Buch lesen: "Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 6"
Cover designer Fooocus
© Kirill Borgia, 2026
© Fooocus, cover design, 2026
ISBN 978-5-0071-0085-4 (т. 6)
ISBN 978-5-0070-2123-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
The Tenth Echo
It was impossible to say how long the princess would have remained at Yarosvet’s estate — captivated not merely by the man himself, but by the very instrument of his power, the virile, sovereign weight of him inside her; by his cock, which she now adored with a depth that startled even her — had the world not intervened before the day had found its full noon.
The morning had unravelled in slow, luxuriant spirals, every hour softened by the afterglow of their entanglement. She might have stayed like that indefinitely: flushed, breathless, her body still echoing with the generous fullness he had left in her, the memory of his deep, deliberate thrusts settling in her bones like warmth from a fading fire.
But fate chose midday to knock — firmly, unapologetically.
A carriage approached along the gravel drive with the assurance of someone who never doubted her welcome. And indeed, the first figure to alight moved with the calm, unhurried self-possession of a woman both respected and accustomed to entering good homes without hesitation.
Yeseniya Loginova stepped inside as though bringing a gentle order with her: her grey-blue eyes observant yet warm, her hair arranged in soft, careful curls, her cheeks brushed with their habitual tender bloom. Her dress — modest, tasteful, touched with lace — whispered of quiet wealth and dignified femininity.
But she had not come alone.
Beside Yeseniya moved Adeline Stakhovich, the very young lady Yeseniya had introduced to Yarosvet at the ball. Her presence altered the room at once, though she entered with the softness of a drifting silk veil. She was taller than most young wives he knew, her figure lithe, balanced, shaped by an instinctive, almost feline grace. Her skin held a warm, sun-kissed undertone, a quiet golden glow inherited from the mother she scarcely remembered, and it lent her features a delicate, irresistible harmony.
Her eyes — almond-shaped, dark, with a subtle inner shimmer — glanced about with that unmistakable, secretive curiosity she tried so diligently to hide. They were not brazen; they were observant, quietly collecting impressions as though each new place were a poem she meant to study later. The fine curve of her brows deepened that enigmatic impression, giving her face a touch of deliberate mystery, as though she knew far more than she would ever confess.
A curl or two of her dark hair softened her cheeks, and the faint glow of her lips made her expression seem both modest and… quietly alive. Her steps were unhurried, gliding, touched with an eastern fluidity that set her apart from the sharper lines of Russian girls. Every movement, even the smallest shift of her hands, seemed composed with a dancer’s understated confidence.
Yet nothing in her manner suggested boldness. She carried herself with impeccable courtesy — a young, proper wife visiting an acquaintance — but beneath that gentle exterior lingered something watchful, precise, a mind that weighed every detail even as she smiled softly.
And so the two women entered the estate: Yeseniya bringing serene order, and Adeline — a quiet, shimmering intrigue, a self-contained warmth that made Yarosvet recall, with curious clarity, the exact moment at the ball when he had first noticed the way she observed the world… as though every secret belonged to her by right.
Upstairs, the princess still fought for breath, unaware that this meeting — so civil, so ordinary — would shift the course of the entire afternoon.
Ketevan descended the last step with the unsteady poise of someone who had dressed too quickly and breathed too deeply; no one would call her dishevelled, yet the faint bloom along her throat, the softened shine in her eyes, the slight looseness in the way she held her shoulders — all of it murmured of a morning spent far from innocence.
And Yeseniya saw it at once.
Her smile deepened, warm, serene, unhurried — as though she had just confirmed a quiet expectation. She greeted the princess with an embrace that felt almost maternal, almost conspiratorial, her gloved hand lingering a heartbeat too long on Ketevan’s arm, as if to say: So. It has happened. Good.
Adeline, standing just behind her protector, took in the scene with a poise worthy of any drawing room… but her almond-dark eyes widened by the smallest, most revealing fraction. She saw the flush beneath Ketevan’s skin; she noticed the careful way the princess kept her knees close together, as though her body still held a memory she didn’t dare shift too abruptly. And in that instant, the young wife understood everything.
Not in words — women like her never needed them. But in the way her breath caught in her chest, quiet and sharp, as though a door had opened in front of her: a door she herself had come here to step through.
Ketevan, in turn, recognised the meaning of the darker woman’s steady gaze. Adeline’s composure was impeccable, but her curiosity shimmered beneath it — gentle, hungry, disciplined. She was not here for conversation. She was not here for tea. She was here because Yeseniya had decided she should have the same chance, the same right, the same secret blessing.
The air between them tightened — not hostile, not jealous, but alert, almost electric, as though the three women were circling a truth too intimate to speak aloud.
Yeseniya broke the silence first, of course. She always did.
«My dears,» she said, her tone soft as velvet and every bit as deliberate, «how fortunate that we should meet on such a radiant day.»
Her eyes moved from Ketevan’s flushed cheeks to Adeline’s shining calm, and then back again, assessing, arranging, confirming the invisible lines of this private constellation. She said nothing else, yet her look completed the thought:
He will choose each of you. And each of you knows why she has come.
Ketevan lowered her gaze for a moment, heat stirring beneath her skin; Adeline straightened ever so slightly, as if preparing for an unspoken test; and Yeseniya, satisfied, rested her hand lightly on Adeline’s back — guiding without seeming to guide.
Thus the three women stood before one another: one marked by the morning’s passion, one drawn by purpose and promise, and one — smiling, calm, utterly in command — who had orchestrated their meeting as effortlessly as a hostess arranging flowers in a vase.
And just a few steps away, Yarosvet, Taissia, Lena, and Asya lingered with the practiced ease of gracious hosts, their smiles calm, their gestures measured — but behind that courteous mask, each of them understood perfectly the subtle currents at play, the unspoken roles being claimed and accepted before their very eyes.
Elizaveta and Anfisa moved quietly among the polished surfaces of the low table, arranging the samovar with its brass gleam, the delicate jars of jam, and the small, flaky pastries that sent faint, buttery curls of warmth into the air. Their movements were smooth, habitual, the choreography of hospitality learned over countless such gatherings, yet imbued with a subtle care that lent the moment a gentle intimacy.
Once the offerings were set, the women stepped back, inviting both guests and hosts to gather. Cups were lifted, spoons clinked lightly against porcelain, and the sweet, fragrant steam of tea mingled with the faint, tender scent of morning’s lingering warmth.
Yeseniya, seated with her calm, attentive poise, inclined her head toward Ketevan and asked, her tone soft but edged with genuine interest, «And how fares the princess? Have you accomplished all that you wished?»
The question, formal and almost perfunctory, allowed for a brief, measured reply. Yet Ketevan, letting her gaze drift briefly toward Adeline without revealing the faint spark behind it, chose candour. She spoke slowly, deliberately, each word measured yet suffused with a quiet intensity.
«Thank you, Yeseniya,» she said, inclining her head with the faintest smile. «For introducing me to a man of such… remarkable character.» Her eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward Adeline, as though letting the younger woman feel the weight of her declaration without ever saying it aloud. «And now, by experience, I understand fully what it is to be a woman, to feel free in every sense, and yet… entirely possessed of one’s own being.»
There was a pause, filled only by the gentle hiss of the samovar and the faint clink of spoons against teacups, and the words seemed to hang delicately in the air, soft yet undeniably charged. She did not elaborate further, nor did she need to; the depth of her confession, the quiet authority of her tone, carried everything she wished to convey.
Yeseniya nodded, serene, her eyes holding the light of approval and subtle amusement. Adeline’s dark gaze betrayed nothing, but the faint tightening at her lips, the slight shift of her posture, revealed the impression Ketevan’s words had left — sharp, controlled, but not without effect.
And through it all, the shared knowledge passed unspoken among them: the morning had already been lived, the boundaries redefined, and every glance, every sip of tea, every polite word now carried the silent awareness of what had been experienced — and of what each woman understood, fully, about the others’ place in it.
Yeseniya turned to Yarosvet with her usual composed grace, her voice soft yet carrying the subtle authority of one accustomed to orchestrating both conversation and circumstance. «Adeline,» she began, nodding slightly toward the young wife, «made her decision already over the weekend. We only waited for Wednesday, one of the most favorable days, as you know, for… the matters we discussed.»
She allowed a slight pause, her grey-blue eyes sweeping the room with the calm precision of a conductor measuring her audience. «Unfortunately, both of us have pressing obligations in town, and we would prefer — if it does not inconvenience you — to depart before supper.»
Her gaze then shifted to Ketevan, warm but deliberately appraising. «And, princess,» she added lightly, yet with the faintest edge of encouragement, «if you have resolved all that you wished, I would be delighted to escort you as well — surely Yarosvet would appreciate some time alone with his… ladies.»
Her tone left no ambiguity, yet no imposition: a subtle invitation and a quiet acknowledgment of the morning’s undisclosed events, of the bonds already formed, and of the delicate hierarchy now in motion under her careful supervision.
The air seemed to thrum with the unspoken understanding: each woman, in her place, was fully aware of the roles she now occupied, and of the silent, precise choreography that guided their movements and decisions.
Yarosvet leaned back slightly in his chair, a calm, easy authority radiating from him, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips. «There is no need for haste,» he said, his voice measured, warm, and welcoming. «None of you are obliged to leave before your time. Remain exactly as long as you wish — our home is always open, and my girls are ever pleased to receive new friends.»
He gestured lightly toward Ketevan and the others, his eyes carrying both sincerity and a quiet, knowing amusement. «Sit, speak, laugh, or linger. There is no schedule here but your own desire. Consider yourselves at ease, for all that is ours is shared freely with those we hold in regard.»
The invitation, effortless in its phrasing yet subtle in its power, made the air around them lighter, suffused with that delicate balance of courtesy, latent intimacy, and gentle command that he always seemed to wield without effort.
Taissia, perched lightly on the edge of her chair, allowed her gaze to flick subtly toward Yeseniya, the faintest trace of a sardonic smile playing at her lips. «And when, pray,» she asked, her tone deliberately measured yet edged with gentle teasing, «do you intend to bring Zlata to us?»
Her eyes, bright and observant, lingered briefly on Ketevan and Adeline as she continued, letting the point slip in almost imperceptibly: a quiet barb that touched both the princess and the young wife without a single cruel syllable. «We understand that thus far, our master, Yarosvet, has welcomed many worthy women into his circle… yet I recall well that originally the discussion concerned only… dolls — the true custodians of womanhood in Tartary.»
She leaned back, her posture elegant, almost languid, as she let the words settle, the smile never leaving her lips. «Zlata is certainly such a one,» she admitted softly, «though she seems, at present, to be gathering her wits and her courage. Are there perhaps any other candidates, Yeseniya Stepanovna?»
Her question hung delicately in the air: polite in phrasing, piercing in intention, a challenge wrapped in courtesy. The subtlety of her inquiry was not lost on those present, nor the quiet authority it carried, the way it navigated both observation and expectation, leaving room for answer — or for careful evasion.
Yeseniya, with her usual serene composure, let Taissia’s subtle barb slide past her without a flicker of acknowledgment. Her voice remained soft, calm, entirely unshaken, as she replied with the air of someone merely stating facts.
«As for Zlata,» she said, her eyes serene pools of measured warmth, «there is no cause for concern. She seems to have resolved her choice of a future husband, and so, in due course, she will join us here to fulfill her… feminine mission.»
There was no trace of impatience, no hint of admonition, only the gentle, unforced clarity of a woman who both knew the currents of her companions’ intentions and chose to navigate them with effortless discretion. The statement, casual on the surface, carried the weight of certainty: Zlata’s arrival was inevitable, and it would be on the terms Yeseniya had quietly foreseen.
Her glance swept over the room lightly, touching each of the women, and in that glance lay both reassurance and subtle authority — the invisible hand that had always guided their delicate, intricate dance.
Yeseniya settled more comfortably, her hands folded in her lap, and allowed herself a faint, reflective smile. «As for the potential… „dolls,“» she began, her tone lightly amused, measured, as though choosing her words with care, «there are several young women whom I have observed for some time, each with qualities most suitable to the task. Some display that rare, innate grace — the quiet intelligence, the subtle attunement to the rhythms of both the household and the heart — that marks a true custodian of womanhood. Others are promising, yet still untested, and may require gentle guidance before their readiness is apparent.»
She paused, letting the words sink in, her gaze soft but discerning. «One must consider not only temperament and elegance, but the depth of will, the capacity for discretion, and a certain… steadiness of spirit. These are not mere adornments, but the foundation of those who may serve faithfully in the intimate duties that Tartary’s tradition esteems.»
«Yes,» she continued, with a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head toward Taissia, «some are prepared; some are still gathering themselves, deliberating their paths. Each must choose, as Zlata has, whether she will step forward, and each must understand the seriousness of the role she assumes here.»
Her voice remained calm, courteous, almost casual — but beneath the surface, there was unmistakable authority and knowledge, a subtle framing of expectation that made clear which of the young women would be truly ready to join their rarefied circle, and which would require more time before being entrusted with such a delicate, exacting responsibility.
Before Taissia could offer another word, Yarosvet intervened with his usual calm, measured presence, a faint smile easing the edge of any potential tension. «You see,» he said, meeting Yeseniya’s eyes with quiet, steady emphasis, «she merely offers her services in seeking out and identifying the… dolls.»
His gaze then shifted to Taissia, warm yet deliberate, carrying both encouragement and gentle admonition. «Now that matters in the estate have settled, and the urgent work has been attended to, perhaps you might also extend your assistance to Yeseniya. I am certain she would welcome your insight, as it is not every day one encounters such discerning eyes.»
His words, polite and seemingly casual, subtly closed the floor to any further comment from Taissia, while simultaneously placing her in a position of cooperative purpose. The air balanced delicately between courtesy, authority, and the unspoken hierarchies of knowledge and experience that bound them all together.
Yarosvet turned his attention to Adeline, his voice calm yet threaded with a deliberate intimacy, measured in every syllable. «If you insist that you are pressed for time,» he said, letting the words linger just long enough to convey both permission and intrigue, «we could, for a brief while, leave so remarkable a company and retire to my chamber.»
He allowed a pause, letting the suggestion settle in the space between them, yet softened the edge immediately with his usual warmth. «Of course,» he added, his tone light, inviting, entirely unhurried, «there is no necessity. You may remain with us, as long as you wish, and enjoy your stay here freely.»
The contrast was deliberate: an offer of private intimacy, delicate yet unmistakable, tempered by the reassurance of continued hospitality. Every nuance of his phrasing reinforced the quiet balance of power and choice, leaving the decision entirely in her hands while allowing her a glimpse of the privilege and freedom she might claim.
Adeline, a faint flush warming her cheeks, allowed her gaze to flick briefly toward Yeseniya. The older woman’s response was almost imperceptible — a slight, knowing nod, a quiet acknowledgment that left Adeline with both reassurance and a subtle thrill.
Her eyes then met Ketevan’s, and in the princess’s expression she read not jealousy, but a delicate, almost teasing envy: the quiet recognition of another woman sharing a closeness that had, until now, been hers alone.
A small, controlled shiver ran through her, and she drew a measured breath. «Very well,» she murmured, her tone calm yet carrying a hint of excitement, «we shall retire at once… and see what may unfold there.»
Her agreement was uttered with the softest of smiles, poised between deference and assertion, and the decision, though immediate, carried the weight of intention: a willingness to step fully into the private space Yarosvet offered, and to discover, in those quiet moments, what might be revealed.
Yarosvet rose with his usual composed elegance, the faint smile still playing at the corners of his lips. He extended a hand to Adeline, steady and reassuring, and she placed hers lightly within it.
Together, they moved toward the doorway, the quiet rustle of fabric marking their passage. With a final glance at the assembled company — soft, courteous, yet charged with the unspoken promise of what awaited — they left the drawing room, leaving behind the faint hum of conversation and the lingering scent of tea and warm pastries.
The room seemed subtly altered in their absence, as though the air itself acknowledged the space they had carried with them, and the delicate tension of expectation remained, suspended among those left behind.
Once they were alone, Yarosvet’s expression sharpened just enough to convey direct attention, his voice calm but precise. «Am I to understand, then,» he asked without preamble, «that your apparent haste is dictated by a desire not to draw your husband’s undue notice?»
Adeline met his gaze steadily, a faint shadow of a smile tugging at her lips. «I imagined you would be exactly so,» she said, her tone both candid and measured — bold, yet tempered by courtesy. «Decisive, unflinching. Yes… in a married life, one must always maintain order, foresee the complications, and act accordingly.»
Her words carried both acknowledgement and subtle admiration, an unspoken recognition of the daring she had anticipated, and the quiet understanding that, even here, discretion and strategy governed the dance of freedom and desire.
Yarosvet halted her in the corridor, his gaze settling on Adeline with quiet intensity. He did not speak, did not gesture beyond the intent in his eyes — yet it was enough to make her pause, aware of the full weight of his attention. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for her hair, letting his fingers tease the silk from the pins and clasps that held it in its careful arrangement.
With each measured movement, her coiffure unraveled, cascading in a dark, glossy wave down her back. The effect was immediate: her composed, almost formal bearing softened, and the youthful contours of her face, previously tempered by the precision of society, seemed to bloom anew. She looked, somehow, younger than her twenty-three years — lighter, freer, more open to possibility.
She felt it as clearly as she saw it in his eyes: a subtle shift in recognition, a quiet astonishment at the way this simple, unhurried act transformed her. And she understood, in that suspended instant, that the change was not merely outward; it was mirrored in the weight and warmth of his gaze, in the deliberate intimacy of his touch, and in the unspoken agreement that she had stepped into a new, unguarded version of herself — one that existed entirely for this private, suspended moment.
The corridor, normally mundane, seemed suddenly charged with a delicate electricity, each shadow and beam of light accentuating the revelation of her altered self, and the quiet dominion he exercised with effortless authority.
His gaze lingered on her transformed face, dark eyes warm and appraising. «You know,» he said softly, the words deliberate and unhurried, «I find you even more… captivating this way.»
There was no hurry in his tone, only the quiet weight of admiration and desire, a calm acknowledgment that the subtle shift in her presence, her softened features, and the fall of her hair pleased him in ways both immediate and deeply resonant.
A faint, involuntary smile curved across her lips, softening her features in a way that seemed to answer him before words could. It was fleeting yet genuine, a small, delicate acknowledgment of his praise, and in it lay both amusement and a quiet thrill — an unspoken recognition of the intimacy, the attention, and the subtle power of the moment they shared.
He allowed a brief, almost rueful smile. «I must apologise,» he said, voice gentle yet direct, «for not offering you the comforts of the house upon your arrival.»
Adeline’s lips curved with a faint, mischievous trace of amusement. «I would not have refused,» she admitted lightly, her eyes glinting with teasing frankness, «a chance to use the facilities first — so as not to risk any… embarrassment in your chamber.»
Her words were playful, almost daring, yet delivered with the decorum of someone keenly aware of both propriety and the charge of the private moment. Yarosvet’s expression, unreadable for a heartbeat, flickered with quiet amusement and approval, acknowledging both her candour and the subtle audacity she carried into his presence.
Yarosvet guided her along the corridor with calm, unhurried steps, the muted click of their shoes on the polished wooden floor marking their passage. The walls, lined with dark, warm paneling, seemed to absorb the soft echo of their movement, and the faint scent of polished wood mingled with the lingering aroma of tea from the drawing room.
They reached the small conveniences tucked discreetly along the corridor. The room itself was modest, its wooden bench polished smooth from years of use, a simple pail set aside, and a narrow window allowing the light to sift in and a breath of fresh air to enter. The plain simplicity exuded a quiet functional charm, a small, private refuge for any who entered. Adeline stepped inside with an air of composed practicality, closing the door behind her, and the space seemed to embrace her solitude with the soft hush of privacy.
Meanwhile, Yarosvet moved a few paces down the corridor into the adjoining washroom. The space was compact yet utilitarian: a metal bathing tub rested near the wall, its surface reflecting the muted light from the small window above, and beside it, a cast-iron stove promised warmth soon to be drawn into the water. Wooden shelves lined the walls, bearing neatly stacked pails, bars of soap, and simple brushes, all orderly in the meticulous manner that seemed to define his household. The floorboards, well-worn and faintly fragrant of old wood and cleaning agents, creaked gently beneath his steps as he set a kettle of water on the stove to heat.
The two rooms, so close yet serving entirely different needs, existed in quiet harmony. One offered a private, practical shelter for brief, necessary relief; the other promised warmth, cleansing, and the ritual intimacy of bathing. In this simple arrangement, there was a sense of care, of routine, and of the subtle attentiveness that marked Yarosvet’s household — spaces prepared not merely for use, but for comfort, observation, and the understated pleasure of order well kept.
Without waiting for her to finish, Yarosvet entered the small chamber. Adeline was perched delicately on her haunches over the pail, her skirt hiked to her waist. When her eyes met his, there was a flicker of something complex: a mixture of shame and bold defiance, an almost imperceptible challenge woven into her glance. The soft, unmistakable sounds beneath her left no doubt as to what she was doing.
He approached her with calm, measured steps, his presence steady, deliberate, and unhurried. One hand came to rest lightly atop her head, fingers threading through the glossy strands of hair that fell around her face. He inclined slightly, brushing his lips against hers in a brief, controlled kiss — gentle, yet charged with an intimacy that bypassed words entirely.
The moment hung between them, the small, utilitarian room suddenly suffused with a strange, private warmth: the scent of wood and soap mingling with the closer, unspoken sensations of proximity and desire. In his calm attention, the boldness and vulnerability of the girl before him seemed to bloom simultaneously, and the quiet power of the gesture — the hand in her hair, the press of his lips — created a subtle, undeniable bond in that suspended, charged instant.
His hand lingered in her hair, fingers warm against the silken strands, and his voice, calm yet edged with quiet authority, broke the brief silence. «A wife should have no secrets from her husband,» he said softly, each word deliberate, carrying a weight beyond the mere admonition.
Adeline’s eyes met his, dark with a mixture of mischief and sincerity. «From my lawful husband,» she admitted, her tone measured yet lightly playful, «I do have secrets — there is no avoiding it. But from you… yes, from you I am ready to conceal nothing.»
Without another word, she leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft, a quiet reciprocation of trust, acknowledgement, and subtle desire. It was a statement as much as a gesture: a willingness to step fully into this private intimacy, to offer herself in candour, and to meet his attention with her own unreserved presence.
Noticing her eyes darting about the small room, as if measuring the humble confines or seeking some modest escape, Yarosvet spoke softly, yet with a gentle authority that left no room for doubt. «There is no need to wipe yourself,» he said, a faint, reassuring smile brushing his lips. «A warm bath awaits you shortly, and it will serve far better.»
His words were calm, measured, and quietly considerate, carrying both instruction and subtle intimacy. The hint of comfort in his tone, combined with the unspoken promise of warmth and privacy, seemed to settle the small tension that lingered around her, allowing her to relax, even in the presence of his attentive gaze.
Adeline rose from the pail, lowering the lid to cover it with a quiet click, and followed Yarosvet down the short corridor toward the washroom. The soft scrape of her shoes on the worn floorboards marked her steady, composed steps, each one deliberate and unhurried.
Once inside the modest bathing chamber, she halted beside the stove where the water was already beginning to warm. The flickering light from the small window played across her features, highlighting the faint flush that lingered on her cheeks and the dark gleam of her hair.
She turned toward him, her eyes lifting to meet his, and in that look lay both surrender and trust, a delicate acknowledgment of the quiet authority he held and the intimacy they shared. With measured calm, she allowed him to begin the slow, deliberate process of undressing her. Every clasp, every fold of fabric fell away beneath his hands, and she remained still, attentive, and obedient, revealing herself entirely — her body bare, unguarded, and fully in his care.
The room, simple and utilitarian, seemed transformed in the charged space between them: the scent of wood and soap mingling with the quiet warmth of proximity, the flickering light accentuating the contours of her form, and the air itself holding a delicate, suspended tension that spoke of intimacy, trust, and the unspoken rhythm of their connection.
