Russia 1

In the Western world, Demitri would have been a freshman in high school, probably dressed in the tee shirt of his favorite band. As it was, he was standing in the antechamber of a small farm in a village a few hundred kilometers from Moscow. Demitri’s father, almost in tears, was talking to the man at the desk. His father had just lost his job. The man behind the desk was tall and dark hair; his hair was buzzed short and his wide shoulders and muscular frame made him look like a military man. The military man then stood up and opened the door behind his desk motioning Demitri’s father through. “Demitri, come on,” his father called.

The room was narrow with a shelf along one wall and no windows, as if it had once been a large closet. “Demitri,” the military man said, “please get up on the bench,” indicating the shelf running along the wall. The fifteen-year-old complied, his thin legs covered only by tattered rags swung back and forth nervously. “Open up.” The military man looked into the boy’s mouth; the boy’s breath stank of cabbage and morning breath and his gums were inflamed. “Please undress.”

Demitri blushed, looked to his nodding father, and resigned to peeling his fifthly shirt off his back. He slid his tattered pants off, revealing his lack of underwear leaving him nude except for his boots. His defined yet thin chest, narrow waist and light brown fuzz on his legs were appealing as was his uncut cock in its own next of hair, the head of which was just starting to poke out from its foreskin as it slightly engorged with blood. The boy blushed as the military man scrutinized his naked body. “50,000 rubles.” (which is about $1600 U.S.). Demitri’s father gazed at his disgraced son, his eyes fixed on his son’s hardening penis. With tears in his eyes, he nodded. The military man led him out, leaving Demitri alone. The boy just discovering he had been sold.

After several minutes alone in the white closet, the military man came back. “I am Sergei. Come with me.” Sergei led Demitri through the farmhouse to a small bathroom on the second floor. The walls even in the bathroom were decorated with wallpaper and glass vases on a shelf by the door. Demitri stood amazed at the wealth in the room. Sergei watched amusedly as the naked boy turned in circles gazing at the red wallpaper; Sergei drew a bath and left the boy alone while the tub was filling, a fresh towel by the foot of the bathtub.

Demitri tested the hot water and slid into the steaming bath as it continued to fill, the flowing water disturbing the short hairs on the inside of his legs. Despite the realization that he was now a slave, he had never been accustomed to such luxuries in Moscow. The Soviet Union self-destructed when he was four while his father worked as a bureaucrat in the Railways Ministry. He had survived the layoffs for ten years, despite the government failing intermittently to issue paychecks, until just six months before when he had been sacked without any pension. The family slid into immediate debt; despite his father’s best efforts to secure another job, he had no skills anyone wanted. Soviet bureaucrats were not in short supply and were not particularly well skilled.

He shut off the water flowing into the tub and leaned back against the smooth porcelain. A group of sweet smelling soaps filled a bowl to the side of the tub. “Are these for me to use? Should I use them or will I be beaten?” he asked himself just as the door opened.

A tall man, perhaps in his early thirties stepped into the room. He wore a tweed jacket and a blue tie. He had a kind smile under his slightly thinning hair. “You must be Demitri. I am Professor George Townsend. I’m an American professor teaching and doing research here in Russia. Your father agreed to allow me to borrow you for research until your 18th birthday. Do you understand?”

Demitri just nodded at the kind man.

“Good. I hope you are getting comfortable. Please take as long as you need in the bath. There is a clean towel, different scented soaps, and some shampoo. When you are ready, just knock and Sergei will show you to your room.” The professor strode from the room. When the door closed, Demitri realized he had been naked the whole time. The American with a strange accent made him feel completely at home. Demitri began to scour his skin with the strawberry soap.

* * *

Demitri followed Sergei outside the farmhouse warm in his new clothes that fit him perfectly—new boots, a thick wool coat and comfortable pants and shirt, the J Crew label meaning nothing to the boy whose parents were so poor they needed to sell him into slavery. Sergei opened the door to the animal barn. Inside, was not the dank interior of Russian animal stalls, but a freshly painted and modern living area. A central corridor led into many rooms, each made of thick, white metal with a small window. Gazing in one, Demitri saw a boy about his age lying on his bed, reading a book. Sergei opened the door to one room, indicating Demitri should enter.

The room was white as was the furniture—a bed and comforter, a small desk, and a bureau. Demitri heard the door close, but felt comfortable. Unlike at home, he would not need to fight for his next meal. The boy stripped down and slipped under the covers of his new bad. His wavy brown hair splashed over the pillow as his young body dozed off.

* * *

George Townsend was American, but he was no professor. Sure, he had a bachelor’s degree in Russian Literature. And instead of working at a Russian university, he had inherited a small estate, which he liquidated and moved to Russia to live the rest of his days without working. The farm he had purchased was in a small village a few hours outside of Moscow, which while extremely cold, gave him plenty of opportunity to explore the many gay bars of the Russian capital, and offered an opportunity to explore his sexual excursions in relative exclusion.

In his first year on the farm, he had the main house converted into something he could live in. Every appliance was replaced and luxury items such as a sauna and granite countertops were installed. Then, he had the barn replaced and rebuilt to resemble a traditional Russian barn. But his barn was soundproofed and housed his inmates in separate stalls.

More to come. Let me know what you think at [email protected] or IM me on AOL at noblee379