Page 116 of Ashen Torment

A low moan rises from a small sofa hidden behind a green velvet screen. A naked leg rests on the armrest, head thrown back. A man kneeling between her thighs, unhurried, unashamed.

No one hides here.

No one.

I stop beside a column, hands resting on the cold marble. A woman appears from the side. Her black hair is gathered in a disheveled way, strands falling along her neck; her dark eyes could be blue, but the red, flickering light makes it hard to tell. Her pale skin shines faintly under the low chandeliers.

I begin to notice something that surprises me.

Similarities with that malchik. Differences too.

“Are you looking for company?”

“Do you wish to offer me company?”

She laughs. A short sound, without joy or lightness.

“What is your name?”

“Clara,” she replies, and the more I look at her, the more the similarities become evident. And the differences, just as sharp.

Irritated, I offer her my hand. She hesitates just a second, then takes it. Together we lift the thick velvet curtain and enter the space behind, a secluded corner among the alcoves. The curtain closes behind us with a rustle; the darkness is broken only by a red light, drawing irregular shadows on the walls. My own scent mixes with hers, and something in me contracts.

I don’t like it.

My fingers slide over her chin, she looks up. Those eyes... too blue. Too similar to the ones I carry inside me.

I do not want to look at them.

I take her by the hips and turn her back against the cold wall. I run my hands along her thighs, and with a swift motion, I hitch up the burgundy skirt, nothing separates her from the contact.

My fingers brush her lips, she catches them, grazing them with the tip of her tongue, a stifled moan escapes her. My fingers leave her mouth, run down her body, and enter her. The heat envelops my fingertips. I feel my cock harden, but everything is tasteless.

I bend her over the sofa, the velvet sliding against the flesh of her thighs, her face settling into the cushions. I undo my buttons with a decisive gesture and take her from behind with a sharp thrust.

Another moan leaves her lips. I sink in repeatedly, with a slow measure at first, then more energetic, more impetuous. She claws at the edges of the sofa. My hands grip her hips.

The more I push inside, the more dissatisfaction assaults me. But as the rhythm builds, something shifts.

Her skin under my hands becomes colder, paler.

The curves change beneath my grip, her backside lifts in a harmonious arch, but it is no longer feminine.

It’s narrower, firmer.

The legs lengthen, muscular, the hips thin, the shoulders broaden. The moans change their timbre: lower, more contained.

I freeze for an instant, my breath breaking. I feel cold sweat trickling down my back. I look down.

It is no longer that woman.

The body beneath me is male, diaphanous. Dark with shadows, hollowed in the right places. The protruding vertebrae, the line of the shoulder blades, the exposed neck. The white flesh.

Ideal’nyy. Perfect.

My hands move, fumbling over that skin before me. I lean over him, biting his neck. My fingers slide over his flat, hard chest, between his thighs. My grip turns ferocious. My hips slams against his.

Again.