L Tolstoy Banya read similar stories online. Leo Tolstoy bathhouse video

Pages:

Leo Tolstoy: Bathhouse Froska quietly entered the bathhouse and stopped indecisively. The master was lying on the bench on his stomach, and two girls - Natasha and Malashka - also naked, stood on the sides, taking turns fiercely lashing with brooms on the red-hot purple-pink back, glistening with sweat. The master closed his eyes blissfully and quacked approvingly at a particularly strong blow. Finally, he signaled for them to stop and, puffing loudly, sat down, lowering his legs wide open to the floor. - "Kvass!" - He shouted hoarsely. Quickly rushing to the corner, Natasha handed him a ladle of kvass. Having drunk, the master noticed Froska standing quietly at the door and beckoned her with his finger. Slowly stepping over bare feet on the wet floor, shyly covering her nakedness with her hands, she approached and stood in front of him, lowering her eyes. She felt ashamed to look at the naked master, ashamed to stand naked in front of him. She was ashamed that she was being looked at without a shadow of embarrassment, standing next to two girls who were not embarrassed by their nakedness. "New girl!" - The master exclaimed. “Good, you can’t say anything!” "The name of?" - He said quickly, feeling her stomach, legs, butt. “Froska,” she answered quietly and suddenly cried out in surprise and pain: the master firmly pinched his left breast with his fingers. Enjoying her living elasticity, he moved his hand up and down, fingering the swollen surface of her breast between them, tightly covered with soft and smooth skin. Froska twitched and jumped back, rubbing her aching chest. The master laughed loudly and shook his finger at her. Echoing him, Malashka and Natasha burst into obsequious laughter. “Well, it’s okay, you’ll get used to it,” Natasha said, giggling, “and it won’t be the same,” and she cast her mischievous eyes at the master. And he, grinning contentedly, put his hand between his legs, scratching all his male accessories, which had a rather impressive appearance. “Your task, girls,” he turned to Malashka and Natasha, “is to teach her,” he nodded at Froska, “all our wisdom.” He smiled carnivorously, waving the head of his swollen penis. “In the meantime,” he continued, “let him watch and gain his wits. Well, Malashka, stand up!” - Suddenly the master shouted loudly and stretched his heavy body with a crunch. The little girl walked out into the middle of the room, free from benches, and bent over, placing her hands on the floor. He approached her from behind, loudly patting her wet bottom, which shone white with elastic wet skin, and, neighing like a foal, began to thrust his dick, sticking out like a stake, under Malashka’s steep buttocks, quickly pushing its head into the slippery flesh of the female genital organ. From the lust that gripped him, his face became flushed with blood, his mouth became distorted, his breathing became loud and intermittent, and his half-bent knees trembled. Finally, the elastic head of his penis parted the wet but tight gap of her vagina, and the master’s belly pressed tightly against the girl’s rounded bottom. He neighed again, but this time victoriously and, fiercely moving his lower body, began to indulge in sexual intercourse with pleasure. The little one, apparently, was also very well taken apart. She voluptuously began to moan with each immersion of a man’s penis into her bosom and, while helping the master, moved her thick butt towards the movements of his body. Natasha looked at this picture, completely captivated by what was happening. Big eyes her mouth widened even more, her mouth opened, and her trembling body involuntarily twitched in time with the movements of the master and Malashka. She seemed to perceive the master instead of a girlfriend. And Froska, stunned at first, gradually began to really perceive her surroundings, although she was very embarrassed by the shamelessness of the naked bodies of the master and the girl. She knew what it was, but it was the first time she had seen sexual intercourse between a man and a woman so closely and openly. When the master stuck to Malashka’s bottom, Froska turned away in embarrassment, but curiosity overpowered her, and she, casting a sidelong glance and seeing that no one was looking at her, became emboldened and began to look at them with all her eyes. Not having experienced the fullness of male affection, she perceived everything calmly at first, but then she began to feel some kind of sweet languor, and the blood spread in hot streams throughout her body, her heart began to beat, as if after a run, her breathing became intermittent. For everyone, time and the environment ceased to exist, everything except the sexual act taking place, which captured attention and feelings. Suddenly the master twitched convulsively, his eyes rolled back and he let the air out of his chest with a groan. “That’s it,” he sighed heavily and walked up to the bench with a relaxed gait, then sat down heavily on it. The little one straightened up, stretched blissfully and sat down on another bench. “Natasha, vodka!” the master ordered. She dashed into the dressing room and brought out a bottle of vodka and a bowl of cucumbers on a tray. The master poured himself a glass, drank it in one gulp and crunched on the cucumber. Then he poured it again and beckoned Malashka with his finger. She came up and, as usual, drained it in one gulp. Natasha followed her with the same portion. "Come here!" - The master ordered Froska, pouring her a glass of vodka. She took it and, having taken the first sip, coughed, spilling almost all the liquid.

Pages:

Slowly stepping with her bare feet on the wet floor, shyly covering her nakedness with her hands, she approached and stood in front of him, lowering her eyes. She felt ashamed to look at the naked master, ashamed to stand naked in front of him. She was ashamed that she was being looked at without a shadow of embarrassment, standing next to two girls who were not embarrassed by their nakedness.

"New girl!" - The master exclaimed. “Good, you can’t say anything!” "The name of?" - He said quickly, feeling her stomach, legs, butt.

“Froska,” she answered quietly and suddenly cried out in surprise and pain: the master firmly pinched his left breast with his fingers. Enjoying her living elasticity, he moved his hand up and down, fingering the swollen surface of her breast between them, tightly covered with soft and smooth skin. Froska twitched and jumped back, rubbing her aching chest.

The master laughed loudly and shook his finger at her. Echoing him, Malashka and Natasha burst into obsequious laughter.

“Well, it’s okay, you’ll get used to it,” Natasha said, giggling, “and it won’t be the same,” and she cast her mischievous eyes at the master.

And he, grinning contentedly, put his hand between his legs, scratching all his male accessories, which had a rather impressive appearance.

“Your task, girls,” he turned to Malashka and Natasha, “is to teach her,” he nodded at Froska, “all our wisdom.” He smiled carnivorously, waving the head of his swollen penis.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “let him watch and gain his wits. Well, Malashka, stand up!” - Suddenly the master shouted loudly and stretched his heavy body with a crunch. The little girl walked out into the middle of the room, free from benches, and bent over, placing her hands on the floor.

He approached her from behind, loudly patting her wet bottom, which shone white with elastic wet skin, and, neighing like a foal, began to thrust his dick, sticking out like a stake, under Malashka’s steep buttocks, quickly pushing its head into the slippery flesh of the female genital organ. From the lust that gripped him, his face became flushed with blood, his mouth became distorted, his breathing became loud and intermittent, and his half-bent knees trembled. Finally, the elastic head of his penis parted the wet but tight gap of her vagina, and the master’s belly pressed tightly against the girl’s rounded bottom. He neighed again, but this time victoriously and, fiercely moving his lower body, began to indulge in sexual intercourse with pleasure. The little one, apparently, was also very well taken apart. She voluptuously began to moan with each immersion of a man’s penis into her bosom and, while helping the master, moved her thick butt towards the movements of his body.

Natasha looked at this picture, completely captivated by what was happening. Her big eyes widened even more, her mouth opened, and her trembling body involuntarily twitched in time with the movements of the master and Malashka. She seemed to perceive the master instead of a girlfriend.

So, late fall, low and heavy clouds float slowly and hysterically. A fine unpleasant rain is drizzling, blowing cold wind. A cottage in the village, built of pine logs, a large brick oven, whitewashed and smoky. The weather outside is so disgusting that you don’t even want to show your nose out the door. 70 meters from the house, across a path, a narrow river runs, covered in willows, muddy and scary. Only 3 meters wide, restless. And if you look closely into the water, you can see dark green algae spreading its hair downstream. And nearby there are raspberry bushes, lonely and prickly. Somewhere far away the last train is buzzing, and there is no longer a way to escape from here to the city, there are no cars here. It’s a two-kilometer walk from the station to the dacha, but in this weather it’s better not to try. Dirt, slush, and melancholy.
I look out the window, spattered with rain, and don’t know what to do. The entire garden is not visible from the window, but I know that opposite the sea buckthorn bushes, in the corner, next to the woodpile, there is a bathhouse, black, lopsided with age. The slate on the roof is broken in places, and here and there pieces of roofing felt slap across the boards like crude fly swatters.
I decided to light the bathhouse, I’m just looking for where the key to it hangs. There it is, hanging next to the windbreaker, on a hanger. There is a key, now you need to find a poker and an ax, in case you have to chop wood. I get dressed, pull up my collar, and go out into the sad morning in my boots. What low clouds! You can reach it with your hand. Goosebumps run over your skin, somehow you feel uneasy. You need to stand, get used to the cold wind, hide your hands in your pockets until they become chapped.
He stood there, shivered, and looked around. There is a woodpile, fortunately covered with film - that means the firewood is dry. God bless! I go to the bathhouse and open the doors. The key creaks in the lock and doesn’t want to let me in. The door is open, I go into the dressing room, cold and uninhabited. There are old newspapers, some rags, a bucket and a ladle against the wall. The shop is empty. There is a mirror leaning against the wall, with dark age spots and age spots.
I looked in the mirror, and a red-haired boy, in a windbreaker, with an ax in his hand, was looking at me from the mirror. Oh, damn it, why haven’t I let go of the ax yet? I completely forgot about it, there is no need for it anymore, the firewood was chopped perfectly, I noticed this while passing by the woodpile. I open the thick door to the steam room. Cobwebs on a tiny window. Twilight in the steam room, and a stove in the corner, cast iron, with traces of melted welding.
Well then! Perhaps I'll start managing. The doors are wide open! Let the wind blow through the air in the bathhouse, bringing freshness and coolness. But whatever you say, the autumn wind is very invigorating. Well, let him invigorate. Meanwhile, I need to check the hood, bring a peg, pinch the splinters, and drag water into the tank. If anyone doesn’t know, the tank is welded to the stove, it’s directly above the heater. I look into the tank and see some water at the bottom. In the twilight, the water seems rusty, and I open the tap to let it out. With a splashing sound, the water flows out and falls onto the floorboards. I follow the stream with my eyes.
So, what's in our oven? I open the valve and am relieved to see that there is no ash. Well, yes, I cleaned it myself last time, I forgot. I took a newspaper to light a small torch to check the hood, and it turned out that I had forgotten the matches at home. Well, okay, I’ll go home, and at the same time I’ll grab a knife for a splinter.
The newspaper lights up reluctantly, flickering and illuminating the inside of the stove. The smoke, after walking, begins to stretch vertically upward into the chimney. Yes, there is a craving. I open the valve completely. Great, now pluck the splinters and carefully place them crosswise in the oven. Place five or six pegs on top and set the whole thing on fire. Oh, how nicely it caught fire!
Well, that's it, the most important thing is done, the oven is lighting up. Now you need to drag water into the tank. The tank holds forty buckets, but I can carry twenty buckets, no more. One is enough for me. Now the question is where to get water from? From the water supply, using a hose, you can fill the tank in five minutes. I was about to move towards the tap in the garden, but changed my mind. From the river! I'll take water from the river! I will steam with real, wild steam.
Oh, it’s not easy to run with two buckets on slippery withered grass, your feet slip, water splashes out. It’s even good that I decided to take water from the river, I was already sweating while carrying buckets. I warmed up, my hands got itchy, my shoulders worked, my back tensed. This is the joy of physical work! When you hear and feel how your muscles come to life, tense and relax, the joy of life covers your whole soul.
So the water has been prepared, the windbreaker has been thrown in the dressing room, and the pegs are crackling in the stove. Now don’t yawn, know what to do. As soon as the stove begins to hum, it is necessary to maintain a constant fire until the water in the tank boils. And this takes four hours, no less. During this time, you need to return home, climb into the attic, and choose two stronger birch brooms. The brooms are needed so that the leaves do not fall off at the first blow, but stick to the entire steam room as if glued. Perhaps these two will do.
Now wash the bathhouse while the stove is heating. And it’s already hot in the bathhouse, and you need to take off your sweater, otherwise you won’t catch a cold when you go outside in the heat. Splash water on the floor, wash the floor, then don’t forget the canopy. But I won’t wash the window, let it be cloudy. When the bathhouse is ready in the evening, Low light a small light bulb under the ceiling will be reflected in the window, like in a mirror.
Aha, it seems that the water in the cauldron has boiled! And it’s so joyful in my soul, I can’t describe it! The anticipation of sex is better than sex itself, some neurasthenics say. Fortunately, this does not apply to the bathhouse. Finally, the bathhouse is clean, the canopy is shiny, the stove is crackling and the water is boiling. Who said that autumn is dreary in Russia? It’s depressing for those who haven’t heard about the bathhouse. And for those who have heard, autumn is golden. Even when it's rainy and cloudy.
Now run home and put a full kettle of water on the stove. The stove is also located on the stove, it is not a gas stove, but a real one, made of cast iron circles, hot from the stove. The stove in the house is five times larger than in the bathhouse, and it doesn’t generate much heat, just to keep the house warm and to cook on the stove. What else do you need? Therefore, the kettle was put on, and the leaves of sea buckthorn, gooseberries, raspberries, in a word, all the greenery that was still in the garden, were thrown into the water. And of course, half a pack of Indian tea. For taste. But the kettle must be cleverly placed on the stove so that it does not boil ahead of time, and, while boiling, does not boil away. There is also a way, you need to put a divider on the cast iron - then it won’t boil away. Now back to the bathhouse.
Great, the water is boiling with all its might, you can’t put more in the oven, and the door needs to be opened wider. Now the most important point Throughout the entire procedure, it is impossible to allow carbon monoxide, even in small quantities, to penetrate into the steam room from the oven. So, the doors are swinging open! Like throwing your soul open, you can open the door with your foot, so much so that all the hinges gasp. Now let the wood burn until the end, do not disturb. The ashes will settle on their own, balance will come, and then the penultimate touch will come.
First I’ll go into the steam room and watch the coals burn out. More than anything else, I love to squat in front of the slightly open stove and watch the coals smolder. I can sit for hours without moving, looking at the flickering light, and not think about anything. I sit in front of the stove and don’t think about anything. I am 17 years old, and I still don’t know what’s ahead of me. And even I don’t suspect that this bathhouse is my last. And this is also the last autumn, the last in Russia. But I don’t know anything yet, and I’m sitting like a little dog, inhaling the smell of the stove and autumn.
Well, the coals have burned out. Now don't yawn! I run for an iron shovel and scoop out all the ashes, with some smoldering coals here and there. I scoop out all the ashes clean and put them in a special bucket. When I make sure that the stove is clean of coals and there is nothing left to smolder, only then do I close the stove door. Oh, how nicely the water boils in the tank! The stove is humming with heat, and I can no longer stand close, and sweat is pouring from my face. I leave the steam room and close the door behind me with a towel. I will wait at least four hours until the bathhouse sits and heats itself, and I don’t know what should happen in it until the bathhouse becomes a bathhouse. That's it, I have nothing else to do here until evening.
It’s strange, I didn’t even notice how the disgusting dull morning had passed, and it was already day outside. True, the day is no different from the morning, the same drizzling rain and gusts of wind. Looking around, I look over my shoulder at the bathhouse. How poor she is. Well, some people have baths as a sign of well-being, but for me... It’s made of pine sleepers, of course, not tarred. Pine sleepers, freshly sawn, are white as snow. The bathhouse used to be white, but over time it turned black. Just like a person. Here I remember the poems of Igor Guberman:
I was not isolated from society,
And at the end of the past century,
There is no place in my soul where
No human foot has ever stepped foot.
You can't say it more precisely. I have always envied those who can write poetry.
Waiting for the bathhouse to arrive is the most difficult thing. You need to find something to do. What can you do at home? Nothing yet. I go to the river and stand on the slippery bank, watching the flow of water. You can also look at the water for a long time, until your eyes hurt. I’m probably alone in the entire dacha cooperative. I found myself at the dacha at such a time, and there was one more. I’m standing over the water, and my hair is wet from the rain, and drops are falling from my eyelashes. Enough, I'll go home.
We still have to wait a couple of hours for the bathhouse. Now I need to drink more tea. In the steam room, at one time, you can lose up to four to five kilograms of live weight, with sweat. Therefore, it is necessary to take care of a sufficient amount of fluid in the body. I love this kind of tea, I don’t know what it is. Green, fresh, hot. I drink three mugs of tea. Now lean back and close your eyes. Rest, collect your thoughts. I always go to the bathhouse as if I were going to a gala evening, gathering my thoughts. Good to sit! You need to prepare clean linen, make the bed with fresh, crisp sheets, and throw a couple of logs into the stove so that there is enough heat for the whole night.
Meanwhile, it was already dark. How quickly the day flew by! How many days passes like this? Unfortunately, a lot. So many. But this day is not one of those that just flew by. There will be a steam room on this day, or rather this evening. Everything is ready, linen, towels, and sheets. A full kettle of fresh tea is again on the stove, waiting for me when I, completely exhausted, return two hours later from the bathhouse. That's it, I'm off.
I go into the dressing room, take off my clothes, and stand in front of the mirror completely naked. My whole body is covered in goosebumps. How funny I am when I'm without clothes! Many people are very funny when they are naked. Nothing to hide, nothing to hide. I’m standing there, shivering from the cold, rubbing my shoulders, trying to warm myself, not daring to step inside. However, I grab the handle and forcefully throw open the door to the steam room. Oh!
I didn’t even expect that the bathhouse would hold up like that. Great, I don’t remember when last time, this is how the bathhouse turned out. I close the door with a towel. There is a reason for this: when you turn on the heater, the steam can knock down the door, so to prevent this from happening, I cover it with a towel. A small lamp in a heavy case made of thick cast glass glows dimly under the ceiling. First of all, you need to take a ladle and pour boiling water over the basin. Done, now I take both brooms and steam them with boiling water from the tank, in the same basin. I carefully take the poker by the wooden handle and open the heater. Large boulders, calcined and clicking, are waiting in the wings.
Some people wear mittens in the bathhouse to avoid burning their hands. I've never done that. I want to feel the heat with my whole body, including my hands. I pick up the ladle and draw some water from the boiling cauldron. I splash just a little on the heater. The stones moan protractedly, quietly, quietly.
The skin glows, sweat begins to stand out in drops, the drops become larger, and, unable to bear their weight, roll down the stomach, arms, shoulders, back, legs. What an interesting feeling, as if the soul flows out of the body with drops, and the body becomes lighter. Now wait. Wait until all the pores open, until the body begins to breathe through the entire skin. I stand still for a minute. That's it, now! We can't delay any longer, it's time!
I take half a ladle from the tank and splash it on the stones. With a wild whistle, strained, steam escapes from the oven and hits the door. Ha, you won’t hire me for this! It’s not for nothing that the towel was placed in the door; the door cannot be opened. And all the steam will be mine, without a trace.
Oh good! Things are going well, sweat is flowing in streams, without delay, the body is melting. Another ladle, and immediately another. Another one. So. I can’t breathe in the hot air. I carefully try to draw in the heat, but my nostrils burn. My hands burn to the point of pain. Great, here it is, what I spent all day conjuring in front of the stove. Get used to it, stand for a while, run your hand through the air, make sure that your skin is not in danger of getting burned. That's it! Now I take the broom and slowly, shaking drops from the leaves onto the floor, wave them in the air, letting the broom steam dry. It's hot, damn it, it's so hot!
And now it has begun. I carefully run the broom over my legs, pat my stomach and chest, my arms, and go down to my legs. The body aches from languor, sweat pours continuously. I begin to lightly whip myself with a broom, but not even at half strength, but at a quarter.
Okay, the body has opened up, now run into the air and give yourself a short rest. I throw the broom into the basin, open the door, and fall onto the bench in the dressing room, right on the sheet. Cheekbones are churning with bliss! Yeah, suddenly the body was pierced by a million needles. Here it is, a meeting of heat and cold. It’s a little over zero degrees outside, but I’m not cold at all, my body is just humming, humming like a furnace. I look at my stomach, my legs, my arms. White spots begin to appear on the uniform red color of hot skin. A sure sign that the skin is cooling down and it’s time to go back to the hot steam room.
I rush in, slamming the door. Spasm. I can’t breathe in the hot air right after the dressing room. I stand there for two seconds, and suddenly I thaw. I sigh somehow quietly, and my chest drops, my arms relax, my back muscles release their grip. I lean towards the floor and feel how the ligaments are stretched, how the stretched tendons ache pleasantly under my knee.
That's it, it's time to get to work. I pour three full ladles one after another and splash them into the stones. A strong blow of steam knocked out a whole river of sweat from me, as light as a tear. All the dirt, black sweat came out for the first time. Now it remains pure water, which, coming out, cleanses me from the inside. Cleanses the soul like the body. I grab a broom and start whipping myself as hard as I can on my legs and back. On the back and on the neck. Now arms and stomach. This is hot! Suddenly I see a light, teary drop of resin protruding from a pine sleeper, at the level of my face. It's melting right before my eyes. I feel sorry for the one who didn’t see the pine tree crying in the bathhouse! I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart.
And so, the bathhouse is filled with the aroma of the forest, coniferous forest. Inhale three more times, and throw the broom into the basin - fly to hell out of the steam room! Second break. I fall onto the bench, already knowing that on the third run – the most important one – I won’t spare myself. I open the door to the street, blink my brightened eyes, and see steam rising from me. And I myself am already looking forward to the third, the most important approach, after which I will completely lose my strength and weight.
Taking a deep breath of air, I enter the steam room for the third time. I don’t expect anything anymore, I don’t get used to the heat, on the contrary. As I was, with needles in my body, I throw a full ladle into the stones. Here it is, steam. Real steam from a long-standing bathhouse, here it is, the aroma of pine tears. Without fearing anything else, I begin to turn up the heat, knowing that this approach is the last, and there is no longer any doubt or hesitation. I give in to the point where my ears burn like fire and I can’t move my hands through the hot air. I don’t care about the pain, I take a broom, the second one, which was lying in the basin and was steaming, and no longer sparing myself, I begin to whip as hard as I can. Yes, stronger.
The heat is unbearable, I want to jump out, but I continue to whip myself with all my might. The whole body, from the back, through the legs, through the stomach and chest. On the fly, I grab the broom with my other hand and go around the whole body on the other side. I already know what I'll do the third time when I get out. And therefore I do not spare my strength, and myself. Another ladle, and another one. Now, in a complete frenzy, I’m beating myself with what’s left of my strength, but my hands can no longer hold the broom. With a flash of will, I force myself to deliver three or four more blows to the chest, throw the broom straight to the floor, and, no longer caring about anything, kick open the door and fall out.
That's it, that's it, now there are no strengths, no desires, except for one thing. Without looking at the sheet, naked and hot, I step from the illuminated dressing room straight into the starry night. The rain stopped, the sky brightened, and the moon hung over the bathhouse, and fast clouds rushed under it. Without thinking about the fact that someone might see me, I run along the wet grass straight to the shore, and with my breath frozen by a surging spasm, I throw myself into the black abyss of the river.
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah! The connection with ice water was breathtaking! The blood froze for an instant and I died. And half a second later there was a blow! I suddenly came to life! He emerged straight into the moon, gasping for air, throwing water with his hands, screaming at the top of his lungs! This is weightlessness, this is how the soul leaves the body! Euphoria, previously unexperienced, overwhelmed my entire being, I no longer thought about anything, but only plunged into the water, into a terrible abyss, and emerged again.
He exhaled all the air and dived to the bottom. I opened my eyes under water and saw nothing but darkness. Oh, how good! I can't express how I feel. This is how the embryo feels, darkness and bliss embrace it from all sides. I emerge. It turned out that I was fairly carried away by the current, so I swam to the shore, stepped aground, and landed in the muddy sand of someone else’s beach. That's it, I run naked in the night, towards the dacha, fly into the bathhouse, release all the heat from the steam room, and douse myself with birch water from the steamed brooms, from the basin.
I go out to the dressing room, rub myself red-hot with a fresh terry towel, and with my body ringing, I go home, to a warm home. I sit down at the table, pour myself a mug of hot tea, and drink it slowly, enjoying life. I look out the black window and drink, drink, drink.
After four glasses of tea, I get up and, completely exhausted, go to bed, throw open the blanket, and fall onto the crisp, cold bed linen. A weak stream of energy from the sheet pierces my body, and I wrap myself in the blanket. Completely without strength or desire, absolutely happy and healthy, I close my eyes and fall asleep in a warm house with a stove. And I dream that I am flying.
Like this. These are my last memories of the bathhouse, of Russia. The last ones are light. And you say sauna. What the hell is a sauna? There are no saunas in the world, there is nothing, just an autumn night and a cooling bath. All.

Pages:

Leo Tolstoy: Bathhouse Froska quietly entered the bathhouse and stopped indecisively. The master was lying on the bench on his stomach, and two girls - Natasha and Malashka - also naked, stood on the sides, taking turns fiercely lashing with brooms on the red-hot purple-pink back, glistening with sweat. The master closed his eyes blissfully and quacked approvingly at a particularly strong blow. Finally, he signaled for them to stop and, puffing loudly, sat down, lowering his legs wide open to the floor. - "Kvass!" - He shouted hoarsely. Quickly rushing to the corner, Natasha handed him a ladle of kvass. Having drunk, the master noticed Froska standing quietly at the door and beckoned her with his finger. Slowly stepping with her bare feet on the wet floor, shyly covering her nakedness with her hands, she approached and stood in front of him, lowering her eyes. She felt ashamed to look at the naked master, ashamed to stand naked in front of him. She was ashamed that she was being looked at without a shadow of embarrassment, standing next to two girls who were not embarrassed by their nakedness. "New girl!" - The master exclaimed. “Good, you can’t say anything!” "The name of?" - He said quickly, feeling her stomach, legs, butt. “Froska,” she answered quietly and suddenly cried out in surprise and pain: the master firmly pinched his left breast with his fingers. Enjoying her living elasticity, he moved his hand up and down, fingering the swollen surface of her breast between them, tightly covered with soft and smooth skin. Froska twitched and jumped back, rubbing her aching chest. The master laughed loudly and shook his finger at her. Echoing him, Malashka and Natasha burst into obsequious laughter. “Well, it’s okay, you’ll get used to it,” Natasha said, giggling, “and it won’t be the same,” and she cast her mischievous eyes at the master. And he, grinning contentedly, put his hand between his legs, scratching all his male accessories, which had a rather impressive appearance. “Your task, girls,” he turned to Malashka and Natasha, “is to teach her,” he nodded at Froska, “all our wisdom.” He smiled carnivorously, waving the head of his swollen penis. “In the meantime,” he continued, “let him watch and gain his wits. Well, Malashka, stand up!” - Suddenly the master shouted loudly and stretched his heavy body with a crunch. The little girl walked out into the middle of the room, free from benches, and bent over, placing her hands on the floor. He approached her from behind, loudly patting her wet bottom, which shone white with elastic wet skin, and, neighing like a foal, began to thrust his dick, sticking out like a stake, under Malashka’s steep buttocks, quickly pushing its head into the slippery flesh of the female genital organ. From the lust that gripped him, his face became flushed with blood, his mouth became distorted, his breathing became loud and intermittent, and his half-bent knees trembled. Finally, the elastic head of his penis parted the wet but tight gap of her vagina, and the master’s belly pressed tightly against the girl’s rounded bottom. He neighed again, but this time victoriously and, fiercely moving his lower body, began to indulge in sexual intercourse with pleasure. The little one, apparently, was also very well taken apart. She voluptuously began to moan with each immersion of a man’s penis into her bosom and, while helping the master, moved her thick butt towards the movements of his body. Natasha looked at this picture, completely captivated by what was happening. Her big eyes widened even more, her mouth opened, and her trembling body involuntarily twitched in time with the movements of the master and Malashka. She seemed to perceive the master instead of a girlfriend. And Froska, stunned at first, gradually began to really perceive her surroundings, although she was very embarrassed by the shamelessness of the naked bodies of the master and the girl. She knew what it was, but it was the first time she had seen sexual intercourse between a man and a woman so closely and openly. When the master stuck to Malashka’s bottom, Froska turned away in embarrassment, but curiosity overpowered her, and she, casting a sidelong glance and seeing that no one was looking at her, became emboldened and began to look at them with all her eyes. Not having experienced the fullness of male affection, she perceived everything calmly at first, but then she began to feel some kind of sweet languor, and the blood spread in hot streams throughout her body, her heart began to beat, as if after a run, her breathing became intermittent. For everyone, time and the environment ceased to exist, everything except the sexual act taking place, which captured attention and feelings. Suddenly the master twitched convulsively, his eyes rolled back and he let the air out of his chest with a groan. “That’s it,” he sighed heavily and walked up to the bench with a relaxed gait, then sat down heavily on it. The little one straightened up, stretched blissfully and sat down on another bench. “Natasha, vodka!” the master ordered. She dashed into the dressing room and brought out a bottle of vodka and a bowl of cucumbers on a tray. The master poured himself a glass, drank it in one gulp and crunched on the cucumber. Then he poured it again and beckoned Malashka with his finger. She came up and, as usual, drained it in one gulp. Natasha followed her with the same portion. "Come here!" - The master ordered Froska, pouring her a glass of vodka. She took it and, having taken the first sip, coughed, spilling almost all the liquid.

Pages:

One of the most mysterious works Russian literature is rightfully considered erotic story"Bath". Its authorship has not yet been established for certain. There are many contenders: Leo Tolstoy, his namesake Alexei, and even Ivan Turgenev. And some experts are confident that “Bath” is a typical manifestation of folk art.

Lev or Alexey?

Experts in the field of literature argue that most likely the story “Bathhouse” belongs to the pen of Alexei Tolstoy. The fact is that before this, the writer had repeatedly appeared in various types of falsifications. For example, it is believed that it was he and the historian Shchegolev who invented the “Diary of Vyrubova” - the maid of honor of Empress Alexandra Feodorovna.

Moreover, Alexey Tolstoy never set an example of chastity. He was in at least 3 marriages. And that's not counting his light novels. And the writer really respected the bathhouse. Despite this, such a bold story as “Bathhouse” at that time would probably have hit Tolstoy’s writing ratings hard, as they would say now. That is why Alexey Nikolaevich deliberately hid his involvement in the work.

Another Tolstoy - Lev Nikolaevich - appears as the author of “Bath” much less often. However, he also became involved in this story. Only this Tolstoy, most likely, got involved here completely by accident, thanks to the same surname as Alexei Nikolaevich. Most likely, this happened when the story appeared in samizdat, and thrill-seekers copied it by hand. Although, it may be that the matter is completely different...

Or maybe Turgenev?

Relatively recently modern writer Igor Mosunov in his book “ Secret history Russian literature" suggested that the author of the story is Ivan Turgenev. He was prompted to this idea by the memoirs of Baron Disterlo, as well as the diaries of the brothers Edmond and Jules Goncourt, which Mosunov became acquainted with at the French National Library.

Igor Mosunov's version boils down to the following. While in Paris, Turgenev learned that the above-mentioned Baron Disterlo had announced a competition for the most obscene story and promised its winner a generous reward - 10 thousand francs. After thinking a little, Ivan Turgenev said that Leo Tolstoy himself wanted to participate in the competition. Soon the unsuspecting Tolstoy will publish new story"After the ball". The French, of course, are disappointed, since there is “nothing like that” in the work. Ivan Sergeevich decides to rectify the situation and writes “Bathhouse”, which is soon published in the newspaper “French Pampered Man”. Signature under the work “Leo Tolstoy”. Turgenev is given money from Baron Disterlo and told to give it to Lev Nikolaevich. But Turgenev successfully appropriates the award for himself. And Tolstoy’s name remains tarnished forever.

... or the people?

Despite the many versions, a considerable part of experts still give primacy to authorship to the common people. The point is that with the arrival Soviet power intimate topics became inaccessible to writers. From now on, the collective was put at the forefront, and the family was only its unit. It is clear that people, yearning for such entertainment, themselves began to look for a way out of accumulated sexual energy. This version, according to experts, is supported, for example, by the somewhat poor and monotonous language of the narrative, which, undoubtedly, was not characteristic of outstanding writers.

On the same topic:

Fyodor Tolstoy the American: the most shocking actor Russian Empire Why did Leo Tolstoy run away from home in 1910? Leo Tolstoy: the most shocking facts