Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  Apollo had purposely abstained from contemplating Kitty too much, uncertain of his reaction. If his vague plan hoped to work at all, it was going to be a long night. Avoiding the general’s remark, Apollo drew himself up and said, “The past is dead. The corrupt tsarist regime has been smashed and the glory of the Revolution is the future.” Then, snapping a smart salute—catching himself just in time before his spurs clicked together in the tradition of the Guard regiment—Apollo declared, “Colonel Zveguintzev reporting from the Kiev front, sir. Sent by General Bogdan to instruct the pilots with the captured Camels, sir.”

  “Ah, yes.” General Beriozov relaxed, his favorite topic having been broached. And apparently the colonel was merely an acquaintance of the countess—no lover. It never hurt to be suspicious, though. One never knew with those damn aristos and the scandalous ways they had lived their lives. Fortunately the Revolution had changed all that, and finally the proletariat had a chance to revel in some of the decadence. About time, too, the general reflected, casting an appreciative eye over the sumptuous elegance at his disposal. Leaning back, he waved his hand expansively. “Sit down, Colonel. Have you eaten?” At Apollo’s affirmative nod, he snapped his fingers. “Champagne for the colonel! Now then,” Beriozov said, lighting a Cuban cigar, confiscated from the humidor of a Russian noble who had hastily departed the country, “the Camels, eh? You can handle them, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir,” Apollo replied with a broad smile. Raising his eyebrows for leave, he settled into a red plush chair for a long night of drinking. “A little hard to handle, but worth it in maneuverability. And on the turn, the Camel can beat anything in the air.” He seemed at leisure from gilded head to polished boots. “Don’t you think?” he asked comfortably.

  From that point on, all the other guests died of boredom. Flying was a passion of General Beriozov’s. Luckily it was equally so for Apollo. The rest of the guests politely hid their yawns and excused themselves early. Every plane that had been flown in the Great War was discussed: Nieuports, DH-9 bombers, Spads, Fokkers, Camels, Albatrosses, Sopwiths. A glow of triumph and success enveloped the general that night as the liquor warmed his blood, the reminiscing of his early days flying aerial reconnaissance in North Manchuria satisfying in retrospective. The Civil War was now gearing down; the Whites were about to be driven into the sea: the advance was scheduled to begin in a fortnight. A luxurious apartment to live in, good food, bountiful liquor, and a beautiful Russian countess to pleasure him. A smug contentment warmed the general. “What do you think of her, Colonel? The rewards of the victors, eh?” He chuckled.

  Only the three of them were left seated in the drawing room, the general and Kitty side by side on the gold brocade sofa, Apollo lounging in an imitation-bamboo armchair nearby. The general was quite drunk, his tunic partially loosened, his arm flung around Kitty’s shoulder, his leathery fingers idly fondling the pure white flesh of her upper arm.

  Apollo looked away, fury overwhelming him momentarily. He fought the impulse to shoot the general on the spot. “A very pretty reward, I’ll agree,” he said, the timbre of his voice slightly hoarse from his effort at control.

  Kitty lowered her eyes in shame that Apollo should witness her degradation, but she dared not antagonize the general; his temper was unpredictable and savage.

  Just how unwilling a captive was Kitty, Apollo wondered, vicious resentment clouding his mind, his eyes drawn to the blunt fingers carelessly roving. She appeared passive enough. Had he wasted his time and taken unnecessary risks to appear here tonight? Did the lady even wish to be rescued? Apollo recognized Poiret’s touch in Kitty’s gown. Just how accommodating did one have to be for that, or for the rubies around her neck? Nothing seemed to make much sense right now, and the vodka he and the general were consuming further served to undermine any objective detachment he may have possessed.

  Then the general casually slipped down the narrow shoulder strap of Kitty’s evening gown, and her breast sprang out from the confining silk. Beriozov’s dark hand ran slowly over the curving mound of exposed satiny flesh, then cupped its sumptuous heaviness briefly. Moving upward, one finger slid into the blue shadow between her breasts.

  Sweat broke out on Apollo’s brow; an unwanted swelling began to rise inside his trousers, and his hand, pouring more vodka into the general’s glass, shook. Maybe he should kill the bastard here and now. Damn dog dared to touch Kitty’s naked skin, dared to stroke his Kitty’s breast. He noted in passing that Kitty’s breasts were fuller, softly engorged, but there was no time to speculate on this subtle change. Stronger, fiercer emotions very close to sheer primitive sensation were at the forefront of Apollo’s brain.

  The atavistic impulse for possession took over in a blaze. No longer wondering whether the lady was willing or unwilling, Apollo vowed to take her out of here whatever her inclination. He wanted her, dammit, and—having seldom denied himself anything in his young, indulged life—it was now simply a matter of abducting the lady, with or without her consent.

  Any doubt in Apollo’s mind had been wiped away by a primordial impulse stronger than civilization’s niceties. His plan—formed by his temper and helped along by the quantity of liquor he’d consumed—now seemed perfectly clear.

  Apollo glanced at his watch, refilled the general’s glass, and proposed another toast. The bastard would have to pass out eventually, he thought grimly. “To the lady’s, er, obvious charms,” Apollo said suavely, raising his glass and smiling wolfishly.

  Giving the breast he was fondling a squeeze, Beriozov looked squarely at Apollo as if to say, Remember, this is mine; I own it. Then the general laughed aloud and tossed down his vodka. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said in a softly slurred voice, “A fancy lady, eh, Colonel? Care to touch her and see what real aristocratic flesh feels like? Until the Revolution I never touched any. Now we can feel all we want.” He winked heavily, “And do anything else we want.”

  Kitty flushed deep rose in an agony of humiliation at the indignity of her position. Frantically she wondered how much more of this she could take. She longed for nothing more than to say, “Kill him, kill him, Apollo!” but she knew a valet always readied the general for bed, and even if she wanted to, she couldn’t end this charade without calling down every soldier and guard on the floor. Escape would be impossible then.

  Apollo did not know the exact schedule of the general’s life, but he knew that if Beriozov were found by his valet in the morning sleeping off the night’s imbibing—rather than dead—they would have several extra hours before the alarm was raised. So he only smiled politely, pretending to ignore Kitty’s soft breast and the general’s invitation to touch it. Apollo’s nerves were strung out, the vodka firing his blood, but he forced himself with every ounce of will in his body to remain lounging casually in his chair.

  “Come,” the general insisted, motioning somewhat drunkenly with his glass, splashing droplets of liquor over himself and the sofa. “Come. Put your hands on her.” He laughed indulgently. “A little treat for you, Colonel, with my compliments.”

  Apollo didn’t move. “No, thank you,” he replied in a strained, quiet voice.

  The general’s heavy brows met in the center of his forehead. “You prefer boys?” Chortling roughly at his cleverness, he continued with a keen-eyed look. “That’s why so timid?”

  “No, not boys,” Apollo said flatly.

  “If not boys …” The general’s pale gray eyes gleamed, and an instant distrustful anger put high color in his cheeks. Beriogov’s mood switched abruptly from benign good humor to brooding enmity. Five decades of bitterness now surfaced. He searched the fine-boned features of the young colonel opposite him, whose lean face seemed to take on an aristocratic cast. “Don’t you like her?” he asked belligerently. “Isn’t she good enough for you?” he continued with the oversensitive touchiness of the newly arrived. Drawing himself up somewhat unsteadily into a stiffly seated posture, he commanded in a voice like the crack of a whip, “Put your h
ands on her!”

  The general’s mood was dangerous. Apollo sucked in his breath, and his knuckles tightened involuntarily on the painted bamboo of the chair. Then, leaning forward, he reached out slowly. “My apologies, General,” he said with a lazy agreeableness he hoped concealed the effort it took to voice. “The invitation was not unattractive. I was only concerned with encroaching on your property—otherwise I would have responded immediately. The beauty of the countess, sir, is above reproach.” Apollo found himself sweating as he placed his long fingers gingerly on Kitty’s bare shoulders, letting his hands rest lightly on the warm, pale skin.

  The general relaxed instantly, his erratic goodwill immediately restored. Appraising Apollo’s tentatively disposed hands, he laughed. “She won’t break, Colonel.” He gave another guffaw and then cast a significant glance at Kitty. “We know that, don’t we, Countess?” Kitty shivered slightly, memories of the general’s silken whips uncomfortably vivid. Apollo’s eyes jumped to her face at the tiny shudder, but he learned nothing; her downcast lashes effectively shielded any expression. The general, however, had seen her quickly concealed fear, and it only encouraged a further round of chuckles from him. “No, Colonel,” he continued, his face creased into a leering smile, “she don’t break at all.”

  Taking Apollo’s hands, he cupped them directly over Kitty’s breasts. The Red commander was obviously enjoying himself, enjoying the blush of shamed embarrassment on Kitty’s face, and sportive over the colonel’s unease.

  Reaching over, he pulled Kitty’s dress down to her waist in one swift movement and Apollo saw the week-old bruises faded yellow on the white skin. Beriozov paid no attention to the marks of his temper. Repositioning Apollo’s hands, he jovially said, “Now you can really feel. Rub her, Colonel. An aristocratic countess. Like fine silk, isn’t it?”

  Apollo responded with difficulty, for the instant his hands had touched Kitty’s breasts, had cupped themselves over the pliant mounds, her nipples had risen solidly against his palms.

  “Rub them some more, Colonel. Soft and warm, eh?” the drunken voice intoned. The general was gratified by the other man’s appreciation of his prized possession. And Apollo’s traitorous hands obeyed the general’s order, brushing lightly over the tips of Kitty’s nipples again and again. Not soft at all, Apollo thought inadvisedly, the reflection further swelling his already throbbing masculinity. Searching Kitty’s flushed face, he knew he could bend his head and suck on them, and knew she would open for him. With a violent summoning of restraint he forced his mind back to the present situation.

  Looking up, he replied with what he hoped was equanimity, “Very fine, indeed, sir.” But he was struggling with his self-control. Her breasts were so smooth, the points so hard.

  “Kiss her,” the general insisted, delighting in his voyeurism, delighting in the discomfort of both parties. A peal of laughter followed.

  Glancing at Beriozov, Apollo attempted to demur. How much self-discipline did he have? “General Beriozov, sir,” he began, clearing his throat, Kitty’s nipples burning into his palms.

  Paying not the slightest heed to his guest’s wishes, the general pursued his idea. “Kiss her, I say,” he snapped viciously.

  Apollo bent to do his bidding, daring not look into Kitty’s eyes. As their mouths were about to meet, the general curtly declared, “Not on her mouth.”

  Apollo’s head came up sharply. “Good Lord, sir!” he exclaimed.

  At which point, the general laughed uproariously.

  Taking the opportunity to remove his hands from Kitty, Apollo leaned back in his chair.

  In between chuckles, Beriozov gasped cheerfully, “Such … manners … my boy. Was your mama a schoolteacher? No more manners now! Gone, gone. If you could see your face!” He jovially beamed. “So you like my little countess after all.” He struggled upright to refill Apollo’s glass, saying in a thick-tongued rumble, “A toast to the comforts of the Revolution.” He winked heavily before draining his glass.

  Kitty moved slightly to restore the bodice of her dress, tugging gently at the heavy silk. She had lifted the cream moiré to half cover her breasts when the general noticed her actions and roughly brushed her hands aside. “No!” he barked in an unmistakable voice of command. “Leave it down. I like the sight of a bare-breasted woman—and what other use do you have, Countess,” he said with an insulting sneer, “except to entertain us?”

  Kitty prayed the humiliation would end soon. With increasing despair she wondered if she and Apollo really had any chance of escaping, knowing even while the speculation flowed through her mind that any chance at all was worth taking. If she was obliged to remain with the general much longer, she would take his life herself, or die trying. She rallied to hold out a few hours more. Surely Beriozov must pass out soon; he was so terribly drunk already—but then she remembered the times he had lasted until dawn, and those memories forced her deeper into desolation.

  The general, sinking further into inebriation, was in the mood to taunt the young colonel. Zveguintzev seemed so reluctant to touch or even look at the countess that the baiting was amusing. Perhaps he really did like boys after all. It wasn’t so unusual in this part of the world, what with the centuries of Persian, Turkoman, and Ottoman rule. And if it were not a question of preference, then this was a young man with too many scruples. In either case, the general always enjoyed exerting his power and authority.

  In a deceptively amiable voice, but with eyes like flint, Beriozov said, “Get up, Katherine. Go and sit on the colonel’s lap. I want to see if he does like women.”

  There was a crisp silence. The demand was deliberately perverse. It was catastrophic. Kitty froze, her face reddening. Apollo hardly breathed.

  Their reluctance only encouraged the general. In fact, their shocked response to the depravity quite appealed to him.

  Since neither stirred, Beriozov took matters into his own hands. Rising somewhat clumsily from his seat, he dragged Kitty up from the sofa and he pulled her forcefully over to Apollo, pushing her into his lap. “There now,” he pronounced, a proprietary hand on Kitty’s bare shoulder, “we’ll see if the colonel likes boys. Although,” he continued, chuckling roguishly, “the countess, I think, could induce even a eunuch to try.” Weaving back and dropping heavily onto the brocade sofa, the general said blandly, “And what does your manhood suggest now, Colonel, with the countess so close?”

  “My manhood suggests the obvious,” Apollo replied dryly, “but not necessarily with you watching.”

  “Nothing to be squeamish about, my boy. We’re all friends here. Isn’t that right?” Behind the piercing gray eyes was not a hint of friendship, only sadistic amusement and anticipation. “Hold her, Colonel,” Beriozov said comfortably, watching him. “Kiss her. Fondle those big, naked breasts. Come now, we’re all friends.” His voice was heavy with overplayed camaraderie and underplayed authority.

  Reluctantly, Apollo’s hands moved slowly up to Kitty’s shoulders; his touch was light, tentative, restrained.

  “The breasts, the breasts, Colonel. For God’s sake. Radi Boga! Do I have to tell you everything?” Beriozov’s voice was snappish now, the abrupt and mercurial switch typical of his drinking mood.

  Apollo exhaled quietly, his fingers obeying, slipping down over the high fullness of Kitty’s magnificent thrusting breasts, and when his thumb and forefinger, quite by reflex, closed gently over one rosy nipple, the general was pleased to see the reaction he’d been waiting for. Although Apollo’s teeth were clenched, Beriozov heard a strangled moan.

  “Ah … you do like my pretty little pigeon.”

  “She’s very nice,” Apollo managed to say with some semblance of calm. His erection, hard and insistent, ground into Kitty’s soft buttocks.

  “Kiss her, Colonel. I haven’t seen you kiss her yet. I think I’d like that.” Apollo’s gaze slowly locked with the general’s. Beriozov smiled. “Kiss those breasts.” There was a short silence. Not a muscle moved in Apollo’s face. And then
he complied. This was a command performance in every sense of the word.

  Lowering his head, his lips brushed Kitty’s tantalizing nipple. A searing sensation burned through Kitty and she was terrified. Her body was betraying her, as it always did at Apollo’s touch.

  “Come, Colonel, you can do better than that. Make the countess feel more than that. Take one of those hard, pointed nipples in your mouth.”

  Apollo’s mouth closed over one peaked tip and very delicately his tongue, seemingly of its own accord, traced a silky pattern that warmed and aroused.

  No! Kitty thought frantically, I must resist! I can’t let this happen! But heated blood was already racing to her tingling erect nipples, stirring, agonizing, gradually spreading an unwonted arousal through her body. Tears of shame and frustration sprang to her eyes.

  The general chuckled then, reminding them both of where they were. He gave a low, satisfied laugh. “Oh, yes, you’re making real progress, Colonel. I can see the countess is quite taken with you. Such hard nipples, dear Katherine—a tantalizing sight. And you who are usually cold as ice. Do you like an audience? Is that it? I’ll have to keep it in mind. And now, my boy, I think it would be amusing to have you kiss her on the mouth. Such a full, succulent mouth,” he mused almost to himself, and then, jerking back from a drunken reverie, he abruptly snapped—suddenly vicious—“Kiss her!”

  Apollo glanced at the general, then bowed his head faintly, acknowledging the command. Both his hands gripped Kitty’s shoulders and slowly, very slowly, he drew her to him, her eyes closed now, her breathing rapid. Near her lips, his voice was no more than a warm murmur. “When he passes out, we’ll leave.”

  Kitty’s eyes clenched tighter. Fear and tremulous desire paralyzed her. She could do nothing but play out the game and hope desperately they gained their freedom.

  “What was that?” Beriozov grunted.

  “I said the countess has a lovely mouth.”