Taras shuddered, muscles taut, body still arched, caught in an almost balletic pose.

He fell back, panting. Taras had worked up a light sweat, warming his brow, dampening the coverlet bunched at the back of his neck.

Heat prickled through him, fading slowly, and Taras became aware that he was still holding the receiver in one hand, and his cock in the other.

Barshai's voice rumbled soft curse words in his ear.

Taras felt strangely mellowed, as if orgasm had turned him docile and permissive for the moment, like a drugged watchdog.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, wondering how it was things like this happened to him, how he always muscled ahead without thinking about consequences.

Like Red Square.

Taras was silent for long moments, just listening to Barshai's breathing.

"You have a dirty mouth, comrade," he whispered, finally, voice thick. "You should use it more often."