Part 1
The sexual lessons I’d learned first from Oksana, then from the American guests — Zhanna and Adria — had changed me at the root.
Before that, I’d been a very shy, timid young man. I’d tremble at the thought of talking to girls my own age, especially when I found myself alone in the company of several of them. I’d freeze instantly, couldn’t squeeze out a single word, blushed to the roots of my hair, and dreamed of only one thing — sinking through the floor.
But the last three months had turned my worldview upside down. It was as if I’d shed an old skin and become a different person.
Sometimes I’d lie in bed before sleep and replay them in my head. Not movies. Not pictures. But living, warm fragments.
Oksana. How she’d kneel in front of me on the kitchen floor. How she’d say, “Let’s start with your ass.” How she’d stuff her own panties in her mouth. How she’d taught me everything — patiently, calmly, like a teacher. I remembered her green eyes when she looked up at me. Her voice. Her smell — something sweet, feminine, intoxicating.
Zhanna. How she stood at the mirror while my father took her from behind. How she walked into my room and caught me with Adria. How she said, “You’re a good boy. Like your father was.” How she lay on the bed and spread her legs. How her body — adult, toned, tanned — was better than most of my peers’.
Adria. How she took my cock without a word. How she whispered, “Watching is not enough. Not for me.” How she knelt and looked up at me without looking away. How she swallowed. How she smiled. How she said goodbye: “Maybe you’ll come to America someday.”
These fragments lived inside me. They didn’t leave. They came back — in the silence, in the dark, before sleep. And each time I felt something familiar rising in me. Hunger. Desire. Confidence.
I was no longer that boy who blushed at the sight of a girl. I was someone else. I knew what to do. I knew how.
My old friends had become frankly boring to me. I felt ten years older, more experienced, more sexually sophisticated. They, apart from jerking off secretly to pictures from worn-out magazines or scenes from Western videos, knew nothing and could do nothing. I still jerked off before sleep — that hadn’t gone anywhere — but my fantasies weren’t faceless models anymore. They were living, warm, sweet memories of Oksana, Zhanna, Adria. And I was wildly, achingly drawn to real, actual, living sex.
I started looking at the girls around me differently. Especially my classmates.
There were plenty of pretty girls in our senior year. But three friends — Marina, Galya, and Sveta — stood out especially.
All of us had already turned eighteen. Senior year. The last one. And that summer they seemed to blossom. Completely. To the end. From yesterday’s awkward girls with not-yet-formed figures they’d turned into real young women. Rounded where they needed to round. Stretched out. Filled out. And they seemed to know it themselves. Knew they’d become different. And behaved accordingly.
They’d always been objectively prettier than the rest. But now something else had been added to that beauty. Boldness. Confidence. Adult. With some inner force and even a share of shamelessness that the others didn’t have. They didn’t just walk down the hallways. They occupied them. Like hostesses. Like those who already know their own worth.
This trio seemed to give off pheromones. It smelled of sex. Of experience. Of something forbidden and alluring.
And I, looking at them, felt that familiar thing rising in me. The same thing I’d been burning out of myself for two weeks. Hunger. Desire. Confidence.
I was no longer that boy who blushed at the sight of a girl. I was someone else. I knew what to do. I knew how. And now I looked at them differently. Not from below. Not with timidity. But the way a man looks at a woman. Appraisingly. Calmly. With interest.
And they seemed to feel it.
The sexiest of them, without question, was Marina.
She almost always wore super-short skirts, for which she regularly got in trouble with the school principal, but it didn’t faze her in the least. She’d listen to the lectures with a light, knowing smile, nod, agree — and show up the next day in a new skirt. Shorter than yesterday. The principal gave up. Everyone gave up. Marina knew what she was doing.
Her legs and ass were perfect — slender, shapely — and she demonstrated them skillfully, with pleasure, to everyone around her. Every movement was slightly calculated. Slightly played. Bending down for a dropped pen so the skirt rode up a little higher than it should. Walking past a group of guys a little slower than usual. Sitting so her legs were at the most flattering angle. She didn’t do it boldly. Not provocatively. Naturally. Like breathing. And that drove people even crazier.
Slender, tall, light, she literally floated above the ground, and all my classmates, and older guys too, followed her trim figure with their eyes. She walked — and the hallway went quiet. She smiled — and guys forgot what they were talking about. She laughed — and that laugh stayed in your ears long after she turned the corner.
Light-brown, short-cropped hair revealed an elegant neck. A cheekboned, slightly sharp little face. A neat little nose. Grey-green eyes with a hint of mischief — they were always laughing, even when she was silent. Beautiful, slightly full lips that you just wanted to kiss. And her white-toothed smile could drive anyone crazy.
I always admired her. Every day. Every break. Every time she walked past. I knew how she tilted her head when she listened. Knew how she chewed the cap of her pen when she was thinking. Knew her walk. Her laugh. Her smell — something light, floral, expensive.
Although, to be honest, I liked her friend Galya more.
Galya looked remarkably like the actress Ornella Muti from the Italian comedies — just as touching, pure, with huge eyes. Only she didn’t have the Italian heat. She didn’t have that Muti quality of looking at you from the screen and smiling in a way that makes you forget what the movie is about. Galya was different. Colder. More distant. Like a northern morning. Like something you can’t touch.
She wasn’t provocative like Marina. She was different. Quieter. Deeper. More mysterious.
When she looked at you — it seemed she saw more than you wanted to show. When she was silent — it seemed she understood everything. When she smiled — it seemed the world became better.
She didn’t do anything special. Didn’t wear short skirts. Didn’t bend over so you could see. Didn’t laugh loudly. She just was. And that was enough. More than enough.
Tall, slender, with long straight black hair, eyes black as coals, and a slightly elongated, aristocratic face. She wore long skirts, sweaters, simple things — and still stood out. She didn’t shout. Didn’t draw attention. She just was. And that made you want her even more.
Three years ago I’d even courted her. Carried her bag from school. Waited after classes. Tried to joke. She smiled — politely, softly, but a little aloofly. Back then I didn’t understand. Thought she was shy. Thought she needed time. Turned out it was about me. I was too young. Too inexperienced. Too much of a boy.
She was polite with me. Not rude. Not cruel. Just — polite. The way you’re polite with everyone who doesn’t matter. I was one of many to her. One of those who carried bags and waited after classes. One of those who looked at her and dreamed. And she knew it. Of course she knew.
And then those others appeared. Older. With cars. With money. With experience. And I ceased to exist. Not immediately. Gradually. First she stopped noticing that I was waiting. Then — stopped smiling. Then — just walked past. Like past a wall. Like past something that doesn’t matter.
I didn’t get angry. Didn’t take offense. I just watched her go and learned. Learned that you can’t win everything. That there are doors that close. That there are girls who leave. And that’s normal. That’s life.
But back then, at sixteen, it seemed different. Back then it seemed the world had collapsed. That no one needed me. That I’d never be the one who gets chosen. Back then I didn’t know that in two years everything would change.
That I would change.
That I would become the one who gets chosen. The one they say “yes” to. The one they think about before sleep.
I didn’t know yet. But something in me was already beginning to change. Something was already waking up. Something was already waiting for its hour.
________________________________________
The third friend, Sveta, was hard to call slender. But she wasn’t chubby either.
She was different. More feminine. Plush. With developed curves that involuntarily drew men’s eyes.
Sloping, wide hips. A thin waist. A round, appetizing, firm ass. And very large, heavy breasts that strained the fabric of her blouses and sweaters. Breasts that lived their own life. Jiggled with every step. Strained the buttons. Made guys look — and look away. And look again.
Light-brown hair to her shoulders. A round, pretty little face. Full, as if pumped-up lips. A small nose. Big, grey, slightly naive eyes.
She was the kind of girl you want to hug. Press to yourself. Feel under your palms all that warmth, all that softness. She wasn’t athletic like Marina. Wasn’t refined like Galya. She was warm. Alive. Real. And that made you want her even more.
Sveta didn’t play. Didn’t tease. Didn’t put on airs. She just was. She’d look at you with those grey eyes — and you felt she saw you. Didn’t judge. Didn’t compare. Just saw. And that made it easy to be near her. Calm. Like home.
My classmates and I often, drooling, discussed the charms of this trio.
At breaks. In the smoking area behind the school. After classes. We argued, proved, brought up arguments. Each picked his own. But we could never agree on which of them was prettier. Each had her own thing. Her own breed. Her own something that the others didn’t have.
Marina — bold, unattainable, the one who looks down at you and smiles. Galya — mysterious, quiet, the one who sees right through you and says nothing. Sveta — warm, soft, the one who’s there. The one who’ll hug you. The one who’ll listen.
I didn’t know yet that Sveta was the one I’d think about later. That her softness, her warmth, her naive grey eyes would turn out to be not what they seemed. That under that quiet shell hid something else. Something I didn’t expect. But that would be later. Back then I just looked at her and thought: “Good girl.” And moved on. Like everyone.
I’d once been boyishly in love with Galya. Carried her bag. Waited after classes. Wrote notes I never sent. But several years ago she lost all interest in me. Switched her attention to older guys — from groups where they smoked, drank beer, and listened to rock. Where there were guys with cars. With money. With experience.
I didn’t get angry at her. Didn’t take offense. I just understood — back then, at sixteen — that there are things you can’t win back. That there are doors that close. That there are girls who leave. And that’s normal. That’s life.
But now, looking at them — all three — I felt something different. Not resentment. Not envy. But something new. Confidence. I was no longer that boy she’d left behind. I was different. And maybe now she’d see it.
And maybe now I’d be the one to decide who and when.
________________________________________
A year ago I’d made a timid attempt to hit on Marina.
She seemed the most accessible of the trio. The boldest and most uninhibited. But Marina quickly and mercilessly shot me down. Haughtily hinted that I was too young for her, “way too young,” and that I’d better go practice on the eighth-graders. I wasn’t too upset then, understanding her logic. This trio was constantly surrounded by guys five to seven years older than us. With cars. With money. With experience.
But after the sexual marathon with my father’s woman, I suddenly believed in myself. In my powers. In my masculine appeal. That experience, accidental but so intense, had given me incredible confidence. And I decided to try again. With Marina.
Besides, I had a powerful trump card — my own place.
My father, intending to move in with a new live-in girlfriend, decided to relocate “the little rogue” just in case, to keep trouble at a distance. An eighteen-year-old guy full of testosterone and a young woman he was going to live with — under one roof? He’d evidently reasoned, quite fairly, that this was a so-so idea.
He rented me a small but very cozy studio apartment two hundred meters from the school. My own bachelor pad!
I remember the first time I walked in. Empty room. Fresh wallpaper. The smell of paint and new furniture. A bed. A table. A wardrobe. A tiny kitchen. And a window facing the courtyard — the same window as in my father’s apartment, only now it was my own.
I stood in the middle of that room and couldn’t believe it. Mine. All of this — mine. No one would come in without knocking. No one would ask where I’d been. No one would tell me what to do. I could bring anyone. Anytime. And no one would know.
That’s when I understood that childhood was over. Truly. Not when I turned eighteen. Not when I got my passport. But right now — when I had my own door, my own key, and my own right to answer to no one.
I settled in quickly. Unpacked my things. Hung a shelf. Set up the TV. Brought over the VCR and my father’s entire collection of tapes — he’d allowed it. Action movies. Horror. And, of course, erotica. Everything that interested young people. Everything that was in short supply. Everything that people might now come to me for.
I sat on my bed that first evening and looked at the ceiling. Silence. No sounds from behind the wall. No voices of my father and his women. Just my breathing. And my hand. And emptiness.
I didn’t know yet that this emptiness would fill very soon. That through this door would walk women I could only dream of. That in this very room, on this very bed, something would happen that would change me forever.
I just sat and listened to the silence. And smiled. Because I knew — now everything would be different.
________________________________________
So it was to this little apartment that I invited Marina. Having come up with an innocent pretext — to watch a video. A VCR back then was a rarity. An object of luxury and desire. It cost crazy money, and tapes with movies were a real shortage. Action movies, horror, and, of course, erotica — that’s what interested young people. With my father’s permission, I’d taken to my new apartment both the VCR and his considerable collection of tapes.
Marina raised her eyebrows in surprise when I, gathering my courage, approached her at break and invited her over. She asked playfully, lazily:
“What are we going to watch? I don’t like action or horror. I get nightmares after.”
“I’ve got ’Caligula,’” I offered, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Heard of it? Historical film, with elements... well, there’s a lot of erotica.”
I hadn’t chosen that tape by accident. The film was famous precisely for its explicitness, and I hoped it would work as a trigger.
“Whoa!” Marina’s eyes flashed with genuine interest. “No, haven’t seen it. But I heard the movie’s something else, pretty cool. They say it shows... — she rolled her eyes dreamily. — Okay, I’ll come!”
And she fluttered off like a little bird about her business, leaving me in a state of euphoria.
I watched her go and couldn’t believe this was happening. Marina. The sexiest girl in the class. The most unattainable. The one who’d shot me down a year ago like a little boy. And now she was coming. To me. Home. Alone.
I walked home feeling something familiar rising in me. The same thing I’d been burning out of myself for two weeks after the Americans left. Hunger. Desire. Confidence. I was no longer that boy who blushed at the sight of a girl. I was different. I knew what to do. I knew how.
________________________________________
Marina arrived in the evening, right on time, as agreed.
I’d been waiting for her since five. From the moment I got home from school. Tidied the apartment. Wiped the dust. Checked that the VCR worked. Put a bottle of Soviet champagne in the fridge — bought with money saved from groceries my father gave me. Took out two glasses. Put them on the table. And started waiting.
Waited like never in my life. Paced from corner to corner. Looked at the clock. Paced again. Looked again. I was shaking. From desire. From fear. From anticipation.
When the doorbell rang, I jumped. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. I walked to the door. Took a breath. And opened it.
She was wearing her usual super-short skirt that barely covered her buttocks, and a tight sweater emphasizing her small but neat breasts.
I froze for a second. She stood on the threshold, lit by the light from the stairwell, smiling her white-toothed smile. I felt everything in me clench. From desire. From fear. From anticipation.
She wasn’t just beautiful. She was different. Confident. Calm. As if she already knew how this evening would end. As if everything was decided. And from that look — direct, slightly mocking — I felt uneasy. And at the same time — hot.
“Well, show me your den,” she said, walking past me into the apartment.
She passed so close that I caught her scent. Perfume. And something else. Something warm. Feminine. Something that had stayed on her skin after a shower. Something I couldn’t name. But that instantly hit my head. And lower.
I closed the door and followed her. Watched her back. How her hips moved. How the short skirt revealed something at each step that shouldn’t be seen. Or should it? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything in that moment. I just followed her. Like hypnotized.
She stopped in the middle of the room and slowly, appraisingly, looked around.
“Cozy,” she said. “Bachelor pad. Couch. TV. VCR. All as it should be.”
She turned to me.
“Are we opening the champagne? Or getting straight to business?”
I didn’t immediately understand what she meant. Actually — I understood. But didn’t believe it. She looked at me with a light, knowing smile. And waited for an answer.
“Champagne,” I exhaled. “To start.”
She laughed. Short. Easy. As if I’d said something funny.
“Well, to start — so to start.”
And she walked to the couch. Sat down. Crossed her legs. And started watching me open the bottle. I felt her gaze on my back. Felt my hands shaking. Felt the champagne bubbles hissing in the glasses. Felt everything in me clenching and at the same time stretching like a string.
I handed her a glass. She took it. Our fingers touched for a second. And that was enough for me to understand: something was going to happen tonight. Something I’d been waiting for. Something I’d been afraid of. Something that would change everything.
We settled in front of the TV on my new couch. I put the tape in the VCR. Pressed the button. The screen came to life.
“Caligula.” I knew this film by heart. Knew every frame. Every scene. The story of the mad emperor who declared himself a god, slept with his own sister, turned the palace into a brothel, and was eventually killed by his own guard. I knew how it was all filmed. Knew where the explicit scenes began. Knew where the naked bodies of Roman patricians copulated right during feasts. Knew the orgies. Knew the lesbian scenes. Knew everything.
I’d watched it many times. And not just watched. But, lying in bed, jerked off. Imagining myself in the place of the depraved heroes. In Caligula’s place. In the place of those who took everything they wanted.
But now I barely looked at the screen.
I furtively, but probably very eloquently, admired my classmate. Especially her bare, slender legs in sheer, flesh-colored pantyhose. These legs were better than anything shown in the film. Better than the naked actresses. Better than the orgies. Better than everything.
I looked at them and thought: “God. She’s sitting next to me. On my couch. In my apartment. And I can look at her as much as I want.”
The screen flickered. Roman bodies moved. Something was happening. Caligula slept with someone. Then with someone else. Then with several at once. There were naked women on the screen. Beautiful. But I didn’t see them.
I only saw Marina. Her legs. Her skirt, which had ridden up a little higher than it should. Her sweater, which stretched across her breasts. Her lips, which touched the glass. Her eyes, which watched the screen.
I let Marina watch to the end.
By the final credits, whether from the champagne or from the abundance of explicit scenes, the girl’s eyes were glowing with arousal. Her pupils were dilated. Her breathing quickened. She was looking at the screen, but she was already seeing something else. Something of her own. Something behind those frames. I knew that expression. I’d seen it before. With Oksana. With Zhanna. With Adria. It was that thing. The thing that happens before. The thing that says: “I’m ready.”
As for me, from what was happening on the screen and from the proximity of such a sexy girl, I was simply shaking. Shivering all over. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. My palms were sweaty. My groin pulsed. I felt my cock straining against my jeans. How the fabric pressed. How every movement of the girl sitting next to me echoed somewhere below. I was afraid to move. Afraid to breathe too loudly. Afraid she’d hear my heart pounding.
Surprised by my own sudden boldness, I slowly, as if in a dream, placed my trembling palm on her warm thigh and began timidly but persistently stroking it. My fingers trembled. I felt her skin under them. Warm. Smooth. Through the thin fabric of her pantyhose. I waited for her to push me away. To stand up. To say something harsh. I was ready for it. I almost wanted it. Because then it would all be over. And I’d stop being afraid.
But she didn’t push me away.
Marina looked at me in surprise, but without a trace of anger. In her gaze there was more curiosity than indignation. As if she’d seen something she hadn’t expected. As if I’d turned out to be not what she thought. Not that boy. Not the one who blushes. Not the one who’s afraid. But someone else. And she seemed to like it.
“Wanna fuck?” she asked calmly, matter-of-factly, as if offering a cup of tea.
I almost choked with surprise. Just like that? No preamble, no languid sighs? No “maybe we...” and “I don’t know...“? I myself hadn’t grown to that level of boldness yet. I didn’t know how to do that yet. Didn’t know how to speak directly. Didn’t know how to offer. Didn’t know how to take. I was still learning. But I learned fast.
“Yeah!” I exhaled, as calmly as I could, trying not to show my agitation.
My voice betrayed me and cracked. She noticed. I saw it. By how she smiled slightly. By how her eyes flashed. By how she slowly put the glass on the table. How she turned to me. How she looked. Directly. Point-blank. Without games. Without coquetry. Just looked. And waited.
I understood: now. Not later. Not someday. Not “maybe.” Now. Here. And I wasn’t ready. But it was too late. The door had opened. There was no going back.
