Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov

Dark Lady
    e spotted the hooker first, but dismissed her presence at the bar. Pavel, however, elbowed him in the side and pointed.
    HStupid bastard, pointing at anybody or anything.
    Sergei considered snatching Pavel’s hand and breaking his finger against the table, but refrained.
    Vasily must have noticed the sudden swell of adrenaline; he grinned that odd little grin of his that meant trouble or death. Sergei gave him a minute nod. Vanya remained oblivious, staring into his vodka shot as if lamenting the absence of pickles.
    Suddenly, the hooker was upon him—literally. Before Sergei could shove her down on the floor, one long leg lifted in his field of vision, clad toe to mid-thigh in black latex, tight and shiny as if somebody had dipped her leg in crude oil. The chrome-plated heel was absurd—only a woman would wear something so like a weapon and yet so useless. Then she shifted her small ass in her tight black skirt onto him.
    Pavel’s eyes got all round and he pursed his lips. Sergei glanced at the hooker now settling on his knee, facing him, rubbing her groin along his thigh as she scooted closer, legs wide open. It didn’t even take an invitation; it was all there, right in his face.
    “Hey, big boy,” she purred, voice smoky.
    Sergei put the shot glass down on the table and leaned back.
    Dusky mascara and eye makeup contrasted the bob-cut platinum wig.
    That tight skirt too short to pose a real obstacle to sitting as widely open as she sat now. Her flat belly was bared, however, showing off some nice smooth muscles. Built like a stripper, slim and trim but with power underneath. She wore a dark lace bra on top, framed by a short shirt knotted underneath her sternum, making the most of breasts she didn’t really have. Not even enough to fill one hand.
    A black leather col ar with a D-ring and chrome plating completed her barely-there dress. She looked like something out of Blade Runner , or possibly a throwback from the eighties, which were only romanticized by people who hadn’t been alive then.
    “Lucky bastard,” Pavel muttered in Russian.
    That did it. Sergei placed a hand on her thigh, felt her grind against him, subtly, but definitely there. Bitch was getting off on him, and he was amazed at the cheek to just sit in his lap and rub her pussy against his thigh.
    “Want drink?” he asked.
    “I’d love a drink,” she said, and Sergei motioned for Pavel to refill his glass. Pavel did so, and Sergei offered the shot to the hooker. She kicked it back like a pro, making the D-ring on her col ar jingle. She laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning in. “Can you show a girl a good time?”
    The longer she rubbed and ground against him, the more likely that became. “What do you charge?”
    “Dol ars,” she murmured low in his ear. “Depends if your friends want to join in or not. A blowjob won’t be as expensive as taking all of you.”
    Taking all of you.
    “What’s she say?” Pavel asked, and the others leaned forward, too.
    “She says she’s for sale—and could take us al ,” Sergei translated.
    “Fuck,” Vasily muttered.
    Tension surged, and Sergei knew the others were up for it. Few things he didn’t know about them. They’d trained together, lived together, and fought together for more than ten years. Few things men didn’t share after so much time.
    He glanced around, noticed assent in the group and that lithe, nubile body on top of his. Drinking wasn’t his priority anymore. “All of us?”
    She turned her head, looking at Pavel, then Vasily and Vanya— slow, provocatively slow, her black eyes unblinking, simultaneously staring at his comrades and into the distance, spaced out or drugged.
    Then she smiled. “You might break me.” She ground against him as if that idea turned her on.
    He slid his hand between her crotch and his legs. She exhaled, a raspy, almost hollow sound, and pushed into his hand. What he felt there wasn’t quite what he expected, but it