Escape to Constantinople

"The novelist? Fydor Betskoy?"

"Yes," Katya answered. "You know of him?"

"Yes—of his novels. I am Pyotr," he continued. And then after a pause, "Pyotr Apraksin. I was a student in a school in a town outside St. Petersburg . . . where my parents taught."

"But you are dressed as a cadet. A cadet of the Imperial Military Academy. And I saw you with the group of them in the harbor."

"Yes. My parents had dreams for me. But I'm afraid that I'm not a very good cadet. I have more in common with your father, the novelist, I feel. And he is . . .?"

"I have no idea," Katya answered in a low voice. "As far as I know I am the only Betskoy alive now."

Pyotr didn't respond for several moments, but when Katya moved a hand to lay over his at the rails, she said, "and the same is with you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so." He looked down at her hand on his, feeling an emotion more stirring and pleasant than the fear and distress that had been consuming him to this point. "I guess we are both adrift in the world then. But so far we both live."

She was about to answer, when the voice of Grigory Orlov cut into the conversation. He appeared on the other side of Pyotr at the rail and spoke sharply to Pyotr without so much as a word or look of acknowledgment for the young woman.

"I have acquired a cabin for us. It is barely serviceable, but it must do. It will be just for a night, Count Pyotr. We will be in Sevastopol tomorrow, and I'm sure we can do much better then. Come with me. I want to show you where it is."

Pyotr reddened and felt the surprise that Katya surely was exhibiting upon hearing Orlov call him count. He couldn't look at her, though. He suddenly felt cheaper and less human as a count than he had, so briefly, as Pyotr Apraksin, from a small town outside of St. Petersburg, whose parents were simple teachers. He wondered which version of him she would take as the truth. Would she think he was pretending to be a count just to save himself and to get preferential treatment on the ship? He would be crushed if she thought that.

The cabin Orlov showed Pyotr to was tiny, able only barely to hold a bunk bed, with two bureaus across a narrow aisle from them. But it had a porthole, and Pyotr knew that, by being here, they were displacing two junior officers who would have to fight the refugees for a place to sleep.

"Shall I take the top?" he asked. They were standing pressed into the side of the bunks and barely clearing the bureau's behind them. They were close together, forced to be, by the size of the cabin, and Orlov had an arm around Pyotr's shoulders. The standing room in the cabin was practically nonexistent. Orlov reached over and pushed the door to the cabin shut.

"You will have the top later tonight. But for now the bottom will suffice for both of us." He was still holding Pyotr close to him with one arm and was unbuttoning Pyotr's gray cadet tunic with his other hand.

"Professor Orlov . . ."

"Would you start denying me now, Pyotr? My protection has not stopped in Kazan. You have gotten this far toward safety only because of me. You are totally unprepared for real life. You were useless in getting from the trucks and onto this ship." Orlov was unbuckling the belt of Pyotr's trousers and unbuttoning his fly. "Can you deny it? You need me. We are not safe yet. You are alive because of me. I own you, and I will have you when I want. True?"

"Yes, professor," Pyotr answered obediently. He was breathing hard because Orlov was stroking his cock. The younger man felt the hot breath of the older on his neck, and he turned his face to Orlov and moaned as the professor took possession of his lips.

Five minutes later Pyotr was sitting on the bottom bunk and Orlov was leaning in toward him, with his fly open and his cock stroking inside Pyotr's mouth.

Fifteen minutes later Pyotr was on the surface of the bunk on the small of his back, his fists gripping the bed above him, his heels dug in the frame of the bed overhead, and Orlov crouched over his torso and pumping his ass hard with his cock.

Four hours later, Orlov was sleeping soundly and snoring on the bottom bunk, and Pyotr remained awake on the top bunk, reviewing all of the events of the day and wondering if he was the lucky one, or if Mikhail and Vasily were the lucky ones—perhaps free now from whatever challenges and miseries lay ahead, leading perhaps to a painful death anyway. Perhaps drowning was a less horrendous way to go than whatever faced Pyotr. Perhaps he would be better off if he climbed down from this bunk, went up to the deck, and slipped over the side and into the arms of the welcoming sea.

He sat up on the edge of the bunk. His thoughts then went to the young woman he'd met today, Katya. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, he thought, her beauty undiminished by the horrors of the day and the danger she had experienced. In spite of all that, she had exuded confidence and hope when they had talked at the ship's rail. Pyotr couldn't see her giving up as he was contemplating doing. She was stronger than he was, he felt. And Orlov was right about him not being able to survive on his own. And thus Orlov was within his rights to dominate and take Pyotr at will—at least until Pyotr was willing and able to take responsibility for himself.

The mere presence of Katya was a reason for him to live.

Pyotr climbed down from the bunk as quietly as he could and stole out of the cabin. He didn't turn toward the stairs leading up to the deck, though; he turned in the other direction, toward the one head at the end of the passageway, to relieve himself.

On the way back, he heard the sounds of moans coming from one of the cabins along the corridor. The cabin door was open just enough for him to be able to peep inside. The ship was in darkness, but the cabin had a porthole and the moon was full. Rays from the moon filtered into a cabin that was about twice the size of the one that Pyotr and Orlov were in. Instead of a bunk bed, there was a single bed. And there were a couple of chairs and furnishings that made the cabin so much more comfortable and lived-in than the cabin Pyotr had been assigned.

A senior officer's cabin.

The presumed senior officer in question was naked and crouched over the side of his bed. Another figure was in his embrace between him and the bed and facing down. Pyotr recognized the once-elegant satin dress he'd seen Katya Betskoya wearing earlier in the day. The officer, obviously the one who had guided her to the ship, had an arm wrapped around her waist. Her dress and petticoats were bunched up at her waist in back as well, revealing smooth flanks and well-turned legs. The officer was fucking her from behind with rapid, deep thrusts in her ass.

Pyotr felt outrage and violation—even though the violation wasn't his personally—well up in his gorge, and he barely was able to check his initial reaction to rush in and pull the man off Katya. It was so much worse to his sensitivities that the man was taking her in the ass.

But he stopped himself in time. These were rough times for survival. Katya was making her own choices in order to survive—just as Pyotr had done earlier that year when Grigory Orlov had made quite clear that his protection of Pyotr was contingent on Pyotr lying under him whenever Orlov beckoned. It was a decision and accommodation that had been validated twice already since they had come aboard when Orlov had taken him in the afternoon and then again that night.

And for all Pyotr knew she had requested taking the man this way to avoid complications.

Pyotr pulled away from the spectacle and quietly returned to his cabin, determined neither to ever mention this to Katya if he was so privileged as to see her again or to hold her decision for survival against her. And when he entered the cabin, he didn't climb into the upper bunk but, rather, nudged Orlov over in the bottom bunk and stretched out beside his protector and mentor. Orlov grunted, half woke, and opened his arms for Pyotr to slip inside. Orlov slid his hand down Pyotr's bare torso and fisted Pyotr's cock. Pyotr turned his face to Orlov and they kissed. Sometime again in the night or the early morning Orlov would want Pyotr again—and Pyotr would accommodate him. Pyotr recognized that he had to make accommodations as well if he wanted to survive; if one as lovely as Katya was willing to sacrifice her dignity, he should be able to do no less.

Like Katya, Pyotr was now determined that he would live—just as long as he could.

Orlov's need came quickly. While their lips were still locked, Orlov turned Pyotr on his side, placed a beefy, hairy leg over Pyotr's smooth thigh, and pressed an already hard cock inside Pyotr's channel.

Pyotr groaned, ending the kiss with a murmured, "Yes, please be good to me. Oh, yes, god yes. Like that." He was determined to make his professor continue to want him enough to protect him—at least for now.

"So you want me now? Full surrender to me, is it?" Orlov whispered. And then he laughed when Pyotr showed his acquiescence by moving his buttocks against Orlov's groin, taking over the rhythm of the fuck.

Chapter Three: Sevastopol

The appearance of the youngest daughter, Tello, peeking into the dining hall, had occasioned the Armenian carpet merchant's hauling of his bulk out of his chair and disappearing for the few moments it took for him to escort his three young daughters back to their beds. They had been fascinated that a Russian prince had been invited to their home and had taken every opportunity to look in on the dinner guest. Pyotr had clearly heard the eldest, Silva, not more than twelve, sigh from the shadows and whisper how handsome the prince was, along with the crinolines of the three girls rustling on the staircase and the middle daughter, Arine, and Tello giggling at their love-struck older sister's dreamy declaration.

Pyotr took advantage of the brief absence of his host to open the small parchment paper-lined purse hanging from his belt and to slip a couple of slices of the roasted meat from the tray on the table, a boiled potato, and several chunks of bread in it.

The young Russian nobleman ate at one Sevastopol merchant's table or other at least twice a week in visits arranged by Grigory Orlov, who had put the word out that one of his Imperial Military Academy cadets was a Romanov prince and was interested in settling down in Sevastopol. The eldest daughter of Gurgen Petrosian was not the youngest young woman who had not so subtly been presented to Pyotr for his possible interest. None of these prospective father-in-laws had any illusions about Romanov wealth, but a prince in the family would be a prince in the family. And Pyotr was, indeed, a very handsome young man who any middle-class merchant's daughter would melt to. The Sevastopol merchants probably would have been equally impressed even if they'd known Pyotr was only a count, the son of a prince. But it was true enough that he was a Romanov, even though Pyotr had planned to take on the name Apraksin from this point forward.

Pyotr wasn't hoarding the food for himself. It was for Grigory Orlov. And Orlov wasn't advertising Pyotr's availability to dine at the homes of eligible and near-eligible daughters to marry Pyotr into a Sevastopol family. Both Orlov and Pyotr knew that within a couple of weeks, the imperial academy cadets would be moving up to the land bridge that separated the Crimean peninsula from the Russian mainland at Perekop. Until then, the military cadets—and their faculty—were housed in an abandoned military barracks near the top of one of the city's three hills. They were fed, but no better than most of the refugees trouping into the city from the Russian mainland were being fed—which wasn't enough for Orlov. Orlov essentially was sending Pyotr out on scavenging hunts in the houses of the still-wealthy Sevastopol merchants who had not yet realized that their foothold on Russia was tenuous—just as they didn't know enough about the Russian royal family to know that even though Pyotr's father was a prince, Pyotr wasn't—and wasn't likely ever to become one.

The narrow land bridge from the mainland to the peninsula, with impassable marshes on either side, had always been easily held by a smaller force against vast armies. The land approach had never been breached as long as anyone could remember. Any threat to the Crimea had always come by sea. But the White Russian army gathered on the Crimea had little respect for whatever navy the Bolsheviks could muster and, besides, the approaches to Sevastopol's harbor were being monitored by the navies of the Allies—Britain, Italy, France, and the United States. No Red navy would try to run past that gauntlet.

Petrosian returned to the table and lowered his bulk into his chair. He had a large handkerchief out and was mopping his brow from the exertion of his fast trip up the narrow stairs of his townhouse near the harbor. He looked apologetically at Pyotr.

"I'm so sorry. It's difficult to raise three daughters alone. It's been nearly a year since my Dahlia died. I would hire a governess for them, but a suitable young woman is so hard to find these days."

"They are lovely daughters. And really well behaved." Pyotr was telling the merchant what he wanted to hear. He had what he had come for now and was looking for an opening for a diplomatic departure.

"They are lively young women, yes. But they need discipline. Especially the eldest, Silva. She needs the guiding hand of a man. She will make a man an excellent, yielding wife—and she, of course, will come with a considerable dowry and a position for her husband with me, as needed. And this is such a large house. The girls are growing. It needs the sound of young children playing again. My Dahlia would be so pleased to have babies in this house again."

"Yes, I'm sure. Well, it certainly has gotten late—"

"Do you not find my eldest, Silva, attractive, prince?"

"Yes, certainly. She's a beautiful young woman."

"You could try her, if you wish."

"Try her?"

"Yes, as I said, she really needs the guiding hand of a strong man. I know that the life in the barracks must be Spartan—and a young, strapping man like you must have needs. I would, of course, be honored to have a Romanov in the family. And I know how tenuous life is in these unfortunate, unsettled times. She is upstairs in a room of her own now."

"I don't really . . . it's been a fine evening, and your daughters are lovely . . . all three of them. But there is a curfew at the barracks, and I—"

"You like them all? Well, of course, you could only marry one, but if you are attracted to all three . . . Tello is eight already, and Armenian women blossom early."

Pyotr sat there, looking dumbfounded.

"Ah, but of course this is all too sudden to think about. Where were my manners?" Gurgen was backpedaling now and sweating like a pig. "It is a lot to think about, I know. Perhaps you can come visit us for dinner again soon. The girls could sup with us, perhaps, and you could get to know them better."

"Sup with you again soon," Pyotr repeated. These were the magic words that Orlov had bade him to focus on. "Yes, yes, of course. That would be quite pleasurable."

After that Pyotr couldn't get out of there quick enough. When he had reached the entry door in the huge foyer and was exiting onto the second floor landing, where one entered the residence, with the merchant's shop on the ground floor beneath, he looked up the stairs and caught three pairs of eyes peering down at him, accompanied by wide smiles. Yes, indeed, the three young daughters were fetching—but was it really coming to this for him?

It took him a good fifteen minutes to ascend the hill to the barracks, and he might, indeed, have been worried about not making it back before curfew, if Grigory Orlov was not the faculty member responsible for curfew.

Still, he unexpectedly was challenged at the barracks door by the senior cadet, Nikolai Saltykov, who was trying to replace the lost Vasily as the cadet dominator of Pyotr. A rough peasant who had gotten into the academy because of demonstrated military talent rather than by position, he disdained the royals and made little bones about wanting Vasily's controlling position with Pyotr because of this. Only Orlov stood in his way. The academy had primitive standards in its program to toughen its cadets. Senior cadets had privileges over the junior ones, despite their family origins, and if a senior cadet was of a mind to take and keep a junior cadet for his and the junior cadet could not reason his way out of the arrangement, he was the senior cadet's for the taking. Within a few years, Pyotr would be a senior cadet himself and could do as he pleased in that regard.

"You are late, cadet," Nikolai's booming voice announced. "That cannot go unchecked." He was a florid-faced, large boned peasant of strong build and tall stature. Pyotr was no match for him in either strength or crassness—and he well knew he wasn't. He had been barely able to sidestep the senior cadet since they had arrived in Sevastopol a bare three weeks earlier.

"I have been summoned by Professor Orlov. I must go back to his chamber immediately. You may go with me, of course, if you wish to claim an infraction."

"I know where we must go, and it isn't to Orlov's room."

Nikolai was manhandling Pyotr toward the communal head and shower room just to the right of the barracks entrance. Other than the room for Orlov at the back of the barracks and those of the other faculty members on the floor above, the barracks was one long bunk room. Most of the taking that occurred between the cadets was conducted in the head at the urinals or in the showers—and mostly at times when the room was not in general use.

Pyotr had spoken in a loud voice on purpose and Nikolai had done so as well, having no low volume on his voice. This accomplished Pyotr's intent.

Grigory Orlov called out in a commanding voice as he stomped toward them from the back of the barracks. "Is that Pyotr Romanov? I wish to see him in my chamber immediately. Let him pass, Nikolai."

Orlov glowered at Nikolai, and Nikolai avoided eye contact, although the sour expression on his face showed how close to the edge of insubordination he was willing to go. But Orlov knew as well as Nikolai did that this position with the academy was Nikolai's one chance in life and that, at the foundation, Nikolai was a born soldier. Obeying his superiors was ingrained in his soul.

He pushed Pyotr away from him with such force that Pyotr almost stumbled to his knees. But Orlov was there on the other side of him, his hand going to Pyotr's arm and holding him up.

"Come, Cadet Romanov. To my chamber. I think you have a dispatch for me."

Later, in the dark of the night, Pyotr stumbled past snoring and snorting cadets, sleeping in double bunks set as closely together as possible, to his own lower bunk. He didn't have far to creep. Orlov had seen to that—making sure that Pyotr's bunk was close to the door to his chamber. This was for Orlov's convenience rather than Pyotr's.

Orlov had made Pyotr strip and lay on his back on the single bed in Orlov's chamber while Orlov ate the meal Pyotr had brought him.

"Ugh. The beef is overdone. Next time . . . rarer."

Pyotr had almost drifted off to sleep when Orlov was finished with his meal and was ready for a different kind of feeding. He had stripped and lowered himself to the bed straddling Pyotr's chest. Pyotr opened his mouth in resignation as Orlov fed his cock in. When he was ready, Orlov lowered himself, wove his arms under Pyotr's legs and lifted and spread them, and fucked Pyotr to a mutual ejaculation.

When Pyotr crawled into his bunk, he lay there, contemplating what he'd come to. He didn't mind being fucked by men all that much. He had always assumed he would be attracted to women—and as he thought about this, the image of Katya Betskoya, who he had not seen since that night in the officer's cabin en route from Novorossiysk to Sevastopol rose up. But he'd never had sex with a woman. He had, however, had sex with men—much of it of late—and he was certainly aroused by that. The only objection he had to that was that he was being controlled by others. He was a Romanov, son of a prince. A few years earlier he would have answered to no one but his father and his eldest brother. And neither of them was often nearby. Everyone else was at his beck and call. Now, there were so many who wanted to control him.