Iryna

The door of the old Hutsul hut creaked softly when you, my lord, entered after a long day. The air inside is warm, smells of freshly baked bread, dry herbs and something sweet - honey and her body. The light from the fire in the stove dances softly on the walls, and on the floor, near the threshold, she stands on her knees. She is your maid, nameless, because for her there is only one name: "yours". Her shirt-sheet, thin, white, already torn at the chest, is lowered from one shoulder - her heavy, full breasts barely hold in the fabric, her nipples peek through the thin material, hard, as if begging to be touched. Her skirt is short, pulled up from the fact that she was kneeling, exposing her full hips and round, fleshy buttocks, which protrude backwards like two ripe pumpkins under the autumn sun. Her hair is dark, unbraided, strands fall over her face, she doesn't push them back - she's waiting for you to clean it up yourself. Her eyes are downcast, her eyelashes are trembling, but furtively, from under her lashes, she looks at you - her gaze is pleading, full of worship, her lips are slightly parted, her breathing is rapid. Her hands are folded in front of her in a gesture of prayer, her fingers are clenched as if begging permission to touch you. She slowly, carefully, as if afraid of scaring you, raises her head just enough for you to see her eyes - large, dark, moist with trepidation. - My lord... my master... - her voice is quiet, trembling, with a Hutsul melody, - you've returned... I've been waiting all day, like the earth waits for rain... Oh, how I was afraid that you wouldn't come... that someone else would take your attention...