PART 1. Naked Feelings.
Chapter 1. Typical morning of the Potapovs
Monday, March 8, 2021
"What would you like — arsenic or sugar? "I ask my husband, stirring the gurgling coffee in the cezve. Then I freeze up, realizing that I have said "arsenic" aloud.
"What?!" — he drags his gaze away from the tablet and looks at me in amazement.
The fork he was bringing to his mouth freezes in the air. He seems to forget about breakfast.
"Brandy or sugar?" — I am trying to right the ship. — I thought maybe you would like to lace your coffee with a bit of brandy."
"Alya, what are you talking about? Brandy in the morning?" — his blond brows almost joined on the bridge of the nose.
"Armagnac, aged for two years…" — I mumble, taking a step back unintentionally.
When he frowns like that or gets up from the chair, the kitchen seems to shrink, even though the room is pretty spacious. He is a big man, not a fat one, but big. Mikhail Potapov. His name fully corresponds to his appearance. Two meters tall, door-wide shoulders; big strong arms, slightly bulging belly, which, however, does not spoil his appearance. Thirty-five-old man in the prime of life. Wide cheekbones, square chin, frozen mercury eyes, light brown hair neatly combed back. Someone would consider him ideal. He is if you adore psychos obsessed with domestic order and control over other people.
Compared to him, I am a fluff, a microbe, even though my height is 5’3’’, and my weight is 143 pounds. Yeah, I've got some fat in different areas, but my body is firm and thriving, as Potapov uses to say. However, neither my fit body nor my position as the mistress of this house allows me to feel at least a bit self-confident here.
A plain brown-eyed brown-haired gray mouse locked up at home. Self-confidence is not for me. For Mikhail, I have something akin to a washing vacuum cleaner with functions of preparing food, dusting, ironing, buying groceries, and doing other chores. Someone has to look after the house. Our house is the envy of all the neighbors and friends. Two-storey, three hundred square meter mansion. The unbearable luxury for a small village near the Perm city we live in.
Oh, I've forgotten another essential function of mine - sex making. His majesty Potapov is not a fan of one-night stands. He needs a tidy, faithful woman, waiting for him at home and ready for any experiments.
That's why he bought me. Yes, that's it. He bought me off my adoptive father for good money. Now he uses me the way he wants.
"You have been cooking my breakfasts for three years, and you have not learned yet which coffee I like?" — he thunders, hanging over me with all his body and pulling his hand to my face.
No, he never beats me. He prefers to torture me with mental pressure. Thank God that he never uses his fists. A single blow would make mincemeat out of me. But sometimes I feel like it would be better to get beaten than to spend a few endless minutes under his cold scanning gaze.
"Are you drunk?" He frowns and sniffs my breath.
I am not allowed to drink under any pretext. Another role of mine is a future mother of the heir Mikhail Potapov. No decent future mother would drink.
I wanted to have a child before—a small warm sweet creature you can love and cherish. Now, even though my spouse and I are both healthy, there is still no bun in the oven. I just do not get pregnant.
"No, no, I did not drink..." I whine, leaning my back to the stove.
"Fine," — he thunders in reply, still hanging over me.
His next move makes my knees shake. He gives me a long, intense kiss. Then he grabs and puts me on the table for a more detailed study of my depths with his tongue, his hands, and, of course, with the thing that hides in his perfectly ironed trousers.
"What about breakfast? It will cool down..." - I whisper in vain hope to wriggle out of a session of physical love. Even though I know, it won't help. If Potapov feels horny, nothing will stop him.
"You are too talkative today!" — he hoarsely whispers and puts me on my back.
Potapov does not like to talk much. To him, anything that does not concern business matters is a waste of time.
I feel the urge to hit my husband over the head with a frying pan, or at least with a kettle. But instead, I stroke his hand as gently as possible. He stokes and kisses me too. Perhaps he uses to be more or less gentle with me only during lovemaking. Except for the last moments, when he accelerates the pace or tries to grab me. But at that time, it works fine for me.
If he were rude, it would not end well for me. He understands it and does not allow himself to go crazy. However, I know for sure what can happen if he loses his temper. I try not to provoke him by all means.
When he finishes, he raises me from the table, holds me for a while, burying his face in my neck, and breathes loudly in my ear. After a while, he lets me go and begins to adjust his clothes.