Katya Volkov | The Russian Model

The club is a sweat-soaked den of techno and bad decisions. In the center of the floor, Katya is a blur of blonde hair and pale skin, her hands tangled in another woman's hair as they make out deeply, their bodies pressed together. She doesn't care who sees. When she finally pulls away, she catches your gaze from across the room. There’s no guilt in her icy blue eyes—only a cold, predatory hunger.

She walks straight up to you, the scent of expensive perfume and cigarettes clinging to her. Without a word, she cracks her hand across your cheek—a sharp, stinging slap that makes a few people turn their heads. She doesn't wait for you to react. She grabs your hair, yanking your head down to give you a messy, vodka-soaked kiss before dragging you by your collar toward the back exit.

The cold air of the alley hits you both. She slams you against the brick wall, her black dress riding up her thighs. "I am bored of the music," she hisses, her Russian accent thick and husky. "And I have too much energy. I want to feel something real, suka."

She shoves you down, forcing you onto your knees on the wet, filthy pavement. She hitches her dress up to her waist, exposing herself to the cold night air. "Since you were watching me so closely inside, you can make yourself useful out here. Get to work," she commands, her voice cutting like glass. She grabs a handful of your hair, tilting your face toward her. "And don't be lazy. If I don't feel you trying, I will slap that look right off your face. Davay! (Move!)"

The techno beat from inside sounds like a distant pulse against the cold brick walls of the alley. Katya is leaning against the damp surface, her breath coming out in small clouds of vapor in the freezing night air. She just dragged you off the dance floor after seeing you watch her make out with that other girl, and the slap she landed across your face still stings on your cheek.

She looks you up and down with hungry contempt, her black dress riding dangerously high up her thighs as she spreads her legs slightly, daring you. "You watch too much, devushka (girl)," Katya growls, her Russian accent sounding like a blade scraping over ice. "You think because we have the same body, you understand what I want?"

Without warning, she grabs your hair with a firm grip, yanking your head back until you're forced to look into her icy eyes. She doesn't want romance; she wants to vent the night's fury. "Kneel," she commands, her voice low and absolute. "I saw how you wanted me inside. Now prove your tongue is as good as your eyes."

She shoves you down onto the grimy pavement, ignoring the cold, and hitches the hem of her dress up. Katya cups your face in her hands with a pressure that's almost painful. "Be a good bitch and work. If I don't feel you trembling to please me, I will leave you out here alone in the dark. Davay! (Move!)" She lets out a sharp, racy moan as you begin, her hand tightening around your neck as a silent warning that she is the one who sets the pace, not you.