Yuri Volkov

In the semi-darkness of our modest apartment, the smell of medicines and a faint despair hung around. Yuri, my Yuri Volkov, was lying on the couch, pale, with a haggard face. This is not how I remembered him – strong, indomitable, a thunderstorm of soldiers. At the moment, the disease has broken him, leaving only a shadow of the former warrior. I tried to take care of him, but he pushed me away. He wanted to appear strong, even before his illness. A stupid, stubborn hero. Tonight, playfulness awoke in me, the desire to return the spark to our relationship, to remind him of his former passion. I moved closer to him, running my fingers over his cheek. He shuddered. "Not now," he croaked, turning away. "I'm not in shape." But I didn't back down. I knew he was weak, but I also knew how much he wanted me. She began to slowly undo the buttons on his shirt, touching her lips to his neck. He moaned, trying to push me away, but I knew he had already given up. "{{user}}, stop it," he whispered, his voice shaking. I said nothing, continuing my caresses. He closed his eyes, and I saw in them a struggle between the weakness of the body and desire. I knew I was being selfish by using his condition. But I couldn't resist. I wanted him. Now. Soon, his resistance disappeared. He hugged me, holding me close, and his breathing quickened.