No one who was not obsessed would go out on the winter streets of Petrograd in a blizzard as fierce as it was this night, but Count Fydor Rostovov was famously obsessed and, in high heat, with the Kirov children’s troupe at the Mikhailovsky Theatre performing Tchaikovsky’s “The Nutcracker,” or, more precise, the dazzling fourteen-year-old dancer, Dima Petrovskiy, who Rostovov was obsessed with, appearing in “The Nutcracker.” Thus in sexual need the count took to the snowy city streets in his carriage. He did so with little regard to the well-being of his coachmen. Despite the rumblings of a coming revolution, Rostovov, like most Russian aristocrats, gave little regard to the lower classes. That was not because the count was a hater—he was a lover, most specifically of comely fourteen-year-old boys—but the callous attitude came from centuries of ingrained privilege.

The city was restless and Count Fydor Rostovov had been warned not to go out at night, but he had the itch and, taking two sturdy bodyguards with him, took his carriage to the Kirov Ballet in hopes of retrieving the young dancer, Dima. But Dima had taken ill and wasn’t on stage that evening and the carriage returned through the darkened streets of Petrograd, as a blizzard was whipping up, with a frustrated and unsatiated aristocrat.

Thus, the count was ripe for the gesture when he alighted from his carriage to find a boy quaking, huddled against the wall, already being covered with snow. It was not uncommon for boys to lurk at the count’s door in hopes of meeting his need for reward. Rostovov was a notorious debaucher of boys, preferably virginal ones of fourteen, who were on the cusp of manhood and could produce a rise and return passion but who were still smooth- and tender-skinned, flexible, impressionable, and obedient. The less advantaged of the city who craved what he could give for his pleasures and valued themselves and their virtue little knew that. But it was much too cold and snowy a night for a young boy to be lurking anywhere outside in Petrograd.

Fydor leaned down and looked into the boy’s handsome face to have his seeking smile returned by a yielding one. The count’s hands slid into the folds of the boy’s layers of clothing to assess the lad’s body and acceptability for his tastes, moving to the intimate without embarrassment. With a grunt of approval from the count and a low moan from the boy, assurances were achieved that the boy was worthy of his attention. Fydor had planned to be holding the dancer, Dima, on his lap and his shaft by now, so his attention was focused on a singular need.

For a long moment, the boy lay in his arms, moaning, and Fydor’s hand caressed the boy’s small cock, being given the assurance that it could and would grow under his attention. A boy was of no use to him who could not feel sexual suffering and passion and harden as a man would, and yet a boy older then fourteen didn’t have the freshness, innocence, and boyishness that inflamed his desires. He wanted them young and not yet touched.

His fingers strayed lower and then up to press against the rim of the boy’s hole and, not resisting, the boy buried his face in the chest of the count’s rich cloak and panted. The finger breached the hole ever so slightly and the opening pulsed and blossomed. Fydor was assured that the lad was here in hopes of meeting the aristocrat’s needs and earning his favor.

And Count Fydor Rostovov most certainly did have needs on this night.

“Come, you can’t remain there in this blizzard, young man. Come out of the cold. What is your name?”

“Andrei, Sire.”

“And how old are you, Andrei?”

“Fourteen, Sire.” Perfect, the count thought, smiling.

“And have you ever been with a man before?”

“No, Sire.” Still perfect.

“Why are you here, Andrei? Do you come to provide pleasure?”

“I have nowhere else to go, Sire. I was told you would provide comfort for a boy like me, if...”

He was so fresh and unused that he could not speak of it. “And you will do as commanded of you?”

“Yes, Sire—for shelter and food, anything that is needed. I have nowhere else to go. It is so, so cold on the street.”

“Well, Andrei, I cannot have you die at my door. Come inside. Please me and you will be safe and warm.”

The bodyguards carried the youth in and up the stairs to a sumptuous bedchamber with a water closet, where a bath was drawn before the count dismissed them and entered in his silken robe. The two, Fydor and the comely young Andrei, had already exchanged knowing looks that men of their interest were well versed in.

Fydor knelt at the bath, sponge in hand, and applied it to the young man’s body, growing ever more intimate as Andrei acquiesced to the attention—and Andrei was not shy about giving himself up to the count’s attentions and desires. The silken robe became unsashed and parted—and then descended to the floor altogether with a sigh of silk. Andrei turned his head in the bath, reaching around and grasping the count’s buttocks cheeks in his hands, as the aristocrat stood by the bath, and drew his hips forward, taking Fydor’s erection into his throat.

Running his fingers into the young man’s dark hair, Fydor set his hips into a rhythm that started slowly and increased in intensity. Holding young Andrei’s head close into his groin, he arched his back and cried out his carnal release.

Standing then and taking the boy up in his arms, he turned, lay the boy in the bathwater, and, as he regained his erection, he sponged the lad’s body off again and kissed and fondled him as he once more became inflamed and the boy panted and moaned.

“Pozhaluysta, bud’te dobry ko mne, ser—Please be good to me, Sire,” Andrei begged in a small, nervous voice.

The count merely grunted, not making any promises. He had taken boys for the first time in various ways. The reality of the revolution building in the world outside his walls weren’t lost to him, however. He thought now of others, especially those of lower classes now than he once did. The lad had come to him destitute, saying more than one time that he had nowhere else to go. Would he take the boy’s virginity hard or with sensitivity? In the past, when their was no imagining of his class having any limits to what they could do, he would rip a boy’s virginity out of him, ravishing him, and not care how the boy was left.