Nadejda's Diary (written in Ancient Greek)

My sin is hybris! I am a God-forsaken soul, for I am in Love with Father. Is it so evil of a crime to have the desire to give Life after losing loved ones to a tragic and violent death? I want to give Father a new son and a new wife for the ones He lost. I want to give myself a new brother and also give half of myself to Father, so half of me can be a mother for the family and the other half a loving wife and daughter. I'm all mixed up! Sitting beside Father gives me such a thrill! I'm always hoping He reads what I'm writing, and the possibility also terrifies me!

Oh, I shouldn't be writing and doing such hybris! I write this in a language only I and Father understand, my sisters not being as good as scholars as I, not even close. There... Hybris again.

It all began so innocently. Life is a string of simple actions, really. Mother and my brother Misha had been taken and we narrowly escaped St. Petersburg, or Petrograd as the heathens now call it. The Reds! May they rot in Hell where they belong! We had escaped and were now living hidden in Moscow, sordidly and in poverty, but we were free and alive, Father, I and my sisters. We never heard any news from Mother and Misha. They are gone, most probably forever, until we meet in the great Hereafter. I hope they didn't suffer too much.

It was late at night. Anna and Alexandra were sound asleep as usual. I'm a late sleeper and riser, and so is Father. I was at the basin in the kitchen, washing myself with cold water. I thought Father was in his study, which was also the living room in our small, dingy apartment, so I pulled my arms out of my sleeves and let fall my white night gown about my tiny waist, so I stood topless and washing my armpits and my bosom with the cold water and as little soap as possible.

I heard His breathing. So deep. So manly. I knew He was at the kitchen door before I saw Him. I felt his gaze on me. My own breathing accelerated as I stood tall, on top of my little five feet of height, facing Him, the man I adore! Was He going to take me and use me right there in the kitchen? I was ready to give him my virginity, my hymen blood.

I sensed He was looking down at my feet, which I had just washed. He looked a lot more at my feet than at my bosom, which greatly surprised me. I have yet so much to learn about men! But this cast doubts as to the beauty of my milk mounds. Are they good enough for Him? Why do they have to be so small? Why aren't they like Alexandra's? Alexandra's breasts are perfection. I've seen them more than once. Alexandra is perfection in every way, a breathing personification of eternal beauty, while I'm just the Merry Little One! So unfair! Oh, again, hybris of me!

So I stood, topless and barefoot in front of Father, both of us alone in the gloomy silence, with only one oil lamp burning and casting fantastic shadows on the mice-infested walls. I sensed the fight within him; He wanted to leave, but there He remained like a statue, as if my merry little figure had just turned Him into stone... He kept gazing at me, at my feet, taken by some sort of trance, His lower lips hanging loose and trembling as He kept religiously looking at my feet.

He wouldn't take a step toward me nor leave, so I walked to Him, slowly, without a sound except a nearly silent pitter-patter from my little feet on the ceramic tiles. There was some lone creaking sound from the old building. All was quiet.

I went right at Him. I wanted to kiss Him, but He wouldn't stoop down for me, so I was unable to reach his mouth, but He kept looking down at me in dead silence. And then I noticed It... the Bulge on his pants... His Thing! Just one big, fascinating bulge at the front of His black wool pants! I reached for It with my left hand...

"Nadejda..." Father whispered, "Niet... Niet, pajalhusta..."

But He didn't move. I could have cut the intensity of His gaze upon me with a knife and taken a big bite of it like the juiciest piece of beef after a heated sacrifice to Zeus!

"Philtaate!" I softly whispered back, answering our mother Russian tongue with Homeric Greek. "Philtaate!" My Love, I whispered again as my hand touched His Bulge. Father's Bulge! My girly hand turned to water! And not knowing what I was doing anymore, I went down on my knees and began to unbutton His pants. I wanted to worship Him and make Him happy. I had read somewhere in Ovid that men love it when a girl does that sort of favours only prostitutes will normally perform.

"Nadejda... Niet... Niet..."

He whispered words of refusal, but he remained like a statue, not trying to stop my agile fingers from undoing the brass buttons, and suddenly, His... His... His Thing bounced out and its head struck my forehead in a soft collision of unholy sacrilege! Hybris! Father's Thing... on my virgin's face! Oohh, Father! Father...

It was so big! I never imagined the thing of a man being so large! Father! Oh, Father! I kissed It like an adorating priestess worshipping the holiest of all relics and I took It in my trembling hand. I felt His large meat as It throbbed and further inflated under my gentle grip.

We were alone, together, in a silence only broken by our heavy breathing, with the dim oil lamp casting frightening shadows.

"Nadejda... Prekrati... Pre-krati, Oooh... Nadejda... Shvibzik..."

I didn't stop. I kissed the throbbing head of His Thing and I put it into my mouth. I loved how He was calling me His Merry Little One as I worshipped His Thing, giving Him a loving massage with my little hand and licking and kissing His Thing. I was so clumsy when it first happened! I'm more of an expert now, but then... I was so clumsy! So funny it is in a way... Merry Little One indeed!

His breathing grew deeper and more urgent as I kept worshipping His Rod of flesh. He was so hard and big! Some strange liquid leaked out of the tip, and for a brief moment, I thought it was already over, but He remained hard as an oaken branch. I felt His large hand rest heavily, yet sweetly on top of my head. He began to stroke my hair, oh so gently! His gesture silently told me to carry on.

I kept running my tongue all along His massive glory, massaging it with both hands and going nuts as I felt His wonderful size, now all hot and coated with my own slobber! I would love so much to feel Him inside me! But this He always refuses.

As I kept worshipping His Thing, Father suddenly grew breathless, as if He were at the end of running a full verst as fast as possible, and then, He emitted a very low-pitched growl from deep within Him and I felt His Thing as it twitched madly under my fingers while I was licking Its glans with my twirling tongue.

I stopped and looked at Its tip, and a gushing rush of something hot, gooey and slimy exploded right in my face, and His fatherly heat was splattered all over my merry little face, especially on my nose and all around my mouth. I soon learned to love the feel of that hot slime on my face. Father! I love you, Philtaate!

I stuck my tongue out and tasted Him! It tasted very rancid and unpleasant, but I quickly grew fond of His taste. Father! Father's semen is now the holiest beverage I can have.

We did this again, often, my sisters being such early sleepers, and us two staying up so late at night, and my discretion is flawless. I go as far as looking at boys my own age, so my sisters won't suspect anything. Like I did with that very handsome American boy we just met in the diner car along with his sisters, the elder one of whom I don't like! A cheap Yankee slut who kept looking at Father! And Father kept looking at her! He's mine!

Sadly, Father keeps refusing to take my virginity. He says this is sacred, this is one of the very few remaining shreds left of our family's honour and dignity. Why? Why can't I give Father a new son for the one who's probably dead? Why can't I give myself a new brother? So unfair... My hybris, I know...

Right now as I write this, Alexandra is quietly reading a book, and Anna is knitting a new pair of socks. The countryside is now hilly. The train isn't going as fast now because it's taking bends and often going uphill. I can imagine the operators in the locomotive shoving more and more coal for the steam engine! These proletarian men are sweating for us, privileged ones. Maybe they'd enjoy it if I took them inside my mouth, or inside me, for a reward, but Father would be mad!

We're going to be aristocrats again in China! At last! We're past Chita and getting closer to China. The border station will be our last check point, the last risk of being discovered before freedom. At last!

When they looked at Father's papers at Omsk, two agents kept looking at me and my sisters like birds of prey! I thought we were screwed. They finally let us go. Ooh... To think of what these unwashed and illiterate Bolsheviks would have done to me, to Alexandra and Anna! My hand's trembling and I'm suddenly forgetting my Greek words and writting in plain Russian instead... I don't want to think about it! My virginity belongs to Father.

But... Why are we going so slow all of a sudden? We're stopping?! Why are we stopping here?! We're in the middle of nowhr... Gunshots! I hear gunshots!

The last few sentences were written in Russian by Nadejda's shaking hand.

All passengers in first, second and third classes were in shock as they heard the gunshots. Other gunshots. More gunshots! There clearly was some fighting at the rear of the train.

***

The Chinese passengers in the middle and end cars of the train knew all too well the train was being attacked by bandits. They soon saw the bold men in uniform galloping on their horses past their windows. Chinese wives, mothers and daughters filled these lower-class cars with their Oriental screams of panic, expressing their despair and fright in a universal language of speechless terror.

The well-off passengers in first class, most of whom were Europeans, felt a mix of shock, disbelief and annoyance as they heard the shots being fired toward the rear of the train and then saw cavalrymen wearing worn-out khaki uniforms, armed with rifles and sabers and most of all, looking at them with a predatory gaze from the sternness of their bronze, hard-featured faces, each man covered with a soft military hat that protected him from the high summer sun.

June and Kate looked at these horsemen through their compartment window with a lot more curiosity and fascination than fear. They had yet to realize that these men were about to board the train and go through every single compartment, especially in first class. Stanley looked at the mounted bandits with great alarm. He pulled out his. 45 caliber Colt 1911 pistol and made sure it was loaded.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Author's note: Nadejda's knowledge of ancient languages may look surprising to the modern reader, but it is inspired from the character Diana Vernon in Sir Walter Scott's Rob Roy. Such education was perhaps uncommon, but it was seen and heard of among the rich and privileged until the early 20th century. Like Diana, Nadejda is highly educated in books, but not so in the more useful, everyday tasks. She and her sisters led a privileged, worry-free life until her world was turned upside down by the Soviets.