Left march
This piece was first written in Russian and translated in English solely thanks to @/gomzdrawfr 's encouragement and support. After a lot of thinking I decided to transliterate (write Russian words with latin letters) Russian speech here to help readers get into Graves's headspace of knowing how the words sound but not knowing their meaning. Down below I provide a link to translation of the poem Left march by Makyakovsky in English for anyone interested in the meaning of the words!
CW: 2126 words, MDNI, smut, Graves x Ved'ma (female OC), sub!Graves, bootgrinding and bootfetish, cum eating, established relationship, not much of aftercare (it's implied, but not really described, but trust me, he's well taken care of). Comparisons to a dog once or twice.
Graves is in desperate need of stress relief and Ved'ma offers it, accompanied by some Russian poetry.
Seated in an Ashley Furniture sycamore ash coloured armchair that he bought for his living room in an attempt to bring it to that upper middle class stylish comfort, is Ved’ma.
Graves sees her before he even closes the front door — this armchair is clearly visible from the threshold, and Ved’ma stopped hiding around the house, so that the local police officer who pops in with a report of his round of apartments won't find her, for some time already — he can’t even remember, when she did. Graves sees her wide-spread knees, her leg casually thrown over the armrest with sweatpants riding up her shin, he sees her hooked nose and her black braid, homely soft on the left temple — none of this fits into the interior of his living room. But she is there.
Ved’ma doesn’t see Graves — doesn’t even look in his direction, finishes reading the page, quickly jumping with her thickly lined eyes along the printed ladder, and looks up only after she’s done, her gaze piercing Phillip like a crosshead screwdriver. After a meeting with cantankerous office rats with a New York accent and a complete lack of understanding of how supply routes work in hot spots, Graves’s got plenty of loose screws in his head.
“The fuck is with that mug of yours, Phil?” inquires Ved’ma, skipping the greetings altogether. He watches her close the book in her hands, marking the page she needs with her middle finger. In her hands is a paperback, background — the red flag, brutalism, constructivism, sickle and hammer, roughly cut out of stone, just like her own jaw and the mug of an unknown man, leering heavily from under his brows from the cover. Graves has seen him already. He knows, this one — isn’t her favourite.
“Had a shitty day, sweetheart.” He can’t just look away and pretend he’s taking his shoes off after he’s come home to a darling little housewife, but the frown contorting his face appears for a different reason. Ved’ma sees it and rustling with her restless arse on the upholstery, asks: “Bring my boots over here. The clean ones.”
Phillip gets into the shoebox mechanically, obeying the barely commanding tone without questions, and only after he has grabbed the boots smelling of polished leather, he pauses, finally reaching the point in his mind that Ved’ma has long crossed. His heart skips a beat, his solar plexus curls up sweetly like a corn leaf overheated in the sun — as soon as he turns around and looks once more into the blackest eyes of the Russian creature occupying his armchair, all this dry flora flares up, starting to choke his brain with damp smog. Ved’ma stares back, directly, no feigned indifference — she wants him so obviously that his knees buckle on the way to her seat. That’s what she wants, though.
“Come on, on your knees, sh’en.”* A folded blanket plops between her widely spread legs with a dull slap, offering itself under Phillip’s knees. Turning her book over and putting it aside, Ved’ma makes herself busy putting the military boots on, stamping her iron-studded toes onto the parquet board. Graves kneels quietly, a little awkwardly — he should be helping her with the laces, but the red menace in his chair moves so quickly that he can't catch her ankle until she allows it. All he can do is stare, fascinated, at the rough fingers tightening the laces abruptly, and listen to the squeak of good leather, sending a shiver down his skin, sweet as the smell of a sponge soaked with shoe polish.
“Razvorachivaytes’ v marshe!” Ved’ma’s voice yanks him out of the viscous shoe blacking suddenly. Ringing consonants vibrate on her black lips — her entire mouth is covered in the soot of steamship pipes and the polish of soldiers' boots - like the brass of a military orchestra playing against the background of a black-and-white newsreel. Graves doesn't have time to adjust, the meaning of what is said in a poorly known language eludes him, the intonation is commanding, and Ved’ma has no patience for mistakes. But she continues, only straightening up as she pulls up her high boots, just gestures shortly for him to take his shirt off. “Slovesnoy nye mesto klyauze. Tishe, oratory!”
Her hand flies into the air, stopping someone — Phillip freezes, barely having had time to loosen his tie and start on the buttons, just barely stops himself from looking around in an attempt to figure out if there are any uninvited spectators in their house that she is addressing, looking over his head. Marusya pauses, counts each of his quickened breaths, and finally narrows her dark eyes, locking the handcuffs of her gimlet gaze on his face for good.
Slowly, with the satisfied smile of a real witch, she leans forward, and Graves, hypnotized by the sorcery pools of her eyes, feels the pressure of the ribbed sole on his thigh. Unstoppable, like a tank, the boot crawls up the dipping fabric of his trousers, reaching the holster, while Ved’ma mints word by word. It dawns on him.
She is reciting a poem.
Vashe
slovo,
tovarish’ mauser.
Getting the hint under the suddenly changed to ingratiating tone, Graves hastily gets rid of the weapon and winces when Ved’ma barks the next words like Lenin from the roof of an armoured car. His slowly coming to life in the nice pants cock twitches in reverent awe, fingers fumble with the buttons. Saliva suddenly gets syrupy thick in his mouth, his pupils dilate, absorbing the words of the past revolution.
Dovol’no zhit’ zakonom,
dannym Adamom y Yevoy.
Klyachu istoriyu zagonim.
Levoy!
Levoy!
Even drunk on her words, Phillip notices the devilish spark that lights up in Ved’ma’s eyes during this short pause, full of expectation — and then he himself starts to rain sparks from his eyes, enduring the rough pressure of her left boot in the groin with a tortured whine.
Levoy!
Everything suddenly starts making sense — every word, written like stairs by the frowning man staring at the ceiling from the red cover now, falls into place in the powder keg of his mind. Graves breathes heavily, feeling the sweat roll down his temples like melted snow of the February revolution, and looks at Ved’ma with a feverishly loving gaze. She looks back in the same way. Hot dick under her sole is leaking into his underwear and throbbing in time with his rapid heartbeat.
Ved’ma herself breathes heavily, greedily examining his arousal — red tongue wets black lips, smearing matte lipstick over an ecstatic smile. The blunt toe of her boot moves, probes the hard shaft, adjusting it through the fabric, and stops again, pushing against the sensitive tip. One encouraging nod is enough — Phillip swallows, barely keeping his gaze from falling to her lips, and finds support on the floor with his hands, carefully trying to roll his hips towards the now motionless foot. The ribs of the hard sole are painful even through the double layer of quickly soaking fabric, his thighs twitch as if they want to close and protect the tender flesh from such a rough impact, but under his fluttering eyelashes Graves sees stars — red and gold, rolling along all his nerve endings with sharp pleasure.
Ved’ma seems to even praise him — she hums something approving, breathing out loudly through her nose, like an angry armoured train, but he doesn’t manage to catch anything, immediately deafening himself with repeated friction. Like a dog gone mad in a rut, Phillip whines briefly and opens his clouded eyes, trying to keep obediently staring into the face of the one whose boot he’s grinding his aching cock on, dirty and desperate, — and to catch her every word.
Ey, sinebluzyye!
Reyte!
Za okeany!
Yly
u bronenostsev na reydye
stupleny ostryye kily?!
Pust’,
oskalyas’ koronoy,
vzdymayet brytanskyy lyev voy.
Kommune nye byt’ pokoryonnoy.
Ved’ma's broad chest boils like water over a hexamine fuel tablet — the ardor of century-old words blooms into the red flag on her cheeks and gets transmitted like a contagious disease to Graves, who’s pushing his hips towards his tortured orgasm in quick, sharp thrusts. Intoxicated by the pleasure-pain in his chafed cockhead, he misses a warning in the form of a deep breath above him, and-
Levoy!
The iron toe screws into the soft flesh, pressing the toothy fly zipper into his cock, smeared with arousal.
Levoy!
Ved’ma twists her toe again, as if putting out a discarded cigarette butt, and his trembling arm folds, almost dropping tear-eyed from the sharp pain Graves to the floor.
Levoy!
Phillip cums. He is shaking with small spasms of a violent orgasm, his bare stomach covered in sweat twitching hysterically; his trembling hand jerks up unconsciously to grab Ved’ma by the ankle of her mercilessly crushing leg and ease the weight off his abundantly spurting member — but she gets ahead of him. In tense silence, interrupted only by moaning undertones in Graves's still ragged breathing, she slowly pulls her toe towards herself and leans in, resting her elbows on her knees, to carefully examine her boot.
There’s viscous semen that has seeped through his underwear and pants, spreading over the polished black leather. Right on the seam, which Marusya carefully treated against moisture, a cloudy bubble divides in two and bursts, spraying even the old shoelaces with micro-splashes of sperm.
Tam
Ved’ma begins again in a low voice that makes Graves’s still aching cock to twitch weakly again.
za gorami gо́rya
solnechnyy kray nepochatyy.
Slowly, almost thoughtfully, she leans back in her seat again, still looking at the soiled boot. In the blink of an eye Phillip, driven by a pulling hunger, falls to her feet and sticks out his wet pink tongue. His own cum is still warm, salty, sticking to his lips — Graves licks widely and suddenly chokes on saliva from the sharp sweetness of the natural leather of the boot. The tip of his tongue is almost numb in his mouth, as if pricked by micro-needles, and he slurps loud and dirty, hastily lapping up the liquid mixture of semen and saliva.
Za golod,
za mora morye
shag millionnyy pechatay!
Pust’ bandoy okruzhat nа́nyatoy,
stal’noy izlivayutsya lyе́yevoy, —
Rossiyi nye byt’ pod Antantoy.
Levoy!
Levoy!
Levoy!
At what point Ved’ma places her right foot on the back of his head, Phillip does not notice — carefully scraping the seams and ribs of the boot that are cutting him with their hard edges, he only gasps when her heavy heel with a short jerk pushes his mouth into the sole that needs cleaning. Desperately squeezing her ankle in his hands to the point where the leather squeaks under pressure, Graves slides the tip of his tongue between the protruding patterns that help Marusya keep steady on the ice roads and awkwardly smacks his lips, trying to lap up the spread out sperm from the deep grooves. The wet sounds of his thorough cleaning mash with the chopped words falling from her lips like iron scraps, and under the baggy fabric of her sweatpants, her tanned thighs press together, sticking to the slick smeared all over the skin.
Glaz li pomerknyet orliy?
V staroye l’ stanem pyalit’sya?
Krepi
u mira na gorlye
proletariata pal’tsy!
Grudyu vperyod bravoy!
Flagami nebo okleivay!
Kto tam shagayet pravoy?
The pressure on the back of his head disappears as abruptly as it came, and instead Ved’ma hooks Graves under the chin and pushes him away, forcing him to lean back. His lips are wet and glistening, his cheeks with yesterday’s shave glow with an adorable pink blush, the fur on his chest is dark with sweat and sticks to his tanned skin in curls, framing painfully hard nipples. Struggling to maintain his balance, he looks up at her pleadingly, asking, his fingers reaching out on their own accord to grab her ankle again and press the boot, covered in spit smears, to his heart.
Ved’ma grins, lifts her leg despite her protesting knee, teases Phillip like a dog with a bone, and finally pokes him in the sternum accusingly, not giving in until she has finished her march. Graves clings with his whole body to her shin, presses his lips to the scar on her knee he can find without looking, and finally breathes out, going limp, like his member still in the soaked pants. Marusya's strong fingers bury themselves in his disheveled blond hair, stroking, preparing to pull him up for a kiss in a minute — not yet, though.
From behind the relaxed mound of her right thigh, Graves can still see Mayakovsky’s sullen stare.
Levoy!
Levoy!
Levoy!
*sh'en (щен) - something like "pup", a neologism from the word "puppy" (щенок) [sh'enok] Mayakovsky was called (and called himself) by Lilya Brik who he was in a throuple with (with her husband as third). Here's the link to the translation of the poem.