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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 1

Homecoming

1782 Arahan Domini

Arhanifell, Olkvarskali Oblast, Ithenor

*

The cobbled streets of Arhanifell glistened in the gathering dusk beneath their coating of grimy slush and snow. The greenish-gold glow of the gas street lights flickered intermittently through the windows of the lacquered carriage, like the passing of days sped up to the pace of a pair of trotting horses, whose gouts of steaming breath huffed into the still, freezing air like the exhalations of so many demons. Sasha Tatlavica was nervous. The young Olkvar pine marten had left the Orya Yulinka _Vospitanye—_youths' boarding home—for the last time, and his future as a young adult loomed ahead of him like a yawning chasm of uncertainty. Arhanifell was the second-largest city in the southern Olkvarskali region of Ithenor, and the closest major Ithenorian city to the border with Sargon—far closer to the Sargs than the Olkvar political capital Hordifell. Arhanifell, rather, was the centre of science, rationalism and learning in the region. Fifty miles to the east, across the bogs, swamps and marshland north of the Blackwater Sea, a vast, seemingly bottomless freshwater lake, the great icy edifice of the Rift loomed a dozen miles into the sky like a great frozen wave forever poised over the city, its highest peaks so distant they were not visible with the naked eye. Arhanifell and its satellite villages were the farthest eastern extent of known civilisation, although scholars at the universities often speculated that a whole other 'half' of the world existed beyond the Rift—not that anyone could possibly hope to reach it, of course. Many had tried over the centuries; either through hare-brained attempts at scaling the mountains, or traversing them around their northern extent across the bitter, frozen sea of Zamorozhene Peklo. It all seemed so distant, to Sasha. Just reaching L'Odovykovy'y, the Gateway to the End of the World as it was known, was a journey of over a thousand miles across the endless boreal wilderness of far-eastern Ithenor, and the treacherous crossing of the Ithenor Sea to Suriyiskali.

The advantage of living in the shadow of the Rift was clearest in the springtime. The great glaciers high up in the mountains released a vast deluge of meltwater that crashed into the Blackwater Sea and hung in a heavy mist over the land, filtering the harsh sun and creating some of the most fertile farmland in the known world. But it was also an existence on the edge of the world; wilderness forever to the north, the great barrier of the Rift to the east, and a fractious neighbour to the south.

Sasha had never been far from Arhanifell in his young life, but given how cold the winters could be even so far south thanks to the icy downdrafts that poured from the mountains, he could scarcely imagine how harsh the climate must be in Suriyiskali. The distant northern Oblast had a fearsome reputation, even among other Ithenorians—legends abounded of monsters, ravenous and insatiable, who survived on the blood and the Aethyr of living souls. And the Sarašensky'y, while far closer, weren't much better. So it was, then, that the leaders of Arhanifell clung more to the civilisations to their west, than any hope of finding anything to the east across such impenetrable barriers. The geography of the region had given rise over the centuries to a deeply insular, rigidly stratified society in which all members were expected to play roles which were largely determined by the circumstances of their birth. Largely peopled by yellow martens and pine martens, Arhanifell was also home to other Laska peoples—ferrets, weasels, stoats and ermines—as well as Urssa, Lupa, Cervid and even the odd Felid who made their way north from the Nabu-Shar.

The young pine marten tugged the collar of his heavy frock coat upward around his neck, and pressed his slender hands into its warmth. He hoped that his family would be happy to see him. Perhaps even that they would have a fire going and hot food prepared to welcome home their son after six years of living apart. He was their only son, but far from their only child; Sasha had five sisters, four older and one younger. Singri? and Elvira were much older than Sasha and already married with children of their own. Svarina and Ma?ina were closer to his age, one and two years older respectively. And E?ita was barely ten years old, still living in the girls' wing of the Vospitanye.

It was the tradition of Olkvar society that children were raised communally, in boarding houses which catered to both their general upbringing and their education. It was a way of standardising knowledge and culture, Sasha supposed, while allowing the parents to commit themselves more fully to their social roles and duties. It had been a harsh upbringing in some ways. Almost militaristic at times, and certainly lacking in the familial warmth and togetherness that children of other cultures experienced—not that Sasha or any of his peers knew any different, aside from what they could read in books from other nations. Most could not read those alien languages with their strange letters and incomprehensible cultures—not even those who taught their contents in the schools. But Sasha could, at least a little. He'd discovered a book in the bowels of the library that must have been three centuries old—old enough to predate the Arahanic Orthodox central government of Olkvarskali and their campaigns of censorship and standardisation. He spent long hours studying its crumbling pages, learning the letters and syntax of the western Scordic languages, like Athonian, Heladian and Sabarinian. He loved reading the Athonian classics, either clumsily translated into Olkvar or in the original Athonian script. It was those stories of great heroes, old gods and mystical events which had inspired him to begin writing, himself. By his early teens, Sasha had published his first book of poetry to a lukewarm reception. He knew why, but it still hurt to not be celebrated for his achievement at such a young age. Arhanifell was a city of scientific endeavour and rational discovery; few in that city had time for the frivolity of art and literature. Sasha was descended from a family deeply connected to the learned elites of the region. His father was a respected professor of physics tenured at one of the city's three separate universities, and his mother served on the academic board of the same institution. There was a definite expectation for Sasha to follow closely in their footsteps and pursue a career in science and academia. But Sasha knew that was not where his life would lead him. Instead of concepts of science and mathematics, the young marten's mind was filled with art, philosophy and literature.

The carriage clattered through one of the city's several large public squares; a vast expanse of cobbles, gaslights and flagpoles surrounded by the city's scientific administrative buildings, a large Arahanic church and priory, and a collection of guildhouses. At the centre of this square sat the public library, a great colonnaded stone building built in an architectural vernacular that recalled an ancient Athonian temple, with intricately carved stone reliefs of scenes from the Arahanic holy book adorning its gable-ends, stained black by the soot from the city's thousands of chimneys. Sasha wondered what treasures its deepest vaults must hold, if he'd found a copy of Dictum Scordus in the Vospitanye. The carriage diverted around this monumental structure, and entered one of the narrower avenues that radiated outward from the square. Large, wafer-like snowflakes began to fall, almost uncannily slowly, though they were whipped into flurries by the passage of Sasha's carriage.

By the time the carriage arrived at its destination, night had truly fallen. The last vestiges of the twin suns' light, which glinted from the peaks of the Rift mountains for some time after dusk in Arhanifell, had faded to darkness, leaving the city mired beneath a dense blanket of cloud, which diffused and dimly reflected the city's lights.

The Tatlavica home was, like many homes of its era in Arhanifell, built from the local bluestone, with timber and wrought iron balconies sculpted to resemble the arched windows of the Arahanic churches. Built to a height of three storeys with a steeply pitched slate roof containing arched dormers, the upper storeys overhung the lower, forming a sheltered entranceway within which three wide stone steps led the visitor inward to a large arched door, clearly designed to convey scale and prestige. A gas lantern flickered in a wrought iron fixture over the door, and Sasha could see light glowing within several of the windows.

Nervousness rose in the young marten's throat. He'd been back here only rarely through his upbringing, and never to stay. The Sarg carriage driver was holding the door open expectantly, and when Sasha did not immediately exit the carriage, he peered inward with a curious, slightly impatient look on his face.

Sasha grunted and stepped out into the freezing night.

“Arahan's blessing, young sir," said the driver in a raspy grumble when Sasha slipped him a couple of cloth banknotes from the inner pocket of his coat.

A curtain twitched.

Then the door opened. Sasha's heart thumped. His mother Reyhani, and his father Ilyas, both emerged from the home to greet him.

“Need help with your luggage, sir?" The driver asked, clearly searching for an extra tip.

“No, thank you," Sasha said in his soft, quiet voice.

“Suit y' self," the driver grunted, and clambered back onto his seat.

Sasha's father stepped out into the street and approached him. The older marten was somewhat taller than Sasha, although built the same way—slender, narrow-shouldered and long in the torso. He wore a richly embroidered waistcoat and starch-collared linen shirt beneath his long house-gown, and the dense yellowish ruff of fur around his neck protruded above and around it, giving the appearance of a thick scarf. Sasha had no idea what to say. His words dried up and he simply stared at his father, meeting the older man's gaze. He sensed a similar trepidation in him, and stepped in when his father embraced him silently. There was so much to say. But neither of them could begin. Not right at that moment.

There would be time.

Still in silence, Sasha's father helped him to pick up the reinforced leather trunk containing his worldly possessions. No sooner had they lifted it, the carriage driver barked “Hyah!" And the carriage lurched off into the freezing night, leaving them standing in icy, blessed silence, with snowflakes whispering down around them.

*

Reyhani Tatlavica stood back and surveyed her work on preparing Sasha's room for his return, just as her husband Ilyas stepped into the room.

“It's nearly time," Ilyas said, slipping his arms around his wife's waist from behind and affectionately pushing his grey-flecked muzzle into her neck.

The Olkvar martens were in their middle years; Ilyas' hair was streaked with grey and tied at the nape of his neck, and he walked with a cane; although that was more for the appearance of gentility than because of his knees, which Reyhani knew to be perfectly functional and painless. She considered her own beauty to be long faded; five children had taken their toll, and she was deeply self-conscious of the way her belly and breasts hung loose—like a blown-out bellows, she described it. Spent and torn. Ilyas would have none of it. Their love had grown stronger over the nearly thirty years they had spent together. Their marriage had been arranged in the typical fashion, and they had been introduced for the first time only days before the ceremony.

His hands splayed around Reyhani's hips, and like so many times before, she felt him rise against the side of her tail. She laughed and batted his hands away, turning to face him.

“You horny old weasel," she chastised him. “I know how long it takes you to be sated, Sasha could arrive at any moment. Save it up."

“It is only a non-verbal way to compliment you, my dear," Ilyas said. “I think you have done a wonderful job, as you always do. Sasha is going to feel right at home here, I hope."

She caressed him with her hand over his clothing and felt him push into her palm. “Arahan's robes. Twenty eight years and you still get this way so easily. I cannot say I am not flattered, of course." Then she lifted her hand. “Hmm. Do you think Sasha will settle in here easily? Perhaps I ought to take out some of the things he had in here when he was a kit… I wouldn't want to embarrass him now he's a young man."

Reyhani pulled away from Ilyas and fussed over the bedclothes, the position of a small rug on the wooden floor beside it, and then picked up a stylised child's cuddle toy in the shape of a wolf. Sasha had always fallen asleep cuddling it, when he was very small and it had been almost as big as him. The wolf's ears still bore the marks of Sasha's teeth, from where he used to chew them, and several cloth patches which Reyhani had sewn on to repair tears in its felt skin. Reyhani stroked the little wolf's face, and turned to Ilyas.

“Leave it in place, Reyhani," Ilyas said. “Although he had grown out of it long before he left, he's been at the Vospitanye for six years, and will need to have that connection to his past. To bring him back."

Ilyas' face flickered with something that Reyhani took to be suppressed trauma, and she reached for her husband's hands. “Times have changed, Ilyas. It's not how it was when you went there. They're kinder, now. Plus, now we are not at war with the Sargs, there is no military service in their education."

“Aye, right you are," Ilyas said gruffly.

“I think I hear a carriage," Reyhani said.

Her voice shook with excitement and trepidation.

It was silly, Ilyas thought. They'd seen Sasha only three months prior, when he'd spent the day with them in the city. But that had been different, too. In the context of their home, it felt like he had never been back since the day they waved him off to Orya Yulinka. Not in his entirety, anyway. Some part of him had always remained locked away deep inside, as it was at the Vospitanye.

Ilyas followed Reyhani down the stairs from the top floor of their home where the bedchambers were, in the warmest part of the house, through the mezzanine living quarters on the middle floor and then down the grand entrance stairway to the reception rooms, kitchen and entranceway.

“Svarina!" Ilyas called as he descended. “Your brother's home, come and greet him!"

Svarina was seated by the fire on the mezzanine in a leather wingback chair, her nose in a book. She rose and smoothed out her dress, and followed her father, her expression carefully neutral. Ilyas could sense her excitement, though. While he and Reyhani had seen Sasha regularly during his education, Svarina had not. She had been sent to Orya Yulinka a year earlier than Sasha, and had come home a year ago. She had not seen Sasha at all for those long years, and only twice in the year since her graduation. And now they were to live together under the same roof, perhaps for another year, even two, until one or both of them were either committed to a Dosvakny or married. Ilyas considered that for Svarina it would be like meeting her brother for the first time, on some level. They had always been very close as kits, and Ilyas hoped they would hit it off again now.

Reyhani was at the front window peering around one of the heavy curtains into the street beyond.

“It's him!" she exclaimed, fussing from the window to the door.

Ilyas laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Calmly, my love. It's alright. Come, let us go together."

Hand in hand, Ilyas and Reyhani opened the door. The night air was frigidly cold and flowed into the house around their feet as soon as the door was open, sucked inward by the rising warmth of the fireplaces in the kitchen and the mezzanine directly above it.

Ilyas had it all planned out in his mind. He would embrace his son. Tell him how welcome he was. Invite him cordially inside. They would talk, laugh and eat together as a family, he and Sasha, Reyhani and Svarina. Perhaps even Ma?ina, if she could be persuaded to come from her Dosvakny's home.

Despite his intentions, the moment Ilyas saw Sasha, his throat closed up. His mind blanked. Overwhelmed by love that he could not express, he brusquely embraced the slender teenager, and then helped him to lift his trunk off the carriage and up the wide stone steps into the house.

Reyhani was not so afflicted by masculine stoicism.

She burst into floods of happy tears the moment she saw Sasha, and could barely wait for him to set his trunk down and close the door before she was hugging him, holding his face in her hands, gazing at him.

“Oh Sasha, my beautiful boy! You're finally back home! I have waited so long and missed you so much!" She sobbed.

“Hello, mother," Sasha said quietly, with a little smile.

That only made her cry harder, and he embraced her tightly for a long minute. Then Ilyas saw Sasha's eyes move to Svarina. Svarina was holding back, a soft smile on her pretty muzzle, leaning casually in the stone archway that led off to the kitchen. She wore a long dress of green velvet, a brown quilted winter shawl and a wide belt that accentuated the feminine shape of her body even beneath layers of winter fur and clothing. Her long blonde hair fell across one half of her face, and once Reyhani had finally let go of Sasha, she pushed off of the arch and stepped up to face her brother.

“Welcome home, little brother," she said simply, enfolding him in a brief, gentle embrace.

Sasha seemed not to know how to respond to her. He stared at her open-mouthed, and then looked away hurriedly. Ilyas considered that Sasha had spent the preceding years completely isolated from the world—and indeed completely isolated from girls and women other than his educators and the occasional visit to his mother. It was only to be expected that now he was a young man, he would need to be guided on how to interact with others in his age group—it was one thing the strict Olkvar communal education and child-raising system made no attempt at all to address, and was the reason for the Dosvakny'a.

Ilyas was holding Reyhani in his arms when Sasha and Svarina parted. Reyhani dried her eyes on the hem of her sleeve and beamed at them all.

“Come, your father will show you your room," Reyhani said to Sasha, shoving her husband forward in a knowing sort of way.

Between them, the two martens hoisted the heavy trunk up three flights of stairs.

“Arahan's paws, what have you got in here?" Ilyas grumbled, halfway up. “It weighs so much!"

They were the first actual words his father had said to him, Sasha realised.

“Books and papers, mostly, father," Sasha replied. “My apologies."

The two of them were breathless and ruffled by the time the heavy trunk was finally set against the wall of Sasha's room. Ilyas watched the younger marten take his time, gazing around the space that was so distantly familiar to him, like a ghost or the fleeting feeling of déjà-vu, slippery and indistinct. The dark timber boards on the floor were bowed and uneven in places, caulked with rope and pitch like the hull of a ship where the wood had shrunk and warped with age. The boards creaked in exactly the same spots they had done six years ago. The ceiling was low and sloped with the gable of the roof, and a small lattice window set into one of the dormers overlooked the rooftops of the city. There was no fireplace, but one of the building's stone flues protruded into the room through the wall it shared with the next room—Svarina's room—imparting warmth from the kitchen fireplace two storeys below. On either side of the flue, old wooden bookshelves were built into the wall. Sasha's bed was a simple wooden bunk with a soft, thick mattress and several pillows, and draped with warm blankets. Nestled into the pillows lay the little wool-stuffed, felt wolf Sasha used to cuddle as a kit, and Ilyas heard his son's breath tremble when he saw it.

But Sasha quickly diverted his attention. Beneath the dormer window sat a writing desk, and it was to this that Sasha gravitated, running his hand along the gnarled edge of the desktop.

“It is… it is good to see you, my son," Ilyas managed, finally. Why was his heart beating so fast?

Sasha turned to his father and gave a warm smile. “It is good to finally be home. We have so much to talk about."

Ilyas felt the dam holding back his emotions begin to crumble. His vision blurred, and the stoic old marten enveloped his son in an embrace that seemed to be the culmination of every hug, every kiss, every shared moment they had been denied since Sasha had been away. Ilyas' chest heaved with sobs, and Sasha finally let his guard fall away entirely, as well.

Ilyas did not know for how long they stood there in Sasha's room, the father and son enfolded in one another's arms, but by the time they finally broke apart, Ilyas' head ached and the fine, velvety fur of his cheeks was matted to his face. Sasha was in the same state.

Sasha gave a perfunctory laugh, and rubbed at his damp muzzle with his hands. “I did not see that coming," he observed, his voice thick.

“Nor did I. I… I apologise, I don't know what came over me," Ilyas said.

“I feel better," Sasha said. “Like shrugging off a heavy, wet cloak."

“Aye, that's the truth."

“Mother seemed to know that needed to happen."

“She's a saint, your mother. So… how have you been? Really, not the performative platitudes given in public."

Sasha slumped. “Until today, I did not appreciate how much I missed you. I know everyone goes through the same; it's all just part of growing up, being raised in the dormitories. And for the most part, it's good. The educators and guardians are good people, they treat us well. We're all equal, fed the same, taught the same. We're not punished excessively, we have a lot of freedom, when it is appropriate. But there is a lot of pressure to conform. And there is almost no privacy."

Ilyas nodded. He was surprised by how articulate Sasha was, with the mask of social propriety removed.

“For the last year at least, everyone in my cohort talked of little else than being released to return home. Find a Dosvakny. You know. Teenage boys."

Ilyas chuckled softly at that. “Aye, I remember well. Do… you have any ideas of a potential Dosvakny?"

Sasha's ears flattened to his head, and he glanced aside. “No, not really," he mumbled. “How do people even know where to look?"

“Well it could be anyone, really. It doesn't have to be a sexual relationship, Sasha, despite what your peers probably all outwardly hope for. My Dosvakny was my closest friend, who I met when we were perhaps eleven or twelve years old at a military training camp. By the time we both graduated from the Vospitanye we were deeply in love. I still love her, truly, although of course the Dosvakny'a is terminated once you're married. Since we were the same age, and I think that in another life we would have been married."

“If your father wasn't the man he was, you mean?" Sasha said.

Ilyas shot him a sharp glance. “Yes. But that is the world we live in, Sasha."

Sasha flinched, and Ilyas immediately regretted his words, and his tone.

The young marten sighed, and leaned on the edge of the writing desk. “Can we talk about this another time? I have only just arrived home. Can I limit the life-changing events to just one, for today?"

“Yes, of course… I am sorry, Sasha. I will leave you to unpack and settle in."

Ilyas left before Sasha could protest, closing the door behind him. He went downstairs to the mezzanine floor, where Reyhani and Svarina were huddled together deep in a whispered conversation. Both women fell silent and stared at him expectantly.

“Well…?" Reyhani prompted him.

“Well, what?"

“What did you speak about?"

Ilyas cleared his throat. “Nothing of great importance. But we did speak, and openly so, since that was so clearly your ambition."

“Oh don't be such a stuffy old grump, dad," Svarina chastised him, draping herself around his shoulders. “You were this way when I came home too, remember? We're your family, you can be open with us."

“It took me years to make him open up to me, Svarina, don't worry about it," Reyhani chuckled.

Ilyas shrugged his daughter off and advanced on his wife, touching his muzzle delicately to hers. “Aye, and no one has ever made me open up quite like you have."

“You've been weeping," Reyhani mouthed to him, silently.

Her hands squeezed his knowingly, and yet again, the depth of her perceptiveness and capacity for wordless communication sent a ripple of adoration through Ilyas.

*

Svarina made sure she sat beside Sasha at the dinner table. She scooted her chair close to his, and kept bumping his elbow with hers while they ate. Within a relatively short time, Sasha began to truly feel like he'd come home; although every now and then he felt a little shock of adrenaline when he realised he was staying here, now. He would never have to return to Orya Yulinka, with its strict discipline, dormitory accommodation and communal facilities. He resolved to take it one day at a time, to begin with. No major decisions. No big changes. Just get used to being accepted as a grown man, even if he did not feel like one in the slightest.

Reyhani had gone to great lengths for the evening meal. It was a veritable feast. The long table groaned under the weight of the food it bore, and a merry fire crackled away brightly in the hearth. Even Ma?ina had come home. She was two years Sasha's senior, and spent most of her time living with her Dosvakny, who was a young man her own age, and the son of an industrial scientist who had developed a method for extracting gas directly from the marshes east of Arhanifell to feed into the city's network of copper pipes, in preference to the expensive and polluting process of extracting it from coal. In all likelihood, Ilyas said, Ma?ina would marry him as well. That wasn't entirely unheard of, when the match was good. Occasionally even in Olkvarskali, the stars could align and lead to people marrying for love.

Ilyas winced when Reyhani kicked him under the table for observing as such.

He apologised to his wife silently, with nothing more than a look in his eyes.

Svarina giggled cutely at the exchange.

Sasha felt warm, mellow and content. He felt no need to guard his feelings, as he did around his peers at the Vospitanye. The liquor helped, of course. It was a powerful, fiery spirit, distilled from wild plants and grains harvested from the floodplains of the great meandering river—the Rek'ya Sargiyskali—which flowed from the endless wilderness in the north into the Sargon Sea. What made it special though, was the use of the purest water known to exist; that which filtered down through the limestone strata of a specific region of the lower Rift mountains. Some said the water took longer to filter through the rock, than there had been any civilisation at all on Asantrea.

Svarina refilled his glass, and gave him a curious half-smile.

Sasha's heart fluttered. Why did she have that effect on him? It was probably because he'd been away from her most of their lives, he supposed, and had scarcely interacted with a woman at all since his adolescence began. Once he'd drained his glass once more, a warm fog of gentle drunkenness had descended on his mind, and he clumsily entertained the notion of asking Svarina to be his Dosvakny.

Such an arrangement wasn't unheard of. Dosvakny'a was often an arrangement that was more about the strength of the companionship between two people and their comfort to explore together than it was about sex, after all, and since it was not formally sanctioned by the Arahanic church, it was not bound by the same rules as marriage. It was well known that cousins and siblings often entered Dosvakny'a together, and there was no taboo about such pairings.

But in the back of Sasha's mind, he was remembering the great Athonian classics he'd read, in which—at least in the original manuscripts—casual sexuality of all kinds was very common, and treated as a natural way to address an urge that might otherwise consume one's sensibilities. It was not so in Olkvar society, where casual sex was deeply maligned and strictly prohibited. Many Olkvars had been ruined and forced to leave their homes over the years if they did not enter Dosvakny'a, and were found—or even suspected—of 'unclean' behaviours. Dosvakny'a was a compromise. The Arahanic church demanded no sexual conduct of any kind outside of marriage—not even masturbation, and it was deeply ingrained into the social consciousness. Dosvakny'a predated Arahanism, Sasha had read in the history books; it was an ancient institution originally intended to be both sexual and social education, and a means of channelling one's desires before marriage. But in the modern context it was more targeted towards a practical eduction in etiquette and the complex rules of polite Olkvar society—outwardly, at least.

After dinner, Sasha retired to his room. It had been an exhausting day, and the young marten's head spun with it all.

As he drifted towards sleep, the marten's pillow morphed into Svarina in his mind's eye, and he pulled it down alongside his body. He pressed his body into its soft embrace and whispering her name, while fantasies about her being his Dosvakny played in his mind_._ He ached for it, he realised. To feel her body against his, loving and intimate, a vulnerable embrace of the sort he had only read about in flowery metaphor in Athonian texts. The thought of her beside him caused him to become erect, and he pressed his growth against the softness of his pillow. Such a state was very common for Sasha, although his understanding of precisely why it occurred or its purpose was somewhat vague and indistinct. He understood it to be a state of sexual arousal, although he did not quite grasp why it happened so regularly, and so often while he was alone. But the warm pressure it created in his lower abdomen and the fluttering excitement in his chest was pleasurable, and there was something about feeling and seeing his cock so full and stiff that he very much enjoyed. But, the Arahanic church taught that such things were unclean, forbidden, and would eventually erode one's sensibilities, so the extent to which Sasha had experimented with his own body was very limited. Not to mention the near total lack of privacy in the Vospitanye.

But here, at home, with his inhibitions dulled by the liquor he'd drunk at dinner and in the comfortable privacy of home for the first time in six years, Sasha felt the pressure and flutter of arousal as a burning ache, urgent and tantalising. It was an intensely pleasurable pain, and he gripped his pillow tightly. His hips pushed forward, driving his hardness into its softness, then withdrew. And again, and again. The friction of the soft fabric against his tumescent flesh caused his mind to fog with lust, and his memory to recall the more ribald scenes in the Athonian texts, where a protagonist's urges overcame his better judgement. In those texts, such moments usually resulted in social complexity, but here? In the silent darkness of his very own private room, with no one around but himself and his pillow? Sasha allowed his learned inhibitions to drop away.

He rolled atop his pillow and hunched his slender body over it. His sharp teeth captured its edge, a primordial mating bite, and he quivered and trembled while he drove his hardness again and again into the pillow's soft warmth, with his hands trapped beneath it to simulate gripping Svarina's slender, svelte buttocks and hoisting her upward to meet his urgent thrusts. The ache that had been building in his lower abdomen for much of the evening became a burning itch that felt very much like he was desperate to urinate, and he paused often to enable the flame to cool, such that he would not—as he believed he would—accidentally piss his bed. It was a sensation he was somewhat familiar with from his more uninhibited moments at night in the Vospitanye. And he knew that if he stimulated his erect penis for too long, or too hard, accidents happened. But that night in the privacy of his very own room, in his own house, Sasha indulged himself further than he could ever remember.

The burning pleasure of stimulating himself until the burning sensation of nearly having an 'accident' over and over turned Sasha into a trembling, panting mess. His pillow was damp with the slippery clear fluid he oozed in the height of arousal. He pushed himself achingly close to that point of no return over and over. He knew from a few previous experiences of a similar kind that sometimes when he did it a certain way, there would be a surge of uncontrollable intensity and a fluid would eject from his penis that was thick and sticky, and that when that occurred, what followed was the sudden and complete loss of arousal. It felt a lot like breaking himself, and it terrified him the first time he'd felt it. He nebulously understood that sensation and the fluid to be the climax of sexual congress, where a man spilled semen—but that was meant to occur with a lover, not by oneself on a pillow!

Sasha's confusion and inexperience led him to pushing sensory buttons for hours on end that caused him to occasionally fail to hold in all of the various fluids his penis could dispense. Suddenly, he went too far, and did not pause in time. The burning pleasure turned into the sensation of liquid rising along his aching spire suddenly, and caught the marten off-guard. He couldn't stop it. His hips gave an involuntary buck, and that moment of additional friction caused the rising heat to spill. He clenched as hard as he could, but despite himself, a messy jet of urine-tainted precum squirted into his pillow. It wasn't a major accident. But it felt almost as intense. And it felt good. So good. Sasha moaned loudly into his pillow and quivered. He bucked his hips again and clenched, grinding the head of his rod into the slippery wetness of his pillow, forcing out another jet into it.

In a hedonistic, drunken stupor, he lifted his hips and gripped his iron-hard rod, roughly rubbing its sensitive head up and down against his damp pillow. The sensation came back quickly, and he indulged it over and over, pushing himself to the very edge of an 'accident' and painfully clenching it back at the last possible moment. He sent dribbles and squirts of urine and precum pulsing onto his pillow and the mattress beneath. And then he flipped onto his back and gazed down at the swollen, reddened, drum-taut spire of erect flesh that pulsed and throbbed and burned with aching intensity over his lower abdomen. Its head was dark and shiny, engorged and angry, and he roughly palmed over it. Then he hoisted his damp pillow onto his lap and gripped it in both hands, rubbing it against his cock with only marginally more control than shoving his cock into it with his bodyweight. The rising burn of pleasure returned easily by that time, and he knew that the longer he did this, the easier it would be to accidentally spill semen.

He decided not to make it an accident. He was so aroused he wanted it to happen. He moaned Svarina's name once more and imagined his pillow was her, straddling his hips, rubbing her naked body against his flesh…

The burning rush of intensity came again, and this time Sasha did not stop. He did not clench it off and tremble while his penis oozed precum or urine. He kept going. A loud, unmuffled vocalisation of primal lust escaped his throat, and what followed was an explosion of rhythmic, uncontrollable clenches and pulses from somewhere deep inside him. The ejaculation was so powerful that semen sailed clear over his head onto the wall behind him with a wet splat, and left behind a burning, stinging pain somewhere within the root of his member that made him rush to the privy—although his bladder was now empty. The sensation was one he'd felt once or twice before, but never so strongly, and it perturbed him for the duration of the post-climactic guilt he often felt after such a session.

When he eventually made it back to his bed, after cleaning himself up and convincing himself that even if it felt like it, he did not need to urinate, he fell into the deepest and heaviest slumber he could ever recall.

*