sound of Klerkov and the whore present as I sleep to be strangely nostalgic.

Although for a woman without a tongue, she sure makes a hell of a lot of noise. My own mother was never so enthusiastic. Then again, she wasn't paid.


I start awake, not even aware I had ever slept. I'm lying face-up in a shallow stream of steaming, scented water, surrounded by the warmth of hundred of small, burning black stones. I also seem to have lost my clothes. Again.

Strong, mannish hands caress my limbs, my shoulders and my neck as hot oil drives the ache and soreness from my every bruise and bone. The Avox women must've descended while I slept, and somehow, with every touch, I find myself trying not to think of Marcus Raelius.

Relaxed, remote, with the sensuous touch of several naked women, saunas—especially this Capitol variety—were obviously intended for men. I feel no sense of underlying pleasure, only one of deepening relaxation yet mounting confusion. Something tells me my Mentor brought me here not out of kindness but simply to fuck with me.

…alright, not me. At least not literally. Over the many tinkling pools and falls I hear Klerkov and his whore, still continuing quite vigorously, splashing away in shallow pool somewhere behind me. But a dark woman with familiar dusky skin and a very, very sated smile is currently kneading my left sole. He's moved on to another, I realize. "Are you seriously fucking all of them?" I ask the vaulted marble ceiling in distaste.

"Do not be ridiculous, moya Petr'enka," Klerkov's voice calls jovially between thrusts. "I am not that young anymore! One at a time is all Victor Ivan Klerkov can handle now!"

I groan in disgust. "Klerkov, has it ever occurred to you that men like you are the reason many girls don't marry?"

"We are also the reason many girls do not starve," he says humbly.

"And what about their babies?" I ask the swirling steam above me drily.

"What about their babies?" He grunts in return as his newest object of affection lets out a wailing moan that goes on and on and on and on, echoing off the stone walls and drowning out even the loudest of the fountains. "Ahhh, yes," He finally sighs. "Now listen closely, moya Petr'enka. That is a sound even a practiced woman cannot fake."

I wrinkle my nose. "Klerkov, you're a pig."

"And you, my Petra, are a prude."

"Just tip them well," I insist hotly.

He chuckles as another of my masseuses disappears into the fog, replaced by his whore, her full lips still panting and parted. "I always do."


When I wake again I'm lying on my stomach, face and breasts smashed against smooth stone. Seven pairs of strong hands hold me down against steaming water that scalds until I scream. Long fingernails rake my flesh from scalp to sole as I beg, plead, scream, kick for them to stop-

It's over. They relent. I clamor shakily up, wiping streaming eyes on the back of my wet, red hands. I try to cover myself, but can't find my robe in all this steam.

"Klerkov?" I cry. "Klerkov?" But only the echoing plunks and tinkles of the fountains greet me. I don't dare raise my eyes to the Avox for answers, out of shame. But as I struggle out of the pool the pain is already lessening, and by the time my fumbling feet find the stone floor it's gone entirely, leaving only a faint tingling in its wake. I feel refreshed, cleansed, even. They approach slowly and rub a light, milky cream against my entire body. I blush as the dusky woman's hands find my breasts, but she only smiles intriguingly.

So it wasn't punishment, then. Just part of their routine. She offers me my robe back, now permeated with the sleepy scent of the sauna. "Th-thank you," I manage to stammer, uncertain. "And I'm sorry about…about him." To my surprise, they erupt into giggles, trading knowing glances and making hand gestures which even I have to assume have something to do with the size of Klerkov's manhood. Which, judging by their tittering and rather satisfied expressions, must be impressive indeed.

"Er, right. Good to know," I continue. "Well, um, bye, then." I hustle out, flaming red, and it has nothing to do with temperature at all.