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The Incestuous Vices of Sasha Tatlavica

Bruno Hirschkoff

© February 2025

This is a work of erotic fiction for discerning adults only.

All characters and settings are fictional. The world of Asantrea and all of its concepts, locations, characters and associated artwork, literature, and other material is the sole creation of the Author and remains their intellectual property.

This work is not for commercial publication or distribution without the Author's written consent.

*

Chapter 2

The Novelist's Desire

1782 Arahan Domini

Arhanifell, Olkvarskali Oblast, Ithenor

*

The first week of Sasha being home passed in a blur of new, far more relaxed routines, and precious family time. Ilyas and Reyhani both worked long days, leaving early in the morning and returning in the evening. That gave Sasha a lot of time around the house with Svarina. They got along famously, and Sasha even showed her some of his writing, which she would read aloud as she cavorted about the house, theatrically performing his poetry, which delighted him.

He did not show her all of his writing, however. Not even close.

Sasha was, after all, a young man with urges he was struggling to define or understand, and since he'd been home, his fantasies had featured her quite strongly.

*

He didn't quite remember when those urges had first started, some years ago, but it still confused him. The way his body would react seemingly at random, causing the embarrassing growth in his lower regions and the tingling, fluttery feeling in his lower abdomen which, left too long, turned to an ache. The impulse to press his hardness rhythmically against things until he was breathless and at risk of that desperate fluttering pulse in his clothing, felt like such an affliction—one that he had never heard anyone speak of before. He felt like he was the only one who experienced such things outside of sexual congress with a partner. Even as it perturbed him, though, it kept on happening. And he grew to love it, as one might love any other vice. It was like a deep, dark secret he held close to his heart, a dark indulgence none would ever know.

At some point in his youth, Sasha had begun to write about the strange urges and fantasies that flashed through his mind while he lay over his pillow at night, stifling his elevated breathing so as not to disturb any of the thirty other boys in the dormitory. Over several years, he amassed a sizeable corpus of written erotica; often abstract, poetic, metaphorical descriptions of the sensations he was coming to know, and descriptions of sexual congress he could only speculate about from his readings. He actively sought texts that described it. He was not disappointed. But his knowledge of the acts themselves remained vague and ill-defined, and he retained the thought that his own experiences of sexual arousal were somehow deviant, that such things were not supposed to occur when one was alone.

He didn't know precisely when he made the connection between erotic sensation and a desperately full bladder. Perhaps it stemmed from the first time he failed to prevent fluid emerging into his clothing at the particular moment when he would clench tightly and tense up to avoid an accident, and had panickily thought that he was uncontrollably wetting himself. His first offering of semen to the pagan god Kasdall, whose ancient Athonian temples had been drenched in offerings of male emissions, occurred as just such an accident. And he spent the following weeks in terror that the god would be displeased that his emission had occurred in such an ignoble way. But no divine punishment came, either from the old gods or the new. Indeed, after that moment, Sasha felt his desire to explore such a sensation increase substantially.

*

Soon after his return home, Sasha set himself up at his writing desk in his room with a small bottle of ink, some quills and paper he'd pilfered from the Vospitanye, and began to write in the evenings after his family had retired to their beds. It was a beautiful place to sit, he considered; he was high among the Arhanifell rooftops as if floating above the city, with a view through the small, often frost-rimed lattice window, and complete privacy.

But during the day, he had taken to leaving the house and spending time in the city as an adult for the first time; it was there, in one of the smaller public squares, that he first saw Ruslan and Svetla.

They were actors. Actors were something of a rarity in Arhanifell, a city that prided itself on, above all else, its endeavours of rationality and hard science. The city was dotted with laboratories, manufactories, observatories, refineries, colleges, universities and libraries; but theatres, academies, galleries and artists' collectives were virtually absent, at least at face value.

Sasha recognised the piece that they were acting immediately; it was a world-famous scene from an ancient Athonian play, which featured two young lovers from very different social strata eloping to be together and breaking every social rule in the process.

At the end of the play, to a small crowd of somewhat uncomfortable observers, the two actors bowed to polite applause, and then robustly kissed on their impromptu stage of crates and pallets to a smattering of hoots and whistles.

“Come one, come all!" announced the woman, once their kiss was broken. “Any who wish to see more, or to seek the beauty that can be found in art and literature, come to Tails of Whimsy the eve of this coming Ysion's Day, for that is where this city's writers, poets, artists, actors and their ilk gather for the sharing of ideas. Come with discretion, and be merry!"

Then her partner threw a tiny package onto the ground in front of him. It exploded with a pop and released a cloud of dense purple smoke—and by the time the smoke cleared, they were gone. Sasha was enthralled, and waited until the tiny square was clear before picking up a pamphlet left by the actors, which had directions to Tails of Whimsy. It appeared to be a small drinking hole somewhere in the city's maze of ancient squeezeways and alleys, well away from the more prestigious boroughs.

He went alone on the night of the following Ysion's Day, and was enchanted by what he found. Tails of Whimsy was a tiny and crowded bar, dimly lit and oozing with a character Sasha had never seen anywhere else in the city. It throbbed with life, and with imagination. It was packed with artists and writers, poets and actors, as Ruslan and Svetla had said it would be; the two actors themselves were there, and Sasha listened, rapt, as they and many others rehearsed lines and planned their supposedly impromptu street performances.

It turned out that as well as an actor, Ruslan was a poet, and Svetla was his muse. They were not married, nor were they Dosvakny'y. That piqued Sasha's interest—the daring contravention of Olkvar norms seemed enticing to him, even as it was dangerous. Sasha kept to the shadows on his first visit, but made himself known to Ruslan and Svetla the following week by bringing some of his poetry along to Tails of Whimsy. It was a racy piece, but far from his most erotic or depraved work. To his amazement, the two actors gave him their full attention and did not condescend to him in the slightest.

Ruslan insisted that he read it aloud to the gathered creatives.

It took some cajoling and more than a little liquor, but Sasha eventually relented, and with Svetla's encouragement, he took to the bar's tiny stage. It was a simple poem derived from an Athonian classic. Its connection to a piece of theatre with which almost everyone in the room was familiar gave it relatability. He received a round of applause and assorted whistles of support, and when he stepped down his glass was full for the rest of the evening.

But more than anything else, Ruslan and Svetla suddenly saw him as an author, a poet, and a compatriot; not just another member of their audience. And that, beyond all else, cemented in Sasha's mind that he had no desire to become a stuffy professor or a rationalist—his heart was in his words and his imaginings, and it was there that he wanted to reside, even if the society in which he lived thought so little of artists and writers.

*

Having met Svetla and Ruslan, Sasha felt his urge to write become all the stronger. He obtained some manuscripts from the actors, and studied them at night under the light of a lantern. And he wrote. He wrote short, pithy poems, long and meandering pieces, sonnets and verses. He began by writing material that was somewhat racy but generally safe to be read aloud at Tails of Whimsy, but before long, found himself writing material that was more reflective of his own rampaging urges and desires. An achingly erotic piece of prose flowed from his quill, about a young man and a woman, who as a condition of their Dosvakny'a, had each forbade the other from achieving a sexual peak unless both were present, and both had bladders so full they could not contain themselves. The more he wrote, the shakier and messier his handwriting became, from the thrills of arousal coursing through his body. His own bladder ached with fullness behind his persistently erect penis, to the point of needing to be clenched so hard it hurt to stem the flow. The desperation was a rush like no other; being barely able to contain his stream, even to the point of needing to grip himself roughly over his clothing, and even then leaking through his tightly clenched fist.

He would often reach a point where he would be forced to abruptly yank open the fastenings of his clothing, just barely in time to release a noisy, hissing and brief stream of piss along the underside of his desk. He would grip his cock roughly to stem the flow, and grew to adore the burning desperation of those moments. At first, he would only allow it to happen once or twice and then waddle awkwardly to the privy to relieve himself, but it was not long before he began to do it for longer and longer, allowing himself to 'accidentally' release his clear, well-hydrated piss onto the wooden boards under his desk, again and again, sometimes for hours on end while he wrote.

By the time Sasha's bladder was emptied with desperate squirts and leaks, the floor beneath his desk, his legs, and his trousers would be soaking wet. His penis would ache with stiffness and he would feel that stinging pain inside himself. But it was just too good to stop. But he did not cause his semen to spill, deliberately so. Such a thing was forbidden in his mind, and by the teachings of the Arahanites, and ultimately Sasha had no ingrained notion of male masturbation. The emission of semen by oneself was an accident, he considered, nothing more. So he remained thankful for it remaining within him—even if it meant his penis took a long time to soften, even after he'd completed writing his story.

In future, he promised himself, he should arrange a chamberpot or a pile of rags so that he did not have to do quite so much cleaning up.

*

Svarina left early one morning, and told Sasha she would be out the whole day. He was disconcerted at first; being entirely alone was a situation the young marten was unfamiliar with. He spent an hour sitting by the fire on the mezzanine, alternately staring into the flames, and then out the tall, arched window to the leaden world outside.

He felt lost.

He tried to read, but in the silence, the words seemed to slide right off his brain.

Sasha had asked his father to collect him some more paper, ink and quills from the university. Sasha knew the supplies there were the best—paper and quill pens both made from the tall, fibrous reeds that grew around the Eshur Sea, and traditional inks and pigments from distant Viania, across the Mare Internum, that dried quickly without needing to be blotted, and did not bleed through the paper so that it could be used on both sides.

Sasha made his way around the mezzanine, which was constructed like a balcony that surrounded the tall atrium of the entrance foyer. Bookshelves lined its walls, which on the northern side framed one of Ilyas' most prized possessions; a large and intricate map of the world etched into a panel of enamelled brass. Such maps were expensive, Sasha knew, and this one showed a vast swathe of the southern continent of Ambriel, far beyond the Mare Internum and the Mare Ossium, which was typically the extent of Doregallian maps. Sasha leaned in close and squinted to see the spidery text that described exotic and far-flung places. He located Arhanifell on the map, and then scanned south to the Nabu-Shar with its endless oceans of sand and the shallow, hot Eshur Sea. It looked nearby, on this map, but Sasha knew it to be over five hundred miles away.

The world was vast, and mathematicians, cartographers, astronomers and geologists all agreed that they barely knew of a third of it.

Sasha made his way down the wide, elegantly curved staircase into the entrance foyer, and then around it into the kitchen, to arrange a little food for himself. And water. He drank deeply, draining his cup. Then he had a thought. He was going to be alone for the whole day. He was free to indulge some of his raunchier fantasies in the safety of solitude throughout the day, with very little risk of being caught.

He drained another cup of water, and then a third. Then, for good measure, a fourth. Then he filled a jug, which together with his cup, he carried back upstairs to his bedroom. Thanks to the kitchen fire, it was warm in there. He'd never written an erotic story while nude, before, and cleaning up his mess out of his fur would be easier than clothing needing to be washed.

Sasha was, like many of his kind, long in the torso and slender, with narrow, sloping shoulders and a thick pelt of soft, dense fur. The greyish-brown of his face, shoulders and back contrasted with the bright straw-yellow of his throat and chest, which lightened further to creamy white down his torso and through his groin—all apart from the dense nest of thicker, coarser hair that had sprouted around his crotch as he'd grown up. He hadn't been expecting that. None of the classical statues he'd seen, frescoes of the old temples or depicted on Athonian pottery showed a hairy crotch on any of the subjects.

Then again, he'd reasoned, most of that artwork came from Heladia and Athon, where there were almost no Laska mustelids. He considered that perhaps it was something unique to his taxa, although he'd never asked anyone else about it.

Sasha was circumcised in the Arahanic tradition. He knew that, only because it was spoken of in the Holy Scripture, and the Prophet Arahan had been the same. Apparently it was an ancient practice that started long before Arahan's time in the distant homeland of the Forlassean Lupa as a sort of identifying mark that separated the civilised Lupa from their northern cousins, the Lup'a Incultus, and had been adopted by the Arahanic faith as it spread across the world.

The penises Sasha had glimpsed in classical art generally looked different, and he assumed the strange, overhanging fold of skin was what had been removed, leaving him with a subtle change of colour and texture two fingers' breadth behind his pink, spongy glans.

A thrill of anticipation caused him to harden in his heavy woollen trousers, and he winced at the scratchy cloth grating along his glans as he grew erect. On his writing desk was his stack of sheets of paper just as he'd left them, most of them full, an inkwell that was mostly empty, and his collection of increasingly ragged quill pens. He carefully tipped a tiny measure of his water into the inkwell to stretch the ink, and then, almost hesitantly, stripped out of his clothes.

His bladder was already protesting its fullness when Sasha sat on his wooden chair and slid it forward beneath his writing desk. Just the nudity alone seemed to be enough to keep him erect, along with the thoughts swirling through the young marten's mind of what he would commit to ink. Even before he began to write, he felt a twinge from his bladder and clenched hard, causing a tingle of pleasure in his core.

With his right hand, Sasha dipped his quill into his ink and began to write, the words immediately flowing from his mind through his arm, onto the paper.

*

Oh thou my friend, my confidant! It is to thee I address this work, this rambling tale of Vyce so ecstatic and delectable, the example and the pinnacle of the fweetness that can be shared betwixt fiblings, raised apart and reunited upon the cusp of being grown.

These young fiblings, Friends and Lovers I shall heretofor refer to, for the preservation of the innocence of the real, Titus and Eos; those names call Forth tales of fimmering romances penned by the ancients; to a time unconstrained by notions of Virtue, or of Vyce, or of the ftrictures of a fociety fuch as ours, mired as it is in its detestation of the fophistries of carnal pleasures beyond the Virtuous bondage of matrimony!

Eos was an Idol of Mido, that moft Divyne Goddess of a Woman's Luft and Pleasure, and worthy in her right of a Priestess of Lakesh, whose rapturous Fortune is the product of a beauty to make the fculptor weep, and much misconduct… a Fyne and Curvaceous Figure of Womanly Passion, eyes of a fingular fensuality which, contributing one more fpice to her allures, causes those women in whom it is fuspected to be fought after that much more diligently; a trifle wicked, unfurnished with any principle or notion of Taboo or propriety of act, allowing the velvet darkness of her basest Desyre to dictate the movement of her gracious limbs and the words passing her lips in their pursuit, lacking however that amount of depravation in the heart to have extinguished all fensibility.

Filled of tenderness, endowed with a fensual art and Finesse and a candour which caused her to tumble into not a Few pitfalls, which in time Nature faw grow her womanhood into artifice, wyles, coquetry and a fupple and resilient body, Wyde of hip and narrow of waist, and with Breasts at once fmall and Delycate, and ftill Fullsome and as Pyllows, which she wouldst take the greatest Delyghte in Difplaying the fwell of by means of her felected clothing. And oh, an Arse for which to Dye, truly, for if one should Feele its Gracious Fullness, one should with great fpeed transcend to a ftate of carnal ecstasy!

Titus, her Brother by birth but torn from her foon thereafter, and only to be returned to her upon the attainment of their ascension to eligibility for the Dosvakny'a, presented his personage altogether less outwardly willing to forgo the Virtues instilled to him by those howling hypocrites who fit atop every fociety like so many Vultures over a battlefield, beady black eyes fcanning the Field for a morsel of tender Flesh into which to rip with talon and beak. He was a shy and retiring man, Far from those great towering monuments of the masculine with their rippling muscle cast in marble; but possessed of a mind most Brazen, Barbarous and capable of the most monstrously Perverse Caprices, driven oft Wytless by his drooling Desyre and irresistible and energetic Fancies; and most Diligent and Regular in his Worshyppe of Kasdall, that great and Divyne God of a Man's Luft and Pleasure, and of the Emission of Man's Semen. Small and flight may Titus have been, but Blessed he was with a Rod of considerable proportion, whose Emissions would come Forth with great Force and quantity, and feemingly with no limit as to their Frequency.

*

Sasha paused his writing for a moment and read over what he had just penned. His language was flowery and complex, his sentence structure following that of the authors of the most alluring poetry and erotic stories he enjoyed. He was, of course, casting himself as Titus, and his sister Svarina as Eos. He laid a new sheet of paper alongside the one he had already filled, and allowed his eyes to close, visualising the characters he had created to express his lust. His left hand fumbled with his erect penis, pushing it down to clamp it between his thighs and then rock his hips to release it to flick upward, to tap its exposed head on the underside of his desk upon a firm flex. He did so several times, and shivered at the sensation that caused ripples in his ink bottle.

The instant Sasha paused his aimless fumbling, the urgency of his full bladder would come to the front of his mind, a sharp twinge that began inside him and would radiate to the head of his cock. He allowed it to occur a few times, feeling the burning heat of rising liquid along his member continuing for a tenuous second beyond each hard clench. And when it came too close to happening and began to release a dribble of urine, he would force his penis painfully down between his legs and tense his core, rocking his hips to push it forth between his legs, the stimulation causing his muscles to clamp shut and instead release the clear, slippery fluid instead.

He drained his water cup twice more, and leaned back on his chair to stare down at his aching cock. It stared right back up at him, angry and swollen and hard as granite. He gripped behind the head and squeezed hard, almost hard enough to hurt. Shoving his hips upward through his clenched fist, he pushed with his inner muscles. A thin stream of precum-tainted urine leapt forth into his dense fur, and Sasha bit back a heady moan of pleasure.

He stood, his cock sticking out in front of him like a flagpole, and took his water jug downstairs to refill it. He drank two more cups while he was there, and then returned upstairs, waddling somewhat awkwardly about the house from the effort of holding in his urine. The fullness in his bladder was becoming painful then, as he picked up his quill again in a shaky hand. His breathing was already shallow and shaky, and as he planned out in his head what he would write next, he parted his thighs and pushed with his inner muscles to release a noisy, hissing squirt of clear urine along the underside of his writing desk.

*

Delighted to be her own mistress whereupon she was released at last from the dull greyness of the Vospitanye, Eos fpent her days in the pursuit of every Synneful facrifice to the Divyne Altar betwixt her thighs that she could achieve. For many an hour in a day did she fpend in Rapturous Reclyne, the foft lips of her cunt Desperate for the Hardness of a desirous partner, and the foft lips upon her mouth parted by her breath and the Villainous grip of her urgent exhalations of young luft; and For many a day did she bring herself to the height of Worshippe of Mido, her Goddess, in the fanctuary of her folitude.

In the nadir of her Synneful convulsions she rebuked herself for her fensitiveness, for ever daring to question her right to Touch her engorged and pulsing womanhood to her depraved Fantasies with a philosophic acuity far beyond her years, drawn From those Revered texts of the ancients of distant Athon. She would remind herself that it was always possible to Find in oneself physical fensations of a fufficiently Voluptuous Piquancy to extinguish all the moral afflictions whose shock could be painful; that it was all the more essential so to proceed, since true Wysdomme consists infinitely more in doubling the fum of one's pleasures than in increasing the fum of one's pains; that, in a word, there was nothing one ought not to do in order to deaden in oneself that perfidious fensibility From which none but others profit while to us it brings naught but troubles.

None may understand what a pleasure this is For a mind constructed as that of Eos' own Brother Titus! If only another were able to imagine this Divyne whimsy's physical fensations, there is no withstanding it. It is a titillation so lovely, so piquant, one becomes dizzy and unfocused, one ceases entirely to be a creature of reason and intellect, and descends to the base instincts the gods have imbued into the very core of our minds; one ftammers, one Falters, and one fubmits to the delirium. And fubmit Titus indeed does, to the finful writhing of his own fibling, whereupon he Discovered her one morning having fpent the whole of the Night in Raptures of her own ecstasy, covered in her Fuck and her Piss which in her Hedonism caused to fpill Forth betwixt her Divyne lips. Titus was in an Instant as ftiff in the manhood as a ftatue of Marble, his large and Girthy Rod ftanding Proud in a ftate of Declyned propriety, and in fo doing he Showed it to her.

A thousand kisses each more tender than the last wouldst not inflame Titus with an ardour in any way approaching the drunkenness into which this one perversity plung'd him. One becomes enlaced in its arms, and Eos dream'd of their mouths glued to the Forbyddenne Altar of the other, fuch that their entire beings wouldst become incorporated into the other; this Vyce behaves like a Beast, Wylde and Determined, and then it overtook the minds of both Eos and Titus in Equal measurement. They would make but a fingle being with the Beast; if either dared complain, then it was of neglect, of a moment's Respyte from the pleasures, and they would have the whimsical Beast's fancy once more, as robust as the Stallion on which Kasdall rides, its multiplicity of fwinging organs like tentacles glistening with their own Divyne emissions, enlarging, engorging, penetrating; they each would have and bathe in that precious Divyne Semen, shot blazing into the depths of their fouls, over theyr prostrate bodies entwined as one, the blessing of the god of Luft coating them in his heat and his offering, causing both to tremulously debauch into esctasy entwined in one another's arms, that golden nectar flooding forth in the midst of orgasm, so total is theyr Luft and urgent need.

*

Sasha could hardly contain himself. His legs shook, his breathing was elevated and came in ragged gasps and heated growls. He had written “Eos" as “Svarina" several times and hastily crossed out his error, becoming progressively deeper lost in his fantasy of his sister's nudity, and his secret perversion. He imagined her as intensely aroused as he often was, with her bladder full to the point of bursting, issuing forth her clear and clean stream from between her sculpted, velvety thighs. Despite this, he could not rightly picture her complete nudity, for he had never laid eyes upon a woman's body, and could rely only on the depictions he had seen in books and art, and the descriptions given by the erotic authors he modelled himself on.

He gurgled hornily and squirmed on his chair, urgently shoving his penis down between his thighs and tensing hard. His hips convulsed of their own accord and released a heavy, involuntary squirt of urine, which blasted his thighs and sprayed messily under his desk. It hurt in such an intensely pleasurable way. He pushed firmly, forcing piss out against the force of his erection to hold it in, and parted his thighs. His persistently rigid cock flicked upward and he slouched down, forcing piss to spray noisily along the underside of his desk and splatter onto his body.

With the pressure of his bladder somewhat relieved (at least for now), and his fantasies of “Titus and Eos" developing still further, Sasha again picked up his quill.

*

With fuch debauched notions of mind did Titus advance upon his fibling, intruding upon her in the throes of her ecstasy with his own in his hand, held tightly with the Glans exposed, purple and shining, the fkin covering it withdrawn as is the ability of an Ancient whose rod hath ne'er feen the blade of Arahan.

And finally he laid hands upon all the anterior parts she presented to him, in all of their velvet glory, and after having thoroughly caressed and touched them, and put his mouth close to her and kissed each of her lips and her thighs in turn, and brushed his tongue along her Cunt, he inquired of her whether she did not desire to Piss. Eos may have ftated her Shock but she knew him fo well by Virtue of his brotherhood to expect no less of his brazen and depraved mind, and upon feeing how ftiff it made his prick and how he ftared at her fwollen cunt, she assured him that the urge to piss was the most powerful feeling she had, but that she did not want to make a mess of him.

“Oh by all of the gods, by Mido, by Kasdall, by Lakesh and by Bezar of the flame, who doth reside within my heart and my loins, do! Yes, Sister dearest, my precious Creature of Debauch, by Kasdall's Stallion's mighty cocks, I beseech thee to Piss in my presence, and worse, Piss upon me! Here it is, here is the tool you shall moisten… just piss on it a little…"

And thereupon he rose up between her thighs until the aching ftiffness of his prick was made to flide along her thigh, the huge purple head pressed for but a moment against her fwollen and Wet cunt, and he bade her begin.

“Off you go, my Sister, my lover, piss!" He doth cry, “Flood my prick with thine enchanting liquid whose hot outpouring exerts fuch fway over my fenses, my dreams, my very existence! Piss, my nymph of Aethyr, care for naught but to piss and try to inundate my Fuck."

Eos could tell, and in her heart was enraptured by his Luft for that unusual operation which all his fenses most cherished; that fweetest, gentlest ecstasy crowned that very moment when the liquids which had fwollen her ftomach gushed forth most abundantly onto his Rod, which he drove upward through the golden river to press most deliciously to her cunt and in that moment, issued Forth his plentiful Semen in ecstatic convulsions that coated her pissing cunt and the foftness around it, and her ftomach and thighs too.

*

Sasha very nearly ejaculated as he finished the last sentence. He dropped his quill and urgently gripped his penis in both hands, squeezing it hard to stem the flow and knocking over his ink bottle in the process, its remnants spilling onto the edge of the pages. His hips shook, and the burning heat in the core of his glans finally gave way to a series of dull throbs. A thick drool of white oozed between his fingers, and he dared to rub it around the swollen head of his cock. His toes curled and with a gentle push, a heavy squirt of urine cleared his member, hissing forth into the space under his desk and splattering onto the floorboards.

He hurriedly stood, knocking over his chair, and urgently dove onto his bed. He dragged his pillow roughly beneath his body and gripped it possessively in his arms, his spine arched over it as he began to desperately ram his iron-hard cock into its pliant softness. He captured its edge between his teeth and bit it hard, muffling his hedonistic moans while he indulged in his urgent pleasure, deliberately, if aimlessly, sliding his penis back and forth against his pillow. In his mind it was Svarina, her supple body writhing in lust beneath him, her sensual legs spread around his hips. In Sasha's mind, the hot wetness he could feel around his cock wasn't his own urine-tainted precum, but the heat of her sex. The heat of her piss. He moaned her name aloud, over and over, and paused in trembling agony every few moments when he felt an emission of semen must surely occur. He did not know for how long he sustained himself in that state, wallowing in hedonism and teetering on the brink of orgasm.

He completely failed to hear the door open, or booted footsteps coming up the stairs, closer and closer.

Sasha was so desperately close to orgasm. His bladder stung with its painful fullness and his balls felt like they were full of lead, but again and again he denied himself, on the notion that an emission of semen was something that only was meant to occur during sexual congress, and that it should not be able to occur alone.

And then, he was no longer alone.

“Sasha? I brought you those writing supplies you asked for! I—"

Ilyas' voice sliced through Sasha's consciousness like a hot knife through soft butter. His heart turned to ice. His father could see everything, he knew. He was naked on his bed, his pillow beneath him, his backside pointed directly at the doorway. The sudden shock of being discovered disturbed Sasha's concentration, but instead of ejaculating right away, the marten was horrified to feel himself losing control of his over-full, strained bladder instead. He was powerless to stop it. He was hard as iron, and his bladder was so full it overwhelmed every 'clench' instinct he had.

So, even as Ilyas stepped into the room, Sasha was uncontrollably pissing into his pillow, a long and heavy stream of clear urine gushing forth from him to soak it. And it felt good. So good.

So good that, no sooner had his bladder finished emptying itself, that he felt the rising heat of semen moving through his body, accompanied by a dull, slow, painful throb from somewhere deep inside him.

He grit his teeth, but the tiniest movement, the tiniest fraction of wet, hot friction on his glans, the weight of his body over his cock, the knowledge that he was being observed even, set him off. Semen drooled lazily along his urethra, pooling in the piss-soaked fabric of his pillow, before his prostate, tortured for hours, began to rhythmically pump forth his seed with powerful, body-wracking contractions. Even as it occurred, Sasha begged for forgiveness in his mind for his transgression, cursing the 'accident' even as it occurred. He trembled and convulsed and shook through his orgasm, all the while Ilyas was standing in his doorway, frozen.

The fog of lust began to clear from Sasha's mind. He was mortified. What would Ilyas think of him now? Would he see a son, still? Or would he see a depraved beast, unable to control his basest desires and urges?

He hardly dared to look. But with his ears pinned to his skull, Sasha eventually managed to look back over his shoulder at his father, still in that incredibly vulnerable and compromised position—he could hardly move, to do so would reveal the depths of his depravity.

Ilyas met his gaze, and lifted the rolled up sheaf of papers, bundle of quills and bottle of ink he was carrying. Then he chuckled.

“All done?" he asked.

Sasha buried his face behind his hands and clamped his tail down hard over his backside. Ilyas chuckled again, and set down the writing supplies on his desk.

“You… should probably clean yourself up before your sister and mother get home," he advised. “Don't worry, I am not disgusted or angry with you, Sasha. You're a young man with urges who's been left at home alone all day. I would not have expected anything else. I should have made my presence known more clearly, I apologise for interrupting you at such a… critical moment."

Sasha was stunned. He lifted himself up onto his elbows, wiped drool from his chin, and twisted his body around to observe his father. Ilyas was at his writing desk, peering at the page he'd just been writing on… Sasha leapt to his feet, mindless of his nudity or the state of most of his torso. Anything to distract Ilyas from reading the utter filth he'd spent all day penning.

“I… th-thank you, father!" he stammered.

Ilyas calmly looked his son over, his eyes wandering along Sasha's naked body and lingering a moment between his legs. “My, you have been getting into it today, haven't you? Be careful you don't rub it raw on your pillow like that. Hurry to the bathhouse and get yourself tidied up. I'll clean your pillow, don't worry. I shan't mention it."

Could it be possible that Ilyas knew something of the hedonism that filled his mind? Sasha's brain felt like soup. But he obediently dragged himself off to their home's utility room, in which a supply of hot water was kept for bathing, warmed by the kitchen fire. There was a copper bathtub in there, with a water hose connected to a spigot on the hot water tank. Sasha stood in the tub with his back to Ilyas, and rinsed the semen and urine out of his fur while his father washed his pillow in a basin in the same room.

“Father? I am… I'm sorry you saw that," Sasha managed eventually, once he was as clean as he could get himself. “I… I know how wrong it is… to… do that alone, to succumb to such base urges."

He hung the water hose back on its hook at the top of the bathtub, and stepped out to begin drying his dense fur. Ilyas shot him a quizzical look, and Sasha caught a hint of a smile on the older marten's muzzle.

“Think nothing of it," Ilyas said. “You have urges. I had urges at your age, too, and got myself into similar predicaments more times than I can remember. It is not as sinful as the churchmen would have us believe. No god will smite you for pleasuring yourself. Although… I was never as bold as you seem to have been, today, with… other bodily fluids."

Sasha's muzzle burned.

“Which," Ilyas continued, “is as good a time as any to discuss the Dosvakny'a again. Sasha, taking a partner with whom to explore and experiment will… it will help you, to master and control these urges a little more. To indulge them, and then to learn to confine them to parts of your life that are proper so that they do not dominate your every waking moment. If… there are no clear choices yet, I should like to introduce you to some candidates, if I may—the offspring of the professors at the university mostly, those who are not already paired. You need to act fast to snap up someone of your own age, if that is what you want. Do you?"

Sasha listened, but his father's words sounded garbled. He shrugged his shoulders and focused on scrubbing the water out of his fur with his towel. The one he wanted as a Dosvakny was his sister. He knew that clearly now.

He just needed to work up the courage to ask her.

*