Extracurricular Reading. The Very Best Erotic Literature of the USSR.

By Igor Boyko

We are proud to present the rarest gem of our collection, for which we have selected ten erotic and romantic works by famous and anonymous Russian and Soviet authors. Most of these pieces have been translated into English for the first time specifically for this edition. The selection includes writings with which the compiler of this collection was acquainted back in the sixties of the last century, when he was still a high school student. In compiling this collection, the quality of the literary sources and the eroticism and originality of their authors' fantasies were primarily taken into account. In the process of preparation we weeded out all the banal and non-readable stuff that abounds on the Internet. It is not without reason that the Russian proverb says that 'better fewer but better'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aegitas
• Release date: Jun 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9780369408952

Book preview

Preface

In 1986, during a Moscow-Boston Women Talking to Women teleconference, an American woman asked: Our television commercials are all about sex. Do you have such advertising? to which a Soviet woman replied, to the amicable laughter in the studio, We don't have sex, and we are categorically against it! Since then the phrase turned into a meme, which became ubiquitous in the USSR and the rest of the world. In fact, for the woman who responded, the word sex, which was quite rarely used in ordinary domestic situations, was synonymous with the term hard erotica or, more simply, porn. That really did not exist in the USSR. Really indeed?

Of course, it existed, though on a rather illegal basis. That same year, 1986, the law enforcement agencies were in full swing to hunt down pornography manufacturers and distributors. Several thousand people were brought to court over the first years of video in the USSR. Lists of banned movies were compiled and constantly updated. The practice of catch-and-seizure was used to identify criminals: the electricity was turned off in the apartment building stairwell, the tape was stuck in the VCR, and was confiscated in the presence of official witnesses.

About 10% of all imported video tapes were confiscated at the border. This included The Godfather and Once Upon a Time in America, which were also on the aforementioned list.

And if we dig a little deeper, back to the days of Khrushchev and Brezhnev? Sailors and foreign students smuggled quite a lot of sex-themed print products into the country — from branded gift calendars with Penthouse-level chicks (which were usually hung prominently in apartments), to smuggled magazines like Cats or Color Climax. Another source of videotapes and magazines with illegal nudity and porn was the embassies' garbage dump. Pictures reprinted from erotic and XXX publications were distributed under the hood by suspicious-looking types, often deaf and mute invalids. It was easier for such people to avoid arrests. Often the pictures were in the form of homemade playing cards, which even today can be found on various Internet flea markets. They are collector items these days.

But was there literary erotica in the USSR? In the 1960s, an inexperienced teenager-accelerate could quite easily find such in the school library. It was enough to leaf through the novels of the same Emile Zola, as the eye began to pick out the keywords on the pages. Would you like a quote?

Nana was nude. With quiet audacity she appeared in her nakedness, certain of the sovereign power of her flesh. Some gauze enveloped her, but her rounded shoulders, her Amazonian bosom, her wide hips, which swayed to and fro voluptuously, her whole body, in fact, could be divined, nay discerned, in all its foamlike whiteness of tint beneath the slight fabric she wore. It was Venus rising from the waves with no veil save her tresses. And when Nana lifted her arms the golden hairs in her armpits were observable in the glare of the footlights. There was no applause. Nobody laughed any more. The men strained forward with serious faces, sharp features, mouths irritated and parched. A wind seemed to have passed, a soft, soft wind, laden with a secret menace. Suddenly in the bouncing child the woman stood discovered, a woman full of restless suggestion, who brought with her the delirium of sex and opened the gates of the unknown world of desire. Nana was smiling still, but her smile was now bitter, as of a devourer of men. (From Nana)

And this is elementary school we're talking about. Yes, there was also Ivan Yefremov and his occasionally erotic Blade of Razor with the first ever appearance in Russian language of the untranslated term vitals — 90-60-90. And then there were Bull Hour and Thais of Athens, which were also imbued with an underlying sexuality.

One could also find something similar to erotica in the Soviet classics. Here is a fragment from Mikhail Sholokhov's Quiet Flows the Don:

A gray shrouded figure broke away from the cart and zigzagged slowly moved towards Grigory. It did not reach two or three paces and stopped. Aksinya. She. Grigory's heart thudded and rattled; crouching, he stepped forward, threw aside the hem of his homespun coat and held the obedient, blazing hot woman close to him. Her legs were buckling in knees, she trembled all over, shaking, her teeth ringing. With a jerk Grigory threw her in his arms — the way a wolf throws onto his backbone a sheep that has been slaughtered, — entangling himself in the flaps of his open coat, panting, he went away.

Oh, Gri-ischa… Gri-shen'-ka!… Father…

Silence!…

Breaking out, breathing in the coat of sour sheep's wool, choking on the bitterness of remorse, Aksinia almost shouted in a low, moaning voice:

Let me go, it's far too late now… I'll go myself!

In high school, however, when the topic of sex had become quite familiar and discussed, and the jokes retold had become blatantly vulgar, pornographic stories and novels began to appear (who's to say where from?), retyped on a typewriter. From which a large part of this edition is formed.

My first exposure to literary porn was in 9th grade. It was a short story by an anonymous author, Eleanor, which I got from a classmate. The impressions were as strong as youth itself. Since then, nothing has so penetrated my brain, although the story itself is rather banal and as concise as possible… At that time cinema screens were showing Angelica, the Marquise of Angels with a sexy and unreachable Michelle Mercier in the leading role. About whom one could only fantasize. But I was distracted… And how bursting her breasts were out of her corset!

Next up was Valencia by Marc Renoir. Today Google is quick enough to reveal that no Marc Renoir, who invented sexual adventures around a deck of 53 erotic cards, ever existed. I guess this made it easier at the time to sell the erotic work to interested and enterprising people. Imitation of Western examples in Soviet art being commonplace. An example is music for the lute written by Vladimir Vavilov and passed off as the work of Italian composers of the 15th-16th centuries. Including the tune Golden City, which became famous all over the world.

The search for the original edition of the House of Love by John Horwood led to a similar result. One person has been found. He was… convicted of murder in Bristol, England, and executed in 1821. Google can't find any other worthy individuals with that first and last name. But the story is good, though it breaks off at the most interesting point.

All the above-mentioned examples of pseudo-Russian literary porn got into this collection due to their personal merits — their interesting plot and the erotic fantasy of their authors. The other representatives of the genre did not stand up to my personal test of quality. The same Beautiful Zeinab, which imitates 1001 and One Night, which I never read in my youth, turned out to be a dull read, a tasteless graphomaniac bubblegum.

A separate section of this book contains the stories attributed to the Russian classics. After sifting out the obvious and low-brow junk, the venerable Alexei Tolstoy, author of The Ordeal and Peter the First, settled in it lonely. The test did not pass the works allegedly belonging to Sergei Yesenin (Niece and Summer Vacation) and Anton Chekhov (Young jackdaw. A.P. Chekhov? — a fanfiction created by some Vladimir Aganin, that did not prevent it from spreading through all sorts of the Internet garbage sites under the guise of Chekhov's own work).

Finally, the most important section of the publication consisted of the real works of Russian writers. And here, precisely, you will not find porn. Only descriptions of the relationships that have arisen between people who have been brought together by fate. Just feel the difference. Soak up the depth, the nuances, the details, their transfer, the halftones. Appreciate the subtleties and beauty of storytelling. Feel the over-the-top emotions. This is true classic Russian erotica. In which the tradition of that great literature of our ancestors does not allow you to get your dirty hands into the innermost to expose it. It's like the Bolshoi Ballet. Like the Mona Lisa.

Enjoy.

Boarding House of Love

By Anonymous (John Horwood)

Mr. Hobbs consulted his notepad once more and walked towards the mansion. A vast courtyard was hidden from prying eyes by a high brick fence — a huge sign was nailed to the gates of this citadel: Private boarding house for orphans, Rue Paroel, 14.

It seems to be here, muttered Mr. Hobbs and pressed the bell button. An elderly female gatekeeper ushered Hobbs into the house and introduced Madame Sulbé, the lady of the house.

Madame Sulbé's study was more like a society lady's boudoir than an office. There were many pictures on the walls, one wall was mirrored, a wide bed covered with a pink moiré blanket, a dressing table with perfume and vases, two armchairs, a pouffe and a bureau. There was a tape recorder on the windowsill, but it somehow fell out of view and was unnoticeable. Madame Sulbé herself looked the least like the mistress of a poor boarding-house. This gorgeous young French woman struck Hobbs with her casualness and cheerfulness.

Yes, yes, she exclaimed happily as soon as Hobbs introduced himself. You are just the kind of doctor we need. I think the girls will like you. Definitely suitable for me, anyway, she smiled.

"I am very glad, thank you for your frankness, I also like you both as a woman and as a hostess. Happy to serve you.

So, Madame Sulbé shot an intriguing look, "the exchange of courtesies is over. Please sit down. Let's talk about business.

She sank into a deep armchair opposite Hobbs, and he was immediately struck by her slender, long legs, open well-above the knees. Hobbs tried not to look at them.

"Do you know anything about our boarding house?

"No, nothing, except what is written in the ad.

"Wonderful.

Hobbs noticed that Madame was not wearing rubber bands. The stockings were sewn with panties.

Our boarding house, Madame said after a moment's silence, "is for girls aged 14 to 18 from poor families and without relatives. Right now I have nine girls, but there will be 20. When the girls come of age, we will fix up them according to their abilities and appearance. You will find the rest as we go along.

"And what can you offer in terms of accommodation, pay and daily routine?

Madame Sulbé went to the window and turned on the tape recorder, saying into the microphone: Mr. Hobbs John has been hired by the boarding house. He is assigned to room №10 in the right wing. Meals at the expense of the boarding house without cigarettes and wine. The salary is one thousand francs a month. Mr. Hobbs undertakes monitoring the state of health of boarders, providing assistance at any time of the day, and performing a medical examination once a week. Leaving the boarding house, Mr. Hobbs must inform the hostess where and for how long…

Hostess story

"In 1960, I married a stockbroker, and he was 42 years older than me. He was already over as a man. When we got married, he already knew he was hopelessly ill. I didn't know, but I guessed his health wasn't good. So, let's have a drink…

"How long did you live with him?

If what happened between us can be called married life, then I was married for exactly 120 days. She suddenly smiled sadly and, leaning back in her chair, closed her eyes. Doctor, pour me some rum, I want to get drunk today!

Put a lemon?

No, let it be pure rum… Yes, so, she continued after he had drunk. "120 days, but my God, what torture it was. You are a doctor, and you can be told everything. Usually nothing is hidden from the doctor!

"I grew up in a rich family. My father was a successful businessman. I was brought up in one of the best boarding houses in Sweden. When I was 16 years old, I was engaged to the son of a Marseille banker. I was destined for an easy and carefree life. But everything fell apart in 1957. My father got involved in some shady Cuban sugar scam. He invested all his capital in it, mortgaged all his property and went bankrupt. We were left destitute. Dad shot himself… Pour some more rum…! Mother died of the flu the same year. I was left alone. For my misfortune, or perhaps for my joy, I have no more relatives. Why don't you drink anymore?

"I'll have a drink later.

"No, drink now. What I am going to tell you cannot be listened to while sober.

"Is it convenient to get drunk on the first day of work?

I thought, you understand, she flashed her eyes angrily. "It's a pity that I was mistaken. Thanks for the company, doctor. I won't delay you. You can go rest. She walked over to the bureau, flipping through some papers, signaling to Hobbs that dinner was over.

Shameless bitch! thought Hobbs, feeling himself blushing with shame. Hobbs stood up and, bowing silently to his mistress's back, went to the door.

"You forgot to say goodbye to me, dear doctor!

"I bowed to your charming back.

Madame Sulbé first smiled at the joke, and then laughed.

"You answered well. I value smart people. She returned to the table and sat down in a chair.

Oh, those legs flashed through Hobbs's head.

"Excuse me, doctor, I got excited. No, obviously the wine is to blame. Sit down and finish at least this glass if you don't feel like drinking too much.

Hobbs sat down.

You have such beautiful legs, I can’t get enough of them, he muttered in embarrassment.

"Do you like them? You'll see enough of them…!

Is she going to have medical checkups too? Hobbs thought, his heart racing. Hobbs wasn't a prude, but he didn't want to see that beautiful woman in a gynecological chair.

By the way, she continued, it all started with these legs at the age of 17. I was an awkward, angular, bad-tempered girl, so nobody liked me. And so, when I was on the verge of death from hunger, an elderly gentleman picked me up on the street and brought me to his house, let me wash in the bathroom, fed me and put me to bed. In the morning after breakfast, he said, I'm not asking how you ended up on the street, and I don't care about your past. I'm not interested in you as a woman, and I have no idea what kind of person you are. But you have great legs, and you're very fortunate with them. I'm single, and I could use a maid. You will only work on the days when I have guests. I will warn you about such days in advance. The rest of the time, you can just mind your own business. I will not pay you any money. I'll buy you clothes, order a special outfit and provide you with food. Since you have nowhere to go, you will stay with me. That's all. The housekeeper will show you to your room." This ended the conversation. I stayed with him. And two days later they brought me a uniform, I still have it, but it became narrow in the hips and chest. I put it on and was horrified. The skirt was so short that it barely covered my underpants. Monsieur Jules — that was my master's name — examined me and found the outfit magnificent, especially my legs. I started catering the parties Monsieur Jules threw every Saturday. I was given a tray of ice cream or glasses of champagne, and I offered guests refreshments and a drink. I was not allowed to put on stockings. Looking at me, men were smiling and whispering, and women were turning away contemptuously.

What annoyed me most was that all the ladies who attended these evenings were either outright prostitutes or kept women, but I was treated with open disdain. Once, while delivering ice cream, I went into a room next to the hall, where men usually smoked. It was gloomy in it, and I did not immediately figure out who was sitting in it.

Come to me, I heard a female voice to my right.

I turned around, my eyes already accustomed to the gloom. A beautiful woman reclined in a wide, soft chair. Her white thigh was awfully bright, and there was a lump of male hair between her legs. I was taken aback by surprise.

"Come on, give me some ice cream!

I went up to her and handed her a bowl of ice cream, while looked with all of my eyes at the man, who, with fascination and self-forgetfulness, went mad over the body of a woman. I also wanted to be caressed like that.

For the first time in my life I felt how much I am a woman. I was ready to offer myself to any man in the hall, but I was afraid that they would laugh at me and refuse. The woman was languishing with pleasure, she began to move lustfully her backside and press the man's head to herself with her hand, while he jumped and smacked like an animal. She tossed empty vase on the tray, leaned back further in her chair, threw back her head and closed her eyes in pleasure. I looked at the man. His eyes, burning with lust, stared unblinkingly at my legs. I involuntarily made a movement with my hip, as if offering myself to him. He jumped up. I noticed that a hard cock was sticking out of his unbuttoned trousers. The man rushed at his partner and plunged his dick into her tormented entrails. They jumped and moaned as if they were condemned to death. I could no longer look and went out, and for a few more minutes I walked, as if in a fog. I almost physically felt as a firm male member goes into my own immaculate vulva. I was lost in daydreaming about it. Obviously, the lovers told everyone about what happened, because the attitude towards me has changed dramatically. They were no longer shy of me, men no longer whispered around me, and women began to treat me as equal. Monsieur Jules did not send me to bed after 1 a.m., I served parties as long as at least one of the guests remained on his feet. I realized that the apartment of Monsieur Jules was a kind of rendezvous house, where lovers of noisy orgies and thrills gather. About a month after that memorable evening, Monsieur Jules came into my room. I was going to walk around the city and was already in my coat. He gave me a critical look.

"Today, baby, I'm giving an annual ball. There will be a lot of new people that you don't know. Try to make them like you.

The party that day exceeded all of my expectations. All the rooms were splendidly decorated, and many people filled them. Out of habit, I served everyone just as neatly and skillfully, but unable to withstand the unbearable desire among so many copulating pairs, I decided to drink a little and quickly got drunk.

Usually men didn't see me as a woman they could possess. When I went upstairs to the room next to the hall, they turned away in disappointment. Everything was going as usual, with the only difference that some of them were impressed with my tipsy eyes. I chose a red-bearded lad and beckoned him with my finger. He was surprised and began to look around, thinking that I was calling someone else, and when he realized that my gesture referred to him, he was even more surprised, cringing from the shock. I felt that I was in an awkward position and did not know what to do, when suddenly a slender, handsome man approached me.

"I’ve been watching you in this house for a long time. Do you want me to take you for a ride in a car?

I silently nodded. We left the hall, quietly went out of the house, got into a luxurious limousine and drove off. Driving the car with one hand, he stroked my legs with the other, lifting my skirt as high as possible. I did not resist and generally perceived everything somehow vaguely and unrealistically, like a dream. For an hour and a half we rushed around Paris and during this time we did not utter a word.

Where can I take you? The man asked when it got dark.

"Let's go to your…

You can’t come to my house, I’m married, he said, looking at me in surprise.

"Then I'll go out here…

Wait, we’ll go to one place. Anyway, I won’t get home today, the man said, turning the car around. After 10 minutes, we were in a small well-furnished room. Gabriel, that was the name of my new friend, closed the door with a latch, lowered the curtains at the windows and came up to me.

"Take off your clothes, this place will be our home for some time. You can take a bath.

I already bathed today, I said, and began to take off my coat.

He helped me undress and invited me to the table.

"Would you like a drink?

I agreed. Half an hour later I was drunk. Gabriel told salacious anecdotes and kissed my legs, which made me feel extraordinary pleasure. He took off my stockings and stroked my thighs, then he took off my panties. I did not resist and was ready for anything. He knelt down in front of me.

Finally, the head of a man is between my legs, I thought with lust, thrilled by the passion that seized me. Will he kiss me? I thought, not daring to move to touch his head with my hands.

Take off everything, he said suddenly, jumping impulsively to his feet.

We stripped naked and looked at each other for several minutes, enjoying our nakedness with rapture.

Come to me, he whispered.

For some time, we stood embracing, not daring to budge, unable to cope with the trembling that seized us. Gabriel's hard cock rested on my stomach below the navel. His thigh pressed against my pubis. Every touch, every slightest movement of his body gave me untold pleasure. I was mad with delight and, closing my eyes, buried my face in his hairy chest. Ariane, honey, I like you, he whispered and his hands slid down my back to the buttocks, went over my hips and converged at the bottom of my stomach…

Madame Sulbé fell silent, dreamily smiling into space. Then, she looked at Mr. Hobbs, still smiling, and asked, "Are you still with me?

"Of course.

"Not tired? Well… Maybe, I should omit these sexual details…

"No, no, they give, in my opinion, a special flavor to your story. And besides, I don’t find anything wrong with…

"Well, pour us some more wine, let's drink and continue. Will you drink with me?

"With pleasure!

His hands were incredible! Madame said with admiration, closing her eyes from a sweet memory. "When his fingers touched my flesh, I experienced such piercing pleasure that my whole body involuntarily twitched, and I convulsively squeezed my legs.

Don't you like it, he asked aggrievedly…

On the contrary, I answered, breathless with excitement. It's too good, I'm not used to it yet. He smiled. Dear girl, he said gently, kissing me on the lips. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that makes women lose their minds and burn like flames. But that was enough for me. I collapsed into his arms with a groan from sweet exhaustion. Gabriel carried me to the bed, laid me on top of the blanket and began to passionately kiss my body, my girlish chest, my angular shoulders, my sunken belly, my thighs and, finally, I felt the heat of his lips on my rose that had not yet blossomed. We were in a frenzy, the whole world was gone, all the people were gone and there was no life, there were only two insane bodies fused into a furious and wild triumph.

When I woke up, Gabriel was sitting next to me, dressed.

Are you leaving? I asked in a weak voice.

"You need to rest. I didn't know you were a virgin. I tortured you completely.

"No, it was wonderful! It's wonderful that you made me a woman! Thank you, honey.

Gabriel kissed me and left, and I fell asleep.

I returned home the next day in the evening, when the bruises under my eyes disappeared. Monsieur Jules met me in the hall. I could see from his face that he was very worried about me.

It's all right, Monsieur Jules, I told him, I'll put on your Piquét.

Crazy child, he said, and shook his head softly.

I went to my room and to bed — without undressing. I was still filled with some sweet longing and delight. It seemed to me that a part of Gabriel was still in my flesh. This feeling was so strong that I even touched myself. I fell asleep almost immediately. The next morning, I took a bath and pulled Piquét out of my desk. It was a funny thing. The triangle itself was made of some elastic and resilient material. The outer lining was velvet, internal — rubberized nylon. The pear was quite impressive in size, and I was not without reason afraid that such a thick one would not be easy for me to insert, but then it turned out to be not only difficult, but almost impossible. The pear was twice as wide as my hole. It tore the lips of my vagina painfully, but still did not go inside. Just at this moment, when I was already desperate and decided to abandon this idea altogether, the pear suddenly passed the last tight millimeters and easily slid inside, filling me with its impressive mass. The white triangle, as if glued, froze on my pubis, I breathed a sigh of relief, but the difficulties did not end there. It turned out that walking with a pear is not very convenient, it rubbed into the vagina and all the time made itself felt with some vague, disturbing pleasure. I walked around the room several times and looked at myself in the mirror. My appearance was rather extravagant. Next Saturday I however served guests in that outfit with the difference that instead of white panties I was wearing only Piquét. The guests accepted me as an equal, men joked with me, women spoke to me, now they were not at all shy about me. And therefore, probably, the evening itself turned into crazy orgy. I served the couples with wine and ice cream, while they indulged in the most incredible love games, one of the guests, putting his woman on all fours, inserted cock in her ass and, moving his whole body, ate the ice cream brought by me. Another put the woman on the couch and arranged a kind of table on her stomach and drank from the glass, and after each sip he kissed her crotch. The third sat on a chair, lowered a beautiful ample girl on his stomach and, taking a bowl of ice cream from me, began to feed his partner from a spoon, while she moved her ass, holding on to his shoulders. Men did not leave me unattended. They kneaded, stroked my thighs, and rubbed their naked bodies against them. Some even kissed my buttocks in a fit of excitement. All this gave me a lot of pleasure and increased my shares' value among men. By morning, I remained alone dressed, naked men and women scurried around me, smelled of perfume and flesh.

The spectacle of disorderly and shameless copulation made a great impression on me. I experienced extraordinary pleasure and in the morning I was completely broken from multiple and fairly fast orgasms. Before going to bed, I took out the Piquét. It slipped out easily and quickly, along with a huge lump of white slime. Two weeks later, I felt that Gabriel had given me a child, this news upset Monsieur Jules. He sighed contritely and, scratching his head, said, Well, Ariane, we'll have to send you to Aunt Moreau.

And they sent me to Aunt Moreau in Normandy, to a small, cheerful village on the ocean shore. For two months, a kind, grouchy old woman treated me with all sorts of herbs and fed me according to a special diet. She made me do exercises for the chest, waist, hips, and only the legs remained the same. I don't know if I was pregnant. I got rid of delays in menstruation without throwing the baby away. During these two months that I lived with Aunt Moreau, my body has changed a lot: my hips and buttocks put on some flesh. The high stature that caused me so many griefs suddenly became especially useful, making me slim and graceful. All of my dresses had to be redone, they creak at the seams in the chest and hips.

At the end of July Monsieur Jules called. He asked about my health and asked me to come to Paris. A local tailor made me a well-fitting traveling suit, in which I looked so elegant that for the first time in my life I liked myself. For two months, my hair has grown a lot, and now it fell on my shoulders in a magnificent golden cascade. On the day of departure, I went to the hairdresser and did a fashionable hairstyle.

Even from the carriage, I noticed Monsieur Jules, standing lonely in a noisy crowd. I waved to him, but he didn't notice. I walked past him with a suitcase, he looked somehow strange, smiled, not showing any desire to come up to me. I stopped in confusion and started watching him. He looked at me a few more times. Suddenly his face fell into a frightened expression, he clasped his hands and rushed towards me.

"Ariane, my God, is that you?!

"Of course it’s me, Monsieur Jules!

I didn't recognize you, he whispered apologetically. You’re so beautiful, you’ve grown up, it’s amazing!

He took the suitcase from me and, offering his hand, led me to the exit. We drove home in a new luxury car. Monsieur Jules was already living in a new mansion on the Rue Pieri, he had a new servant. My place was taken by a young girl with grey eyes of about 18. The housekeeper