Work Text:
Spring 1998
There existed a rumour whispered amongst the perverse that somewhere in the country, there stood a tearoom that served no tea. Rather, they served experiences: for people to fulfill their darkest fantasies. It was to be said, that of inexcusable evil; ones I could not talk about on pain of imprisonment.
It had stood for decades since long before the fall of the USSR, to deal with the ugly problem of orphans left behind. Orphaned by the scores of workers—Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Korean, Ukrainian, and so forth—who died to unite the far corners of the Union. That was where they were whisked away to, to fulfill a dark, basal need in some of society’s most evil men. For sex, of course.
But you could get a common whore anywhere. No, these whispers were of a brothel where the clientele were all paedophiles and the goods were children. From teenagers right down to the brand new, just freshly-birthed, from a mother who didn’t care what happened to that thing because she didn’t want it anyway. Sensational. Preposterous, some would even say.
…and yet.
All of it had been a rumour, just a rumour. One that I still chased down regardless, because I am one such animal that would make use of these services.
It was during a frenzied search in the thick, black heart of the night years back, I’d found it; its location given from the mouth of a rambling drunk. It had changed locations many times, and now, it was in Samarkand. For the truly life-changing amount of millions of sums, a brief hour of such an experience could be mine. It seemed like something many normal people could not attain.
And so it was good then, that as one of few heart specialists in the country, I’d made so much money travelling and working around Eurasia, squirrelling away the heftiest part of my salary for my “tearoom fund”. It took many gruelling years of subsisting only off of the cheapest, plainest staples, but thankfully, I had no family at home to support.
Hell, if I’d had a son, I wouldn’t have been doing any of this. So, one makes do. Countless years and endless back-and-forth with the owner later, I paid the astronomical fee for an hour there, and set the date for months from then. Appointment only. The madam ran an unbelievably tight ship.
When the date came, I left home on a bus. I was no stranger to the streets of the ancient city, once capital to empires that lay in the dust. The sights and shapes of my destination, Samarkand, rose up around me in a familiar embrace. It welcomed me back from my leave of decades, as my bus pulled into the central station, just abutting the airport. Planes descended onto the tarmac; the rushing noise pressed against my ears and made my throat fill up with anticipation.
“Finally,” I heard my seat neighbour mumble as she stood, shaking her legs free of the static in her limbs. Finally indeed; she stank of a tuberose perfume that would make a whore blush. I was happy to be relieved of her.
The ride from Tashkent hadn’t, of course, taken longer than three hours, and yet, each minute that passed by made trepidation fill up in my bones. Anxiety. Utmost anticipation. I had been looking forward to this time off for months now, and I ran through every minute detail once again in the itinerary I had memorised to the very last comma.
Now that it was the late afternoon, the swelling thick of the day, activity was at a sprightly pace. All manner of people crossed the sterile hallways of the central bus station, bringing in with them the sounds and smells of the outside. A smattering of juicy roses polluted by car exhaust.
All manner of foreigners from the corners of the former Union had congregated here. No doubt on their way to see places like Registan; the mausoleum of Gur-e-Amir…. Beautiful sights, to be certain, but having grown up here, they were just about as everyday as the corner store owned by an old couple; leathery faces greeting regulars with a smile. I was not to join them.
“Where are we headed today, sir?” asked my erstwhile cab driver as he double-checked my destination. It was not in the middle of the city, like he must’ve been expecting. Rather, a nondescript house a ways outside the busy centre, almost at the outskirts of Samarkand itself.
I wiped invisible dust from my travelling case as I squeezed into the back of his cab. An aldehydic smell pushed into my nostrils, sharp and ultra-clean. Mind abuzz, I tried to catch myself in the reflection of any of his mirrors, checking for any tells that I was up to no good. Because I was. I was up to absolutely no good at all.
“My uncle’s home,” I told him in a measured tone, as blank and tight as his car smelled. “I am hoping to see them for Independence Day.” Independence—a still-new concept for us here.
He nodded at that, eyes on the road as he merged into the rumbling throat of traffic. “Where is home?” he asked lightly, sidestepping the subject of the Union’s dissolution, no doubt.
“Tashkent.” I had no desire to get into the weeds of it either. It was the furthest thing from my mind.
“And what is work?”
“I am a surgeon, sir.”
A deeper nod; that of a measured reverence. “Olloxga shukur,” he intoned—‘thank the lord’. A man of god, I supposed; many older people were. So long as he got me to my destination, I truly didn’t care what entity he submitted to.
Doctor Alisher Norbekov was what I was called back home in Tashkent, but here, I was just an anonymous man; just another Uzbek. Of compact, unathletic build, clean shaven; the common colour of the dunes between cities. When I had my glasses on, I was probably what many people imagined when they heard ‘doctor’.
As my cab arrived at the destination—a neighbourhood just beyond a small bazaar—it tickled me to think that all my time and effort to save lives and further the practice had actually led to this. Something illicit, something monstrous. Something the unassuming faces of these houses that surrounded me could never think to hide behind their doors.
The house he had dropped me off in front of was thankfully unlit. And when he disappeared back around the corner to the livelier streets of the city, I immediately turned heel and started down yet another unfamiliar side road. Whoever lived here, they were not my uncle’s family.
Guided solely by directions I’d printed out, I traced the lines of Samarkand’s neighourhoods with a squinting leer. The destination, I knew, was just going to be another house. A gray-brown home, old looking; its second level like a beetling brow jutting up over the narrow street below. There were some people passing by; I kept my head down.
Every now and then, as I got closer, I would see, one at a time, a single man walking past. His step light, his manner casual, yet still dogged by a quiet paranoia. I could see it in the whites of their eyes.
A thick bolus of anxiety threatened to come up from my stomach. Maybe they had done the same thing I was on the way to doing. Had they…?
My path ended as I approached the marked spot on my map, and I felt a full-body shiver that made me nearly drop my bags. Carved in darkening blue shadow, there it was: the brothel.
Its shape I had burned into my memory, darkness causing its edges to melt into the approaching evening, as if it was a figment of my imagination. The picture I had pored over every detail of in the months had led up to this: the ones the proprietor sent after I had paid the eye-watering amount to book my experience. Many months ago.
Xushbo’yo’t-Uyi: ‘the house of fragrant grass’. Not a name on a sign, or advertised anywhere, but known only by hushed word of mouth. By filth who could afford to book with the elusive madam. A deafening buzz filled my ears as I, now struggling to recall directions, circled around the side of the house to find a green-painted iron gate.
It squealed hollowly as I pushed past, and followed the cobbled path down into a cellar entrance. My steps were swallowed by the concrete around me, and I soon found myself standing before a silent green door. Remembering my itinerary, I knocked in a learned pattern: one-two-three, one-two. I strained to listen for footsteps, a voice, anything—
“Password?”
Oh, shit! I nearly jumped out of my skin hearing a man’s voice slink at me through a small, imperceptible slot in the door. A pair of dark eyes peeked out at me, hard and questioning.
“Ah…st—black Indian sturgeon,” I stammered, my knees shaking horrendously. The eyes behind the door hardened; my grip on the handle of my suitcase became slick with sweat. Fuck, this was difficult. The person there held my stare for what felt like entirely too long, and then eventually, the door swung open before me.
“Go left and sign in,” said the man from behind the door, gesturing to a simple hallway. Suffocatingly tight, I squeezed past, dragging my luggage behind me.
From the end of it, I could see the low, flame-coloured lights of old-style lightbulbs, winking in the gloom. Similar to the woman I’d shared a less-than-ideal journey from Tashkent with, the odorous smog of some kind of perfume wafted in from the other end. Warm, cloying, dizzying—I could feel my brains swimming in my skull.
I emerged in a small, dark room, illuminated only by those lights. Emblematic of the Soviet era that was slowly blinking out of my memory. The walls were decorated with tacky, carpeted tapestry. Badly-printed, likely replicas from China. All of it gave this dank cellar, this moment, a surreal quality. My eyes watered as I stumbled in.
“Your password,” came another voice; this time, a woman’s. Soberingly sharp, a command behind every syllable. It made my back tremble.
My head whirled about to find the face of a woman, emerging from the gloom of an attached hallway. The madam, certainly, who carried herself with a straight back. Her severe blue dress swayed about her ankles as she made her way to a desk I hadn’t seen.
“Black Indian sturgeon,” I repeated uneasily, as I had to the man at the door.
I swallowed hard as I took in the sight of the woman. She looked largely Uzbek, for sure, but her bright green eyes carried a sharp, calculating glint to them; a worrying gravitas that only added to the surreality of the space I was in.
“Hmm.” She flipped through a huge book—a ledger?—by lamplight; her illuminated face the brightest source of light in this underworld dungeon. Behind her emerged another woman, dressed in grey, carrying a bundle of towels. She was demure, silent.
The door she came from swung shut with a gentle thud; in the moment it was open, the unmistakable sound of a man’s low, lustful groan drifted into the antechamber. I swallowed hard. My own cock tingled in my pants, though I was pinned by terrible anxiety to the floor.
“Black Indian sturgeon…” echoed the first woman, her voice stark; her stare piercing. “Welcome to O’tatirlari-Uyi. You’ve reserved, but haven’t chosen a service in advance. Have a look at our menu.”
She motioned to a whiteboard behind her head, and when I scanned the options, I was left confused, to say the least. “These seem to be drinks,” I said, at a loss for words. Just…tea drinks.
“Codenames, like yours. For example….” She pointed at one of her options. “Pink Kathmandu, mild, with milk. Pink: the child is a girl. Kathmandu: she is Nepalese. Mild: she is between seven and thirteen years old. And, with milk: she will be sedated.”
“S—sedated?” I swallowed hard, peeling apart the layers behind the codes.
“So that she may be fucked with little resistance. Some prefer it that way. Others prefer when they put up…a fight. So, what appeals to you?”
Mind dancing, I scanned the entire board, only finding three options that hadn’t been struck out yet. There was only one option with “blue” in the name, denoting a boy. Girls, with their useless slits, did nothing for me. A small boy, however, with his tiny ass crowned by an immature cock and balls was everything I craved. Everything I wanted when I came here.
Thus I spoke the name of my order: “Blue Moscow, fresh, with milk.” My skin tingled, dotted with sweat. She nodded to the girl beside her, and in response, she gave a curt bow.
“Follow her,” the madam said, her glinting stare drilling holes into my face. “You have seventy-five minutes. Filming is permissible. If you need anything, do call one of my girls. More importantly, if you damage the child beyond reasonable recovery, the payment will be in your flesh. Understood?”
I swallowed. “Y—yes. Yes, madam.”
She nodded, her disinterested eyes leaving my face as she turned back to the ledger. Following the plainly-dressed woman, I disappeared into a hallway, where the sounds of moaning and fucking burned holes in my ears. The walls of the tearoom closed around me, the heavy perfume filled up my skull, and the echoing footfalls making my heart pound in my chest.
Thick, wet fucking all around me. The sounds of children—boys or girls, I couldn’t tell—moaning and screaming. They sounded indescribably young. Some of them, the gurgling cries of what couldn’t have been more than—than toddlers. Punctuating all of it, the groans of men. Their laughter. Spewed-out commands: “take it, little whore!”
“Here, sir,” said the woman I’d been following, motioning me into a very small room, once again decorated by cheap carpet tapestry. A low, flame-coloured light lit up what looked to be…a bassinet. Fuck me. Fuck me.
“M—Moscow,” I mumbled, pulling the order from the warm, hazy soup my mind was becoming. “Fresh. Milk.”
The woman nodded. “Yes sir, that was your order.” She had a limp smile on her face as she took me through the housekeeping. “Besides all that she’s told you already, the madam stipulates all children under a year old must be gaped open with a training toy. We request that you leave it in the room before you leave. They are expensive to replace.”
“Under a…miss? How old is he…?”
“Nine months,” she replied simply. At that, she left her bundle on the bench nearby: towels, lube, wipes. And she bowed out of the room, leaving me alone with this infant, and the sound of my heart thumping in my ears. Nine. Months.
He was truly just a baby, I realised, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes took in the sight of him. Small, pale; a Slavic infant. Hands trembling, I scooped up the little life in both arms and took him and myself to the bed nearby. Blood pumped like mad to my cock as I cradled the infant to myself. Very fresh, I remarked in my mind.
Holding him to my chest, I carefully peeled the outer layers of his swaddling off—stars against a blue field. He was breathing slowly, no doubt the work of the “milk” they use. Next came his tiny little diaper, clean and dry as if they’d just put it on. And when I peeked, there it indeed was: a small anal toy, still too huge for a baby such as himself.
Hands trembling, I laid him down. The infant lay supine on the soft pillow, gleaming white against the tufted red velvet. His tiny chest rose and fell; the beautiful rosy blush in his shoulders and knees caught the cool pink.
Begging to be freed, my cock throbbed angrily, and when I let it out to greet the warm, dank air of the tearoom, I had to bite back the immense anxiety that enveloped me then. Thus I stared at my own cock, my nine inches dark and monstrous against him, though I figured anything would be.
He wasn’t yet a year old, after all.
His small body warmed the underside of my already inflamed cock, causing me to pump and leak onto his minuscule white chest. My breath was catching, threatening to squeeze my heart out of my body. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Fuck me,” I whispered, bucking my hips only slightly to rub my length along this baby’s skin. “Not too quick. Not too quick….” I couldn’t cum before I got my money’s worth. But my nerves were so frayed, so volatile, that anything could happen if I wasn’t careful.
This beautiful baby slept deeply, helped along by whatever drugs they had filled his milk with. He needed it and so did I. As I pulled back, leaving a shiny streak of precum along his belly, I whispered a godless prayer to myself. For whatever god allowed me to finally end up here, in a quiet corner of Samarkand, with my cock pressing up against an infant’s asshole, was a dark and grinning god to be certain.
Or perhaps this was what god wanted for all his subjects all along. I didn’t know. Or care.
“Beautiful.” The word slunk out of my throat, heavy and dark as burning bakhoor. “Oh, just so beautiful. Little baby….” A shiver coursed up my entire body as I pushed past his unbearably tiny little hole, pushed, pushed…. And popped in.
My heart skipped a beat as I realised I was finally inside of a baby. Years of dark, perverted dreams, working in foreign countries, and so many millions of bleeding red sums saved up had finally crystallised in this. My cock, sinking deeper and deeper into a nine-month-old infant.
The girth of my cock, an angry purple-red against his pink-blushed white cheeks, stretched his hole into an unbelievable shape. In a way I had only previously seen in illicit videos, my cock bore into a baby’s tiny, tiny little asshole. Penetrating, like this was natural.
Well, I was a paedophile. Inexcusable evil. It was natural for my kind.
With one hand, I steadied myself on his belly as, shuddering and shaking, I penetrated the little infant whore. Little tiny white Russian baby, captured for use in a whorehouse in Uzbekistan. With how small and young he was, this was the only life he was ever going to know.
And still, he slept. One of his fat little legs kicked as he dozed, the sedatives in his system keeping him just below responsive. Idly, I wondered what exactly they had done, but those thoughts were but dull noise in the back of my head. The rest was exuberant screaming: I’m fucking a child! I’m fucking a baby!
“I’m fucking a baby,” came my shivering voice, echoing my boiling thoughts. I was ecstatic; I was going to throw up.
Pushing past his tight anal ring, I sank deeply into his canal. Stars danced behind my eyes, glimmering in the dark. I was finally fucking a baby.
The door to his chamber should never close, propped open by the perverts who wanted to sink into his tight, silken infant asshole. And yet, it would never be as tight, warm, and delicious as it was for me right now. Once gaped open by plastic, the walls of his warm baby hole closed around the girth of my penis. And he did not flinch.
My eyes watered as I realised I was nearly halfway inside of this child. This baby, this infant. Four of my nine inches, spreading his pink, puffed-out hole to an unbelievable circumference, and my legs were shaking underneath me. And still, he did not stir.
“Good little boy,” I hissed, pushing down on his belly to feel myself within him.
He didn’t move, didn’t rouse. I wondered just how much longer it would be before he would. I couldn’t imagine that he would remain unconscious when I sank my entire cock inside of him. And I was going to get my entire cock inside of him.
His milky-white little ass cheeks were becoming pink with warmth; with the effort of taking a paedophile’s cock inside him. I tried hard not to picture the river of my cum that would just flow freely from his ruined hole when I was finished, lest it happen before its time.
Yet another inch in, my penis like deep, dark caramel sinking into a pillow. My blue Moscow with milk stirred only mildly, his chubby little arms moving slowly as if through water. Like he was fighting against the pressure. I wondered what he was feeling as I sank another inch inside of him. I knew what I was feeling: waves of pleasure riding up my nerves as I realised just how much of myself I’d managed to fit inside this nine-month-old baby.
“Oh, god,” I mumbled, seeing stars. Under my hand, through his thin, gleaming skin, I could feel the length of my cock. Blunt and round against his little diaphragm. That was it—there was no going back for this tiny infant. He had been claimed. He had been changed.
Carpeted walls closed us inside of this warm, small room. The heady, intoxicating smell of burning incense drifted in towards me through the vents at the tops of the walls, sticking to my sweat-doused back. My ears burned at the sounds of children moaning and crying as they, too, were fucked by paedophiles. Men laughing, grunting, groaning under the weight of lust. I was one of them too.
Steeling myself, I pulled all the way out of the infant’s little hole, though my cock did protest. My perverted length was covered in copious amounts of lube, a baby’s ass juice, and just minimal waste. The relatively cool air of the room was frigid compared to the snug heat of the infant’s anal canal—and no doubt the end of his intestines.
“Wow,” I muttered as I lowered myself to stare at his ruined asshole. Red, puffy, and leaking with absurd amounts of lube; it tried and failed to wink closed. I could see up inside of him, and I was flush with pride. “I did that,” I said to myself, beaming. I did that to that little baby.
Now that the warmup was over, I retrieved my camcorder from my discarded bags and set it up on the nearby table. And I stripped completely now, revealing myself to my viewfinder. The body of a paedophile, wiry and covered in thick, dark fur. My cock stood out straight from me, dark and bouncing, leaking with fluids. I’d never been proud of my body, but now that I was conquering my prey, a tickling bubble of egotism warmed the back of my neck.
A proud paedophile, getting ready to film himself fucking a baby. All of my life’s work, in comparison to this, amounted to little. The lives I saved…they were nothing compared to this life I was to ruin. I was going to fuck, fill, and mark this infant for life. Before he could talk, walk, or sit up on his own, he was going to have a man’s massive cock and cum inside of his tiny ass.
The infant remained catatonic as I lifted his chubby legs up and whirled him around so his distended hole faced the camera. He was stretched out and winking, a wet, pink rose that bloomed across my viewfinder’s screen.
“Fuck,” I hissed, growling like a wolf at the sight of it.
Hefting my cock, I tapped it against one of his little white cheeks, dwarfing it entirely in size. Filling the room was the raw animal stink of my cock and this baby’s hole, settling in the crevices left behind by the fragrant smoke.
“Watch me,” I spoke confidently to the camera, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. And I once again sank into the baby. He squirmed at the invasion, jerking a little; his face scrunching. But there was no going back. I’d already fucked him this far, and he needed to be conquered.
“Fucking take it, little bitch,” I said to the infant as I braced myself and sank back inside him. His hole barely fought me; I slipped right back inside. The head of my cock brushed up under my hand through his warm belly. Right where it belonged.
The preliminary round was over. I reared back and started properly fucking the baby. A wolfish grin cracked my face as I watched him bounce on my cock; bouncing around on the red velvet cushion I had laid him down on. His face was still, perturbed, flushed with pink. He had no choice but to take my fucking. I plunged my cock into this tiny baby, not yet a year old, pressing his hole open further.
Thick, wet sounds filled the room as I fucked him, making sure to give the camera a proper show. My cock plunging into his small ass and pulling back out. My ears rang with the sounds of my uncontrollable moaning, joining the cacophony of the brothel.
“Hear that?” I muttered to an unknown audience. “The sound of paedophiles fucking. It’s such a beautiful sound.” I picked up my speed a bit, my thigh skin kissing the baby’s bottom. “Ah…I wonder who else is fucking a baby like me.”
The camera got a good view of the long line of my body as it ploughed into this tiny, tiny little child. His innocence ripped from him as he jiggled about on a pillow, lost in a foreign land. I sank my cock practically to the base inside this infant, and I could feel myself in his diaphragm.
Panting, I put both hands around his chubby waist. Fucking him like a toy. Mashing him in my hands. But my god, did he feel incredible. I always distantly knew fucking a baby would feel so incredible, so satisfying, but the fantasies did not come close.
Already teetering on the edge, I collapsed over this infant, bracing my core as I fucked. My body eclipsed his, he was so fucking small. My hips clattered against his tiny ass. Wet smacking filled the room, my own voice lost in the warm fabric of the bed.
I thought I could perform like some western porn star for my camera, but my resistance was beginning to fade underneath me. Ravaged by my arousal, I felt the end approaching.
“No, no, not yet,” I mumbled, though my hips still rocked, addicted to the feeling.
Beneath me, the baby’s arms churned, and I could feel his little head turning. A muffled groan. He was starting to come awake. Reinvigorated by the sound, I felt myself pick up the speed, cruel as that might have been. But I couldn’t stop. That was never an option.
“Mmmmnngghh…!” he gurgled under me.
I lifted up to see the baby’s face, now crossed with visible stress. His blue eyes started to flutter open, but couldn’t; there was clear trepidation in his face as his body begged him, begged him, to wake up, to fight against the assault. Oh, fuck. The animal in me became unshackled, and I braced for impact as I sank the final inch inside of him.
“Oh, god!” I roared, slobbering, panting. A beast had replaced the man. The final form of the monster.
No longer even aware of the camera, of this baby’s helplessness, of even the place I was in, I was nothing but living fire. Bundles of nerves, acting on instinct. I just fucked. I fucked this little infant, crushing him into the pillow, turning him into a toy.
Yes, a toy. This pink-white child, no mother to defend him, no future beyond the walls of a perverted whorehouse in Samarkand, fucked open by my paedophile cock. He was to be nothing but a plaything for men; a means to an end. A holster for a weapon. A receptacle for my semen.
Evil, truly. Erotic, surely.
“Good little boy,” I growled, throaty and dark, staring at this infant as he writhed, whimpering. His tiny voice gurgled out past his lips as he was juggled about. Bouncing on the end of my throbbing cock.
All nine inches plunging inside him now, my insides began churning. I’d held out as much I could; I should have cum so long ago. But now, I had hit the end.
“Take my fucking cock!” I was shouting, my voice joining in the cacophony of the teahouse. “I don’t care if you wake up! Take—my fucking—paedophile—cum…!”
As my orgasm hit me, I could hear a groaning sob erupt from my throat, all around me. My balls tightened up into me, squeezing, as I realised the baby was crying.
He was awake, at the end of my cock, being bred. Impregnated. I fucked the infant voraciously. The child screamed and cried, his sedation gone; his assault, complete. His high, thin cry filled the air as I shot the last of my load into him; the last of my seven, ripping shots.
“Oh, god, oh, god,” I panted as I came down from the turbulence. “Fuck. God, my god, look at that…look at that….”
My cock slid out of him, an angry, throbbing red, slick and foamy with fluid. Following was the river of cum, bubbling thickly out of the baby’s ass, now nothing but a raw, throbbing cavern.
He was flooded. He was made. He was nothing but a toy. He was nothing but a hole for paedophiles.
The Russian infant was still screaming his little white head off as he became aware of the pain that was no doubt rippling through his entire body. But he still breathed. Damaged, but not beyond recovery, as stipulated. I…think. A laugh bubbled out of, triumphant, as my cock oozed cum over his pale leg. Sweat rolled down my body, caught in the hairs, soaking me to a fine sheen.
The only thing I thought to do was to take pictures and videos of his flooded, ruined asshole before I left. Videos of my still-hard cock whacking his red, crying face. In past his toothless little gums. A whore and nothing but.
“Perfect little boy,” I crooned to the camera to the sound of his helpless wailing. “I loved our time together.”
I dressed. I made to leave. Soon, the sounds of what I had done had disappeared in the din behind me. Other children cried, their holes ruined; other men came, triumphantly. The door separating the lobby and the rest of the whorehouse softly clicked shut behind me.
“Enjoyed yourself?” asked the madam at the front desk, barely registering my presence. The hypnotic smell of incense floated around her, accentuating her damning presence.
“Yes,” I told her simply. I don’t know if he did, I chuckled to myself in the back of my mind, the malignant shadow of my own depravity comforting me.
“Happy to have made the trip worth it.” I almost missed the minute way she flicked her hand towards the hallway, and one of the silent girls standing nearby nodded and disappeared into the hallway I’d just emerged from.
I nodded at her. “Yes, greatly so,” I replied cordially; perhaps a massive understatement.
“Well, Dr. Norbekov,” she said, her eyes as clear and bracing as a drink of absinthe. “Have a good stay at the Kosh Havuz Hotel. And have a good trip back to Tashkent when you leave at nine in the morning tomorrow. Xudo xoxlasa.”
At the sound of my name and my entire itinerary…my blood ran cold, frozen under her iron stare. But she waved me off before I had time to process it. It was all the dismissal I’d needed.
With a shaking bow, I and my luggage disappeared back through the basement door and emerged out onto that nondescript street in Samarkand. The tearoom was just another house behind a gate, another street in any Uzbek city.
My bags were heavy with the evidence of my transgressions, my ultimate crime. I would find lodging for the night and stroke myself to perverted emptiness to my self-made material. I would remember how that baby’s hole felt, how deliciously I had fucked him. And I would rest.
And in the morning, I would return to Tashkent, return to the life of an unmarried doctor, pleasant if not an oddity. Ready to head into the new millennium with one less anxiety crowding my brain. Only I and my camcorder knew what a monster I truly was. And that I’d been changed forever by a rapacious drink of a Moscow tea: fresh, with milk.