Hard sex. Rear entrance

The first attempted to take her but failed at first, encountering her resistance like an invisible wall. His failure gave her a strange confidence, and she smirked inwardly, bitter and cynical: “I believe in you, come on, cowboy, try again.” She even assisted, her movements mechanical yet precise, like someone accustomed to controlling everything, even chaos. He entered her like a storm through a narrow strait, and her body tensed, not from passion but from cold calculation.

“And what are you standing there for, second?” she snapped, her voice sharp as a whip.

He approached awkwardly, shuffling his feet, taking too long to figure out how to position himself, his uncertainty almost comical if not for the darkness of the situation.

“Are you crazy or something? Take my mouth.”

Such words, apparently, he had never heard spoken aloud, and for a moment, his resolve wavered, but Tanya, not waiting for him to muster courage, reached for him, her movements sharp, almost aggressive. She pulled him closer, her lips and hands moving with a hunger devoid of feeling, like a machine programmed for action. Her breathing was heavy, not from desire but from inner tension, like a cornered beast. She brought him to his peak, her actions precise as a surgeon’s but cold as ice, and when he released with a loud groan, she merely pushed him away, her voice cutting like a blade.

“Go, rest.”

At that moment, she began moving on the first with such force that he nearly stumbled backward, barely holding himself up with widely braced legs, his body trembling from the strain. She felt his rhythm quicken, clenching around him like a vise, trying to wring out everything, to feel something, even an illusion of control. But inside was still that same emptiness, an abyss swallowing everything, leaving nothing behind.

Straightening up, she leisurely pulled out a tissue, wiping herself with cold methodical precision—first in front, then behind—and handed it to the second, who sat on a nearby bench, staring at the stars as if trying to comprehend what had just happened. Then she walked away, her steps firm, though inside, everything was collapsing.

She realized Eduard had been right. This wasn’t a path to salvation. It was another act of self-destruction, another step into the abyss she was falling deeper into. And she had just confirmed it, feeling her soul—or what remained of it—crack further.

The urge to return to Eduard for another session struck her the moment she stepped onto the lit street outside the park, where the lanterns seemed the only light in her darkness. Her heart, cold and heavy as stone, still beat, and she knew she had to try again, even if it was the last attempt before surrendering completely.

Chapter 8. The Wrong Patient

Tanya despised this place with every fiber of her being. She loathed the scent of lavender that wrapped around her softly, yet irritated her like a counterfeit kindness, a mockery of care. She hated the cozy cushions scattered across the couch, as if their plush softness could somehow cushion the raw, jagged edges of her inner pain. Most of all, she detested Eduard’s calm gaze, which seemed to strip her bare—not of clothes, but of the fragile armor around her soul, exposing every crack, every hollow void within her. She sat in the waiting room, flipping through a glossy magazine, her eyes blind to the words and images, her fingers mechanically turning pages while her mind swirled in a dark, inescapable whirlpool of despair. The door opened, and her heart, taut as a violin string, trembled.

Alex walked in, accompanied by someone else—a young, lanky boy with a distant gaze, his eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond reality.

“Hello, we have an appointment with Eduard Viktorovich at five. Alex and Semyon,” Alex’s voice was steady, yet warm, like a ray of sunlight piercing through storm clouds.

Tanya couldn’t tear her eyes away. She watched as he helped his brother shrug off his jacket, his movements gentle, almost tender, as he murmured, “Sema, sit here, okay?” The boy obeyed, sinking onto the couch, resuming a quiet hum, a melody that seemed to be his sanctuary from the world. Alex sat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder—a gesture so natural, so full of quiet, brotherly care, that something inside Tanya lurched, like ice cracking beneath her feet. She couldn’t decipher it—was it irritation, envy, or something deeper, something she hadn’t felt in so long it was almost foreign?

She expected him to speak to her, to throw a barbed remark, sharp as a thorn, to prick at her pride. To ask what she was doing here, with that familiar smirk in his voice. To attempt to rekindle their old, dirty, soulless connection, where passion was nothing but a mask for emptiness. But he didn’t look at her. His entire focus was on his brother. He whispered something in Semyon’s ear, and for a fleeting moment, the boy smiled, his face lighting up like a pale glow in a dark room. That simple, human moment cut through Tanya sharper than any words could.

A venomous irritation, sharp and toxic, rose within her like a hissing serpent from the depths. Who was he to ignore her? This former cameraman, one of many who had lain in her bed, a mere pawn in her games of power and control? He should have been groveling for her attention, chasing her gaze, desperate to reclaim what once was, when she was the queen and he, just another subject. Yet there he sat, with his fragile brother, looking… whole. Grounded. As if his world hadn’t shattered in an instant, as if he hadn’t been crushed by her icy betrayal. It was unbearable.

The door to the office opened, and Eduard emerged, his figure in the doorway like a lighthouse in a storm, though to Tanya, he was just another test to endure.

“Semyon, come in, please. Alex, will you wait here?”

Alex stood, guiding his brother into the office, his movements confident yet soft, as if carrying something delicate. When the door closed, he finally turned to Tanya. His gaze met hers directly, calmly—a mirror in which she saw herself not as a queen, not as a seductress, but as a broken, lost woman.

“Hey, Tanya,” his voice was even, devoid of mockery or malice.

“Hey,” her reply came out hoarse, as if the words were stuck in her throat. She braced herself for a jab, a reproach, anything that would give her an excuse to lash back with venom.