The Newbie
The moment the heavy iron door clangs shut behind her, the atmosphere in the cell shifts instantly. It is the autumn of 1989. Times are brutal, and within the walls of a Soviet prison, their own savage laws apply.
The cell is dark, reeking of dampness, cheap tobacco smoke, and bleach. Two-tier iron bunks line the walls. Several men sit upon them. At the appearance of a new inmate, conversations abruptly die down. Every gaze locks onto her.
Yanita's fragile silhouette in a simple dark dress, her long chestnut hair, and the frightened look in her huge brown eyes cause shock and bewilderment among the locals. Standing before them was a real, defenseless young girl who had somehow, by some miracle, ended up in the men's block. Nineteen years old, her frail body weighs barely 46 kilograms.
A cute, freckled face, narrow shoulders, slender wrists, a prominent waist, and narrow hips. Yet her firm, protruding buttocks curve roundly beneath the thin fabric, emphasized even more by the tight knit dress, exposing the absolute vulnerability of her passive nature.
A stocky, older man with heavily tattooed arms slowly rises from a lower bunk. He narrows his eyes, sizing the girl up from head to toe, and takes a step forward.
"What kind of miracle did they send us here?" he rasps, his voice low. "Who the hell are you anyway, girl? Got the wrong address or what?"
A faint chuckle echoes from the far bunks. Everyone waits for Yanita's reaction. She stands on the threshold, keeping her eyes downcast.
The tattooed man watches her every move. When Yanita timidly pulls her dress lower, his gaze lingers on her legs for a second, then shifts to the bright polish on her toenails. The cell falls completely silent. Her trembling, pure, and gentle voice sounds strange and alien here.
"Yanita, oh, Yan,..." she chirps, barely audible.
"Yanita, then..." the man draws out, smirking. "Well, hello, Yanita."
One of the younger inmates sitting on the top bunk hangs his head down and blows out a heavy cloud of unfiltered cigarette smoke.
"Uncle Sedoy, what difference does it make?" he chimes in, addressing the tattooed man. "The main thing is, she looks like a picture. A wonder like this is a rarity in our parts."
Sedoy takes another step toward Yanita, stopping a couple of meters away. He shows no overt aggression, but a calculated, hard interest burns in his eyes. He understands who is in front of him, but the girl's fragility and flawless appearance force him to act cautiously, according to the rules of the local hierarchy.
"Alright, Yanuska," the Boss says, his tone calmer now but commanding. "Don't just stand at the threshold blocking the way. Move over to that corner for now, look around. Put your things there, if you have any. You'll take your exam on local life a bit later."
He nods toward an empty spot on the lower bunk near the entrance, but away from the main walkway.
Her light, weightless steps sound exceptionally distinct in the silence of the cell. Yanita obediently walks to the designated spot. Every movement of her narrow hips beneath the tight dark dress draws every single gaze. The men silently follow her with their eyes. Someone smirks; someone shakes his head in surprise.
She sits on the edge of the lower bunk. Due to her petite height and frail build, Yanita seems completely defenseless here. Her long, wavy chestnut hair cascades softly over her shoulders, creating a stark contrast with the grey, filthy setting of the Soviet prison.
Sedoy returns to his place. He sits opposite her, takes a cigarette, and draws heavily, closely studying her refined face.
"Well, Yanuska," Sedoy breaks the silence, releasing a cloud of thick smoke. "You're doing two years here. It's a short sentence, but for a fancy thing like you, it might feel like an eternity. Let's clear things up right away: what sins did they lock you up for? And how did you live on the outside?"
The entire cell freezes, waiting for her answer. Her place in the local prison hierarchy depends on her words right now. Intuition tells Yanita that hiding her essence is useless, but softness and submission can become her primary weapons.
"Sedoy, with all due respect... I used to draw, I danced... It's a mistake that I'm here..."
Her soft, gentle voice sounds like music in this grim cell. Yanita timidly removes her shoes. Her miniature feet, neatly hide under the hem of her dress. Sedoy watches her graceful movements closely and blows another stream of smoke.
"Well, we're all here by mistake, Yanuska," Sedoy chuckles, shaking his head.
A characteristic, intimidating, collective convicts' laughter erupts.
"But alright, never mind the mistake," Sedoy continues. "We have no use for your dancing here, but the fact that you're quiet and understanding is good."
From above, straight from the top bunk, a lazy, drawn-out chuckle drifts down. One of the inmates, dangling his arm and casually snapping his fingers, drawls through his teeth:
"Sedoy, seriously, what difference does it make what she was locked up for? Look at her—a pure doll. Even her toes are well-groomed, like an artist's."
Sedoy snaps at him sharply, forcing him to shut up, and shifts his gaze back to Yanita's refined face.
"Alright, artist," Sedoy says more softly now, appraising her submission. "I see you've got a quiet temper. In prison, that helps you survive. Physically you're weak, you won't be able to work yourself to exhaustion. You'll have to find a protector so others don't cross you. Wolves live here, Yanuska. You understand, you'll perish alone."
He sets a heavy metal mug onto the iron edge of the bunk with a dull thud and pauses, waiting for her reaction.
"Don't know what to say, huh..." Sedoy smirks, noticing how Yanita blinks fearfully under her thick lashes. "It's fine, you'll learn everything fast here. Main thing is—keep yourself quiet, just like now."
Time crawls slowly in the cell. Closer to evening, the atmosphere eases up a bit. Several men sit in a circle in the center of the cell. A favorite prison pastime begins—a game of cards. The cards are old and greasy, but the air around them instantly grows tense and competitive.
One of the guys who had been eyeing her feet earlier turns to Yanita and winks:
"Hey, Yanuska! Why are you squeezed into that corner like a mouse? Come on, join us, sit nearby for good luck!"
Yanita timidly rises from her spot. Her tight dark dress stretches slightly, drawing attention once again. She approaches the players, but there are absolutely no free seats around the table—all the benches and edges of the bunks are tightly packed with men.
Sedoy, who is also sitting in the circle holding cards, casts an appraising look at her. He shifts slightly, freeing up some space on his lap, and slaps it with his palm.
"No room left, doll," he rasps with a smirk. "The benches are all taken. Come on, settle in right here if you want to watch the game. I'll keep you covered from foreign eyes, too."
The entire cell falls silent with interest, watching how the fragile 19-year-old Yanita will accept the offer.
While she hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, another man speaks up from behind the table—Marat. A young man with a face yet unmarked by prison life, plump, with a clear gaze. Noticing her hesitation, he smiles broadly and pats his knee, offering a choice.
"If you want something softer," Marat says calmly.
Yanita shifts her gaze from the grim Sedoy to the smiling Marat. Realizing she needs to make a choice quickly, she decides to go with Marat. She approaches him with her light, weightless steps. Her dress rustles slightly as she neatly and shyly sits on his lap.
Yanita tries to sit as lightly as possible, freezing entirely to appear completely weightless.
Marat hums contentedly and immediately wraps his arm around her slender waist. Sedoy only narrows his eyes in dissatisfaction and shakes his head, but doesn't argue—the game is more important.
At that moment, a thick, pungent, and incredibly strong aroma spreads through the cell. One of the inmates takes a mug off a homemade immersion heater.
"Alright, men, chifir first, for the spirit!" he announces.
The hot mug with the dark, almost black liquid is passed around the circle. Each takes two small sips. Marat takes the mug, drinks his share, and then brings it to Yanita's pinkish lips.
"Here, Yanuska, sip our prison nectar," he says with a smirk while the other players deal the cards. "Take a gulp, warm up, and then we'll take you into the game. Let's see how lucky you are."
Marat drinks his sips, but they didn't bring the shared mug to her gentle lips. One of the inmates by the stove smirks knowingly. He pours the strong black drink into a separate, old mug and hands it to the girl.
In the prison world of 1989, the rules are cruel. People don't drink from the same vessel with those who hold a special low status. Her separate mug is the first clear sign that the rules of hierarchy have begun working around her at full power.
Yanita sits on Marat's lap, feeling his heavy, plump thigh beneath her and his hand on her slender waist. The hot metal burns her fingers. The dense, bitter smell of chifir hits her nose. The eyes of all the men lock onto her again. They want to see if she can force herself to swallow this harsh, masculine drink.
At that moment, Sedoy begins deftly dealing the cards around the circle. A couple of cards land in front of Marat, followed by a few more flying right next to her mug.
"Come on, Yanuska," Marat encourages, pressing her slightly closer to himself. "Take a sip from your cup and open your cards. Let's see what kind of hand you have."
Yanita takes the heavy, burning hot mug. The whole cell holds its breath. The men watch greedily as the fragile creature brings this stinging, black prison liquid to her pinkish lips.
She takes a confident gulp. The bitter, astringent taste of chifir instantly sears her taste buds. Yanita's refined face puckers comically, her eyes widen in surprise, and she blinks fearfully. But within a couple of seconds, a massive dose of caffeine hits her head.
A sharp, unfamiliar warmth spreads through her body. Yanita's mind swims pleasantly. Fear and the prison greyness recede into the background, giving way to a sudden surge of strong, intoxicating euphoria.
A coquettish, happy, wide smile blooms on her flawless face. Her eyes sparkle, and her cheeks flush slightly. Sitting on plump Marat's lap, she begins to feel much bolder. Tossing her thick waves of chestnut hair, Yanita playfully squirms on his thigh.
"Oh, Maratik..." her high, pure, childishly gentle voice rings out across the quiet cell. She shyly covers her mouth with her hand, flashing her long nails, and lets out: "You promised that sitting on you would be soft... But I already feel something very hard underneath me!"
A dead silence hangs over the cell for a second. The inmates look at each other, processing what they just heard from the seemingly innocent doll. And then, the house literally explodes into a wild, roaring laughter.
The young guys on the top bunks double over with laughter, slapping the iron frames. Even the grim Sedoy can't resist—his harsh face breaks into a wide smirk, he nods his bare shoulder approvingly, and exhales smoke heavily.
Marat himself blushes deeply at such a cheeky and accurate joke, but grins contentedly. His grip on Yanita's slender waist grows even tighter and more possessively firm. He is clearly flattered by such attention and the boldness of his new protégé.
"What an artist! Look at her go!" someone yells admiringly through the laughter from a corner. "Turned the guy on in a split second!"
As the first wave of laughter subsides, Sedoy taps the cards against the table, bringing everyone back to reality.
"Alright, jokes aside, the game is on," he says, staring intently at Yanita through a squint. "Come on, Yanuska, since you're so bold and tipsy, open your cards. Marat paid your share, show us what you're playing with."
Yanita, still slightly lightheaded from the strong chifir and her own sudden confidence, takes her cards from the table. Her fingers neatly fan out the deck of greasy cards. Marat breathes heavily behind her back, pressing the girl even closer to his chest.
The hard, swelling masculine tension beneath her is now felt too clearly, but Yanita only coyly shrugs her shoulder, giving no sign.
Sedoy looks at her with narrowed eyes and smirks:
"Well, artist, care for a hand? So you understand the rules and flex those pretty hands of yours."
"For what?" Yanita asks timidly in her gentle, pure voice, tilting her head slightly. Chestnut locks fall softly onto Marat's shoulder.
"We don't play 'for nothing' here, Yanuska, in our parts we always play for an interest," Sedoy squints slyly. "But for you, so be it, we'll make an exception. We'll play 'just like that', for nothing. Agreed?"
"I agree," she whispers softly.
The cards in Yanita's hands turn out to be surprisingly good—she dealt a high suit and a couple of trumps. But a prison game isn't just about cards; it's a test of character. All the men at the table watch the flutter of her lashes closely, trying to guess her hand. Marat peeks over her shoulder.
His hot breath tickles Yanita's delicate neck, and a satisfied smile appears on his plump face. He clearly intends to advise his fragile companion on how to make her first move.
Yanita tries her best, but the prison wolves play far too craftily. Marat hot-whispers advice into her ear and lazily strokes her waist right during the round. Yanita trustingly nods and throws her cards onto the table.
But Sedoy proves to be much smarter. He deftly covers her trumps with his high cards. With a cunning smile, he lays down the final winning combination.
"Well, that's all, doll," Sedoy slaps the table contentedly and gathers the greasy cards. "You gathered a full house, but of the wrong suits. You lost, Yanichka."
An approving murmur ripples through the cell. Marat laughs good-naturedly and squeezes her fragile shoulders tighter:
"Never mind, little one, the first try is always a flop. Main thing is—you sat beautifully."
Yanita shyly casts down her huge brown eyes. She hides her fingers in the folds of her dark dress. Even though the round was "just like that", in the prison world of 1989, any card loss always had to be paid for.
Sedoy stares at her intently through a squint, an unmistakable, predatory interest burning in his eyes toward the defenseless 19-year-old beauty.
Sedoy slowly gathers the cards into a neat stack and taps them against the wooden table. The noisy laughter in the cell dies down instantly. The men watch with sly, predatory smiles. Yanita feels Marat's hand on her waist tighten slightly.
"Well, Yanuska," Sedoy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His harsh face comes dangerously close. "It's time to find out what a game 'just like that' means in our parts."
She whispers fearfully, her long dark lashes trembling.
"In our place, girl, there is no such thing as 'just like that,'" Sedoy continues in his raspy, squinting voice. "It means you bet and lost yourself. There was a deal? There was. Did you agree? You did. Now you've lost yourself completely, doll. You'll be our shared favorite and a blanket for these two years. You'll look after us, do the laundry, massage our shoulders, and do whatever the elders tell you."
Behind her back, Marat laughs quietly, contentedly. He buries his nose in her thick chestnut hair, inhaling its scent.
"Don't be afraid, little one," Marat whispers into her ear, his plump cheek brushing against her neck. "Sedoy is fair with us. No one's going to hurt you too badly. But a debt is a debt. You lost, so you have to work it off."
Approving chuckles ripple through the cell. Sedoy strikes the table weightily, cutting off the laughter, and nods toward the far corner of the cell, where one of the lower bunks is tightly curtained off by an old, grey piece of fabric.
"Alright, enough talking," the Boss commands authoritatively. "March behind the curtain, Yanuska. Settle down on my bunk for now and wait. You'll be breaking in a new place. And give us a crow when you're ready."
Yanita obediently rises from Marat's plump lap. Her light, weightless steps sound almost inaudible in the silence of the cell. Every movement beneath the tight knit dress draws absolutely every gaze. The guys on the top bunks, holding their breath, watch her retreat.
She realizes that the trap has sprung. Her naivety has played a cruel joke on her. Yanita obediently walks to the corner, timidly pulls aside the edge of the greasy fabric, and disappears into the gloom of the curtained-off space.
Once alone, she first thing resolutely yanks the hem of her dark knit dress all the way up to her waist. At that moment, her entire hidden anatomical essence is exposed all too clearly: hanging fearfully below is a tiny speck of masculinity—a thin, short little pipe, contrasting absurdly and touchingly with her voluptuous hips and buttocks.
With trembling hands, she quickly pulls a hidden jar of petroleum jelly from her bundle of personal belongings. Squeezing out a generous amount of the clear mass, Yanita thoroughly prepares herself for the inevitable, careful to ease the upcoming ordeal and protect her frail body.
Hiding the jar back away, she lies down on her stomach, burying her face in the cool fabric of the prison blanket. Displaying ultimate submission, Yanita reaches back with her hands and further parts her firm buttocks, opening herself completely.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo..." her gentle, pure voice drifts out from behind the curtain, barely audible, timid, and soft, signaling her complete readiness to submit.
A heavy, mocking burst of masculine laughter instantly drowns out her words. The convicts on their bunks grin maliciously, celebrating the final submission of the newbie.
