Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

The light goes down, and from the marble wall a shining hand, full of pills, extends outward. And like the confession for the Holy Communion, we stand in a humble line at the illumined palm. Each of us approaches, takes his tablet, places it in his mouth under the tongue, and moves away. I do the same. I take the tablet, which doesn’t look like anything unusual. I place it in my mouth, and already my fingers are trembling, my knees are weak, and my heart is beating like an anxious hammer; my blood is pounding at my temples like oprichniks breaking into a Zemstvo estate.

My trembling tongue covers the tablet as a cloud covers a temple high atop a hill. The tablet melts, melts sweetly under the tongue, the saliva flooding down upon it like the River Jordan flows in springtime. My heart throbs, I gasp for breath, the ends of my fingers grow cold, and my eyes are more sharp-sighted in the gloom. And now comes the long-awaited moment: a rush of blood to my member. I lower my eyes. I behold it, filling with blood. My refurbished member—with two cartilaginous inserts, a blade of hyperfilaments, pellets in bas relief—rises like a wave of meat with moving tattoos. It levitates like the trunk of a Siberian mammoth. And under my bold member the crimson light of my weighty genitals begins to glow. And not only mine. The genitals of everyone who took communion from the shining palm are glowing, like fire-flies in rotten tree stumps on Midsummer’s Eve. The oprichniks’ genitals have been kindled, each with its own light. For the right wing this color ranges from scarlet to the dark murrey of blood; for the left from sky blue to violet; and for the greenhorns, green light of all hues. And it is only our Batya whose genitals shine a special color, distinct from all the others—our dear Batya’s genitals shine yellow-gold. The great strength of the oprichnik brotherhood lies here. Oprichniks all have genitals revamped by ingenious Chinese doctors. Light flows from the genitals, craving manly love. It gathers strength from the rising member. And until the light has waned—we, the oprichniks, are entwined in brotherly embraces. Strong hands grasp strong bodies. We kiss one another on the lips. We kiss silently, like men, without any women’s sweet talk. We greet and excite one another through our kissing. The bath attendants bustle among us with clay pots filled with Chinese ointments. We scoop out the thick, aromatic ointment and spread it on our members. The wordless attendants move to and fro among us like shadows, for they do not shine.

“Hail!” Batya exclaims.

“Hail, hail!” we cry.

Batya is the first to rise. He moves Vosk close to him. Vosk sticks his member in Batya’s asshole. Batya groans with pleasure, grins, and bares his white teeth. Shelet embraces Vosk, pokes his greased dick in him. Vosk lets out a belly screech. Seryi fills up Shelet; Seryi is speared by Samosya, Samosya by Baldokhai, Baldokhai by Mokry, Mokry by Nechai, who has to push his sticky stud in, and then my turn comes. I clasp the left wing brother with my left hand, and with my right I direct my member into his asshole. Wide is Nechai’s hole; I drive my member all the way to his purple core. Nechai doesn’t even grunt; he’s used to it, he’s one of the elder oprichniks. I get a stronger grasp on him, press him to me, tickle him with my beard. Buben attaches himself to me. My trembling asshole feels his club. It’s large—without a push it won’t go in. Buben pushes and pokes, then drives his fat-head member in. His machine reaches all the way to my innards, squeezing a guttural moan out of me. I moan in Nechai’s ear. Buben groans in mine, embracing me with his valiant arms. I don’t see who sticks him, but by the groans I know—it’s a worthy member. Well, there aren’t really any unworthy among us—the Chinese have renewed our genitals, strengthened them, equipped them. We have the wherewithal to delight one another, as well as to punish Russia’s enemies. The oprichnik caterpillar gathers, coupling. Behind me I hear groans and screeches. The law of the brotherhood requires that the left wingers and right wingers alternate, and only then do the younger ones join together. That’s Batya’s rule. And thank God…

By the cries and muttering I sense that the youngsters’ turn has come. Batya cheers them on:

“Don’t be scared, greenhorns!”

The youngsters are trying, they long to burst into each other’s tight assholes. The dark bath attendants help them, they direct them, support them. The next-to-last cries out, the last groans—and the caterpillar is ready. It’s complete . We stay stock-still.

“Hail!” cries Batya.

“Hail! Hail!” we roar in reply.

Batya takes a step. And we follow him, we follow the head of the caterpillar. Batya leads us into the pool. It’s spacious, roomy. It’s filled with warm water instead of ice water.

“Hail! Hail!” we shout, embracing each other, shuffling.

We follow Batya. We walk. We walk. We walk in caterpillar steps. Our genitals glow, our members shudder between buttocks.

We enter the pool. Around us the water boils with air bubbles. Batya submerges himself up to his genitals, then to his waist, his chest. The entire oprichnik caterpillar enters the pool. And rises.

Now it’s time to be silent. Muscular arms tense, valiant nostrils flare, the oprichniks have begun to moan. The time for the sweet work has come. We coax each other. The water ripples around us, waves heave, splashing out of the pool. And now the long-awaited moment has come: a tremor rolls through the entire caterpillar .

And:

“Haaaaaaaiiiilll!”

The arched ceiling shakes. And the pool—becomes a nine-point storm.

“Haaaaiiiilll!”

I roar into Nechai’s ear, and Buben screams into mine:

“Haaaaiiiilll!”

Lord, don’t let us die…

Indescribable. Because it’s so divine.

Reclining on the soft chaise lounges after oprichnik copulation is like the bliss of paradise. The light is on, buckets of champagne sit on the floor, forest air, Rachmaninov’s Second Concerto for piano and orchestra. Our Batya likes to listen to the Russian classics after copulation. We lie there weakly. The lights in our genitals go out. We drink silently, catch our breath.

Wisely, oh so wisely, Batya arranged everything with the caterpillar . Before it, everyone broke off in pairs, and the shadow of dangerous disorder lay across the oprichnina. Now there’s a limit to the pleasures of the steam. We work together, and take our pleasure together. And the tablets help. And wisest of all is that the young oprichniks are always stuck at the tail of the caterpillar . This is wise for two reasons: first of all, the young ones know their place in the oprichnik hierarchy; second, the seed moves from the tail of the caterpillar to the head, which symbolizes the eternal cycle of life and the renewal of our brotherhood. On the one hand, the young respect the old; on the other, they replenish them. That’s our foundation. And thank God.

It’s pleasant to sip Szechuan champagne, feeling how healthy oprichnik seed soaks into the walls of the large intestine. Health isn’t the least thing in our dangerous life. I take care of mine: I play skittles twice a week, then I swim, I drink maple juice with ground wild strawberries, I eat overgrown fern seeds, I breathe properly. Other oprichniks strengthen their bodies as well.

Batya is informed from above that Count Urusov has appeared. The bath attendants hand out sheets to everyone. Covering our extinguished private parts, we lie back on our chairs. The count enters from the bathhouse dressing room. He’s wrapped his sheet to look like a Roman toga. The count is a stocky man; he has white skin and thin legs, a large head and short neck. His face, as usual, is gloomy. But something new is imprinted on this well-known face.