A special dinner with the commissar

I’m shaking in my uniform as I stand outside the door to Fedorov’s office. He came by earlier to grab a handful of my ass and remind me about our special date. Here I am. I take another look at my watch. Five minutes. I have no idea what he has in store for me. The tip of my black leather boot continues to tap against the ground. I’m getting impatient. I just want it all to be over with. One thing lives in my mind, one fear: that tonight in that room, something is going to happen.

I take a deep breath as I step up to the door. I knock three times.

“Who is it?” Fedorov asks excitedly from behind the door.

“Private Kulikova, comrade commissar.” I answer.

“Come in.” He says.

I step through the door and stop before him, my hands folded in front of my crotch. It’s apparent that he had a lot of effort put into this. Two placemats rest on the desk. A few candles flicker softly. He sits behind his desk, grinning at me. He even looks a little less grimy than usual, a little neater. I even catch a whiff of some kind of cologne, but he is still Fedorov. He is still a disgusting man. No cologne could ever mask the smell of cigar smoke that radiates from him.

“You look very pretty today, Tatyana.” He tells me.

“Thank you… Ivan.” I say.

“You know that I like you with your hair down.” He says.

I take off my cap, let my long dark hair down and run my fingers through it quickly to straighten it.

“Veerry nice.” Fedorov says. “Come have a seat, Tatyana, I won’t bite… hard.” He starts to chuckle, but his laughter devolves into a violent fit of hacking and coughing. It goes on and on, his fist clenched in front of his tomato colored face.

“Are you alright?” I ask him as he finally begins to calm down.

“I’m great!” He says with another chuckle, followed by another quick series of violent hacks. “Now put that sweet, round, shapely ass of yours in that chair.”

I quietly obey him, and sit down across from him. He pulls a bottle of vodka from a drawer and places it on his desk between us. He goes back for a pair of shot glasses.

“It’s almost time for dinner, Tatyana. Would you like a drink?” He asks me with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

I most certainly would like a drink. It might help me cope with his vile presence, but I can already see what he is thinking. He thinks that if he gets me drunk enough, he just might be able to get me off my guard.

“I uh...” I begin. “I’m alright comra- Ivan. Thank you for offering.”

“Nonsense!” He says, opening the bottle and pouring a shot. “This is a special occasion!” He pushes the glass towards me. I sigh as I pick it up.

“What special occasion is this?” I ask. I certainly don’t know. “Is it your birthday?”

“You are a funny girl, Tatyana.” He says. “It is not my birthday, but it might as well be. This is a celebration of me and you getting to know one another. Getting closer.”

I shiver. He gives me a big wide grin as he raises his glass and downs his shot of vodka. I take a deep breath in and out to calm myself and follow suit.

“Very good, yes?” He asks me. “You like?”

“Yes.” I respond. “It’s good.”

“Very nice!” He says with a chuckle. “I will pour another.”

He takes the bottle, but is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” He barks.

“Dinner, comrade commissar.” A voice answers.

“Come in.” Fedorov orders. He pours a second round of shots and sets the bottle aside as the camp cook makes his way through the door.

“Lamb chops with roasted potatoes, comrade commissar.” He says to Fedorov, placing our plates in front of us.

“Roasted?” Fedorov asks angrily. “I told you to bake them!”

“Please forgive me, comrade commissar.” He says nervously. “We don’t have an oven.”

“Just get out of here.” Fedorov barks, standing up and shooing him. “Fucking idiot!”

“Yes, comrade commissar.” The cook answers and leaves in a hurry. Fedorov follows him to the door. He locks it behind him.

“Now we can enjoy our special dinner together, Tatyana.” Fedorov says as he makes his way to his seat.

As much as I hate being here, I can’t help but look in front of me in awe. This must be the nicest meal I’ve had in a very long time.

“Where did you get lamb?” I ask.

“Sometimes we can borrow things from the local populace.” He says with a chuckle. “Dig in, but first, another shot.”

I pick up my glass as he picks up his. He looks at me with those bloodshot, yellow eyes before he downs his shot. I bring mine up to my lips and drink it all down.

“Good girl.” He says, picking up his fork and knife.

I cut into my lamb. It’s amazing, but the animalistic sounds coming from across the desk make it hard for me to concentrate on my own meal. Fedorov moans and slurps as he gobbles his dinner.

He stops to pour another round of shots and stares expectantly at me until I drink mine. He follows me this time. I’m starting to feel the effects of the vodka and it makes me nervous.

“How do you like the dinner, Tatyana?” He asks me, food in his mouth.

“It’s very good. This must be the first fresh meat that I’ve had in a very long time.” I say. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Tatyana.” He says with a smirk. “And there’s plenty more meat where that came from.” He raises his eyebrows a few times before cackling.

I laugh nervously as I continue to eat.

“I like it when you laugh, Tatyana.” Fedorov tells me. “You have a very cute laugh.”

“We are having lots of fun, yes?” He says. “Another drink!”

We take another round of shots. Now I’m up to four.

Fedorov finishes gobbling down his dinner. I still have a third of mine left. He takes out a cigar and lights it with a match.

“You are a slow eater!” He tells me.

“You are a fast eater.” I respond.

“Very funny!” He says. “How about another shot to wash it down.”

He pushes another filled glass in front of me, and takes a quick drink directly from the bottle.

“Go on.” He says. I pick the shot glass up and down it. I set it down and he immediately fills it up again. I’m starting to feel dizzy.

“Drink up.” He says.

I reluctantly raise the glass to my lips and follow his order. I’ve crossed the line. I am completely smashed and he can see it. He puffs on his cigar and watches me clumsily finish my dinner. I set my fork and knife down and look up at him. The room spins around me. He looks at me with a huge grin, bulging yellow eyes and raised eyebrows.

“How about a dance?” He asks, standing up and motioning to his record player. “But first, another drink.”

“I uh… might have had too much already.” I say with slurred words.

“Nonsense!” He says. “There is no such thing as too much.” He pours yet another shot and pushes it across to me.

I pick the glass up and look at it, hesitating. Federov puts his cigar down.

“Do it.” He says, reaching across and touching the bottom with his fingers. He guides it to my mouth and helps tip it up. Some dribbles down my chin, but the rest I swallow down.

It sit in the chair, head spinning as Fedorov walks over to his turntable and starts spinning a scratchy old record. It’s something classical.

Fedorov approaches me and holds his hands out, palms up. “How about that dance, Tatyana?” He asks.

I look up at him in a daze. He reaches down for my hands and takes them himself, before pulling me to my feet.

“I always liked this song.” He says softly, looking into my eyes, and starting to move.

I trip over my own feet and stumble. Fedorov catches me with an arm behind my back and brings me close. He holds my hand tightly with his other hand. His foul breath makes my nose wrinkle.

We sway to the music, my feet dragging. I stumble often, and I’m half asleep, but Federov holds me up. He puts my hand above my head. I know what’s coming.

“Don‘t spin m…” I try to say but he grabs my body and sends me twirling. My feet wrap over each other as I spin out of control and crash into the chair in front of Federov’s desk. I fall over it onto my back, my legs flying high into the air before coming to rest draped over the chair. The ceiling and the room just spin above me.

Fedorov stands there laughing hard. His face turns red. He grabs his sides, before looking me up and down. He laughs again and gives me a smirk, and I realize that he can see up my skirt. I clumsily scramble off the chair, snap my legs together and hold the fabric of my skirt over my crotch.

“I like what I see!” Fedorov chuckles, before coming over to me and grabbing my hands again and pulling me back to my feet. He grabs me around my waist, picks me up and sets me down on his desk. He brings his face up to mine.

“You have very nice lips, Tatyana.” He says creepily. “Full, nice, pretty lips.”

I’m too drunk to know how to respond, but I still have enough composure to retreat from Fedorov’s repulsive face. I lean back, but he has me by the waist and follows me down until I’m pinned underneath the hefty weight of his fat, sloppy body. He puts one hand behind my head. The other reaches for the hem of my shirt. His face edges closer and closer to mine. I have nowhere left to run.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” He says as he closes his eyes.

My eyes widen when his greasy lips press against my own. His mouth tastes like an ashtray. I struggle underneath him as he slobbers on me. Fedorov slips his hand underneath my shirt. My body stiffens up when his cold fingers touch my bare skin. He pulls back for a moment, and I gasp for breath just as he exhales a mixture of cigar smoke and garlic in my face.

“You can do better than that, Tatyana!” He says. “Kiss me back.”

He leans in for more. I close my eyes tightly and unenthusiastically cooperate with him. His hand rubs my body up and down under my shirt. I try to keep my lips close together, but his slimy tongue finds a way through and violates my mouth. I dig my hands into his sides and try to push him off of me

“I like when you put your hands on me.” Fedorov says, pulling back. I try to breathe for a moment.

“Just stop.” I say when Fedorov tries to lean in again. The expression on his face immediately turns sour.

“But we’re having so much fun!” Fedorov says and tries to kiss me again.

“No!” I say.

He stands up but continues to hold me down.

“No?” He asks angrily. “What is your problem?”

“I can’t do this.” I tell him.

“You mean you don’t want to!” He insinuates. He’s right.

“Answer me!” He barks.

“I guess so.” I tell him reluctantly.

“You don’t want to!” He says, grabbing my collar and pulling me up.

“All of this!” He says, motioning to the candles and the plates with his other hand. “And you don’t want to? All this effort and planning I put in to this dinner for you. All the nice talks that we had.”

“I just want to focus on my job.” I say.

“I don’t give a fuck what you want.” He tells me. “And your job is to do what I want you to. I’ve tried being nice.”

“It’s just that…” I begin to say.

His open palm cuts me off when it strikes me across my cheek and knocks me off the desk and to the ground. I’m so drunk and so tired that all I can do is just lay there like a stone and look up at him.

“I’m sick of your excuses.” He says to me. I struggle to keep my heavy eyelids from closing as my head spins.

“Stupid bitch.” He remarks and sits back down at his desk. He lights his cigar again as I drift off to sleep.