Rural correspondent

My name is Lisa. I'm 25 years old, I live in a small town, and I've been working at the local newspaper for two years now. The job isn't hard, the only thing is they don't pay much. My personal life hasn't worked out; guys seem to run away from me for some reason. My longest relationship with a guy lasted about seven months. It was late autumn outside and my mood matched it. On Thursday, the editor called me in, a portly man of about 53, roughly 165 cm tall.

— "Lizonka, my sunshine," he began. I couldn't stand it when he called me that.

— "Yes, Evgeny Borisovich…"

— "My dear, you need to go on a business trip tomorrow morning, to

the village of Pribishnoye. There's a man living there, his father, according to rumors, served in the KGB and was involved in some chemical experiments, testing drugs on people, and those people either disappeared or ended up in mental hospitals.

— "Goodness, what kind of horror is that, Evgeny Borisovich, I somehow don't feel good about going there."

— "Don't you worry, they say he's a peaceful man, treats the locals with all sorts of herbs, ambulances practically never go there. And so you're not scared, I'll give you Dimka Frolov for company, our photographer, he'll take some pictures there, local views, you with this guy."

— "Well, I don't even know, can't I refuse?"

— "Elizaveta, you cannot refuse, you cannot, I'll let you go early today, and tomorrow morning you go to the bus station and off you go. I don't know the exact address, I'll write down which buses to take to get to the village, the man's name is Stepan Yerofeyevich, every dog there knows him, they'll point out the house. And come back in the evening."

— "Understood, okay, but what should I ask him? Maybe he doesn't really know anything? Or won't want to talk about it."

— "If he doesn't want to, don't, you'll see how he lives, how he treats people, we'll write about that."

— "Alright, I'll go home then, to prepare questions."

— "Go on, Lizonka, see you Monday!"

This was, of course, a setup, having to take a bus to some godforsaken place on the border with another region. At home, I ran a bath, undressed, turned on some soothing music, and started jotting down questions for the interview.

Waking up in the morning, I realized we were unlucky with the weather. I met the photographer at the bus station on platform 6.

— "Good morning!"

— "Are you sure it's good?" I grimaced.

— "Yeah, unlucky with the weather…"

— "In my opinion, we're unlucky with this business trip in general."

The bus departed at 8:20, there were few people on it. Dima dozed off and woke up closer to our stop. The weather wasn't in a hurry to improve, and we had to take another bus, which was delayed by 30 minutes. The bus reeked terribly of some hay, and then of rot. This torment lasted an hour. Finally, we arrived in Pribishnoye, asked the locals where Stepan Yerofeyevich's house was.

— "Oh, dear, where are you from?" asked a local woman in her sixties.

— "We're reporters from the city, could you please tell us how to find him."

— "You go that way, straight through the woods, about three kilometers, no more."

— "Three km, through the woods, is she serious?" Dima grumbled into my ear.

We certainly didn't expect that. But what could we do, gathering our thoughts, we set off in the indicated direction. To say the road was terrible is an understatement, there wasn't even a hint of asphalt. We walked knee-deep in mud, my oxfords were just lumps of dirt, my blue jeans were all splattered with mud, and that nasty fine, dust-like rain. At first we talked, encouraging each other, but then our strength and desire to speak faded. We walked and hated our editor, each other, and the whole world in general. Around 4 PM, we came to a small wooden house, a chimney was visible on the roof from which grayish smoke was lazily rising. Exhausted after the difficult journey, we knocked on the door. Silence. Dima knocked harder once more.

— "Liz, imagine he's not home and we have to go back to the bus the same way."

That thought made my face contort. But suddenly, footsteps were heard behind the door and the heavy door opened. The one who opened the door left me speechless. Sometimes, when you're told about someone but not shown them, your subconscious starts drawing an image of the person. I didn't think much about what this Stepan Yerofeyevich would look like, but I certainly didn't expect this. Before us stood a tall man, about 195 cm, around 55 years old, large-framed but not fat, just proportionally big. Broad-shouldered, big-boned, stern features, unkempt hair, a week's worth of stubble. He was wearing some kind of strange gray pants and a dark green shirt.

— "How can I help you, travelers?" His voice was low, calm.

— "Hello, Stepan Yerofeyevich, right?" I asked, continuing to look at this gray-haired giant.

— "Right, young lady, and who are you? Where are you coming from?"

— "Stepan Yerofeyevich, my name is Lisa, I'm a reporter for the city newspaper, we would like to interview you," my voice trembled slightly from excitement.

The man hesitated, scratched the back of his head with his large palm, looked back into the house, then at us again.

— "Wellll," he drawled. "I can't promise an interview, but I can't turn you away in this weather, come in, warm up, if you're hungry, I'll brew some herbal tea with honey."

— "Yes, thank you, we're terribly hungry, and tea, and to warm up," Dima was expressing his desires as if firing them from a machine gun.

Stepan Yerofeyevich took two steps back, letting us into the house. We entered and I looked at my feet; my shoes had turned into clumps of mud. A spicy heat hit my face; the house was very warm. We took off our shoes and outerwear. The inside of the house was large, though it didn't seem so from the outside, there was a carpet with long pile on the floor, or no, most likely it was animal skins sewn together, there were two small windows in the house, by one of them stood a large table, and on it… mmmmmm, lay some cured pork fat, potatoes with dill, something red in a three-liter jar. My stomach clenched at the sight of the food. Stepan Yerofeyevich invited us to wash our hands at a small sink and sit at the table, while he went into another room and returned a moment later with a large bottle of some cloudy liquid.

— "Oh, no, if that's alcohol, I won't have any," I protested.

— "You need it now, the last thing you need is to catch an inflammation," the man thumped the bottle onto the table.

— "Well, I won't say no, especially with such snacks," my partner hurried to agree.

— "Alright, but just a tiny bit," I definitely didn't want to get sick after this trip.

— "So, what questions did you want to ask me in your interview," Stepan Yerofeyevich asked, pouring the moonshine into large glasses.

— "Stepan Yerofeyevich, I would like to ask questions about your father."

The man frowned, and, it seemed to me, his face became even more serious. He sat down opposite us, took the glass, downed it in one gulp without even wincing, then looked at me with such a heavy gaze that I hurried to lower my eyes.

— "I don't know much, I didn't communicate much with my father, he was always silent at home, mother didn't ask about work and forbade me from pestering him with questions."

— "But you knew about his work, about the experiments?"

— "Not much, knew some things, learned some later, after his death. You eat, while the potatoes are warm, then I'll put the kettle on, you should change clothes, but I have nothing to give you for a change."

— "Don't worry, we're practically warmed up. Tell me, is it true that people disappeared or went insane…."

— "Don't believe everything they say," he interrupted me. "They created a special clinic for them, it was all secret, they all had different fatal diseases. Some died anyway, and some lived a few more years. I don't know the details of the experiments, you don't even need to ask."

The moonshine went to my head, but its aftertaste was extraordinary, something very familiar, reminiscent of eucalyptus. Dima was digging into the potatoes and cured fat, I kicked him under the table, hinting that he should stop eating and remember his task. We talked for about an hour, Stepan Yerofeyevich allowed us to take a few photos, I recorded his answers in my notebook. It was already quite dark outside and I was tormented by the question of how we would get back to the bus stop.

— "Stepan Yerofeyevich, thank you for the warm welcome, but we somehow need to get to the bus."

— "Are you out of your minds, where are you going at this time, stay until morning, I'll put the kettle on now."

— "It's somehow not right for us to burden you."

— "Don't argue, I won't let you go, and look, your friend is nodding off."

My partner was indeed sitting, propping his head with his hands and yawning repeatedly. I decided not to argue, but staying overnight made me uneasy.

Stepan Yerofeyevich cleared the table, set out raspberry jam, honey, some buns sprinkled with sugar, and a large teapot.

— "Herbal tea, my signature recipe," after these words the man looked at me somehow strangely and with a smirk.

The tea gave off an extraordinary aroma of herbs, the buns were simply divine.

— "Why do you live alone and far from people?" I asked, yawning.

— "Well, I'm unsociable, somehow got used to being alone all my life…"

— "And you've never been married? You're a handsome man, and in your youth, I bet it was impossible to take your eyes off you."

— "No, I never had a wife, there were women, of course, and even now they come to me for treatment, and if she's lonely, something can happen between us, there's nothing shameful in that."

I felt an insane desire to close my eyes and couldn't get rid of the yawning. Turning to my colleague, I found him asleep with his head on his arms.

— "Well, Dima, damn…," I said resentfully.

— "Don't be angry with him, he's worn out, and the tea worked faster."

— "In what sense 'worked'?" I didn't understand.

— "Don't you worry, I won't do anything bad to you, you're young, beautiful, I haven't had such for a long time, my blood stirred."

I didn't understand anything, and my eyelids were getting heavier and heavier.

— "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're talking about?"

Everything swam before my eyes, I tried to say something else, but my tongue wouldn't obey me. A moment later I felt myself being picked up in someone's arms, I tried to open my eyes, but they were veiled. I was lowered onto my back on the floor and I lost consciousness.

It's hard to say how much time passed, but obviously several minutes, I began to distinguish sounds: the crackling of firewood in the stove, some rustling, and heavy breathing right above me. My body was moving back and forth, as if someone was shaking me. I tried to open my eyes, my eyelids were very heavy and I only managed to do it halfway. In the thick white haze, I made out Stepan Yerofeyevich's large face, I didn't understand what was happening, had I fainted, and was he reviving me. But that was clearly a deceptive assumption, because the next moment I felt movement right inside my body. Blinking a few times, I began to see the man's face a little better, he was snorting loudly and sometimes exhaled air from his mouth right into my face. With difficulty, I raised my head and saw my legs spread apart, my jeans and panties lying to the side.

— "Awake, girl, seems I overdid it a bit with the sleepy herb, wanted you to be conscious."

Stepan Yerofeyevich tensed and, thrusting hard into me with his body, immediately pulled back, pulling out of me a simply huge member which immediately began spraying semen onto my pubic area, stomach, and the floor. I was in such shock that I couldn't say a word, and my tongue wouldn't obey me. Stepan Yerofeyevich stood up, and his organ hung like a thick sausage almost to his knees. Semen continued to drip from the large head. My thoughts were confused, I tried to piece together the puzzle….. Stepan Yerofeyevich had raped me……but…why didn't I feel anything there…..he said something about sleepy herb, he mixed it into my tea. I tried to get up, but my body wouldn't obey. Turning my head to the right, I saw Dima, he was also lying on the floor face down and seemed to be unconscious, but he was breathing, and realizing that made me feel a little better. My seducer was gone for quite a while, I tried several times to get up, find my phone, once I even managed to sit up, reach for my clothes, and at the moment when I was trying to put on my panties, Stepan Yerofeyevich came in. He grabbed my panties and threw them aside, picked me up in his arms, and carried me into another room, there was a heavy creaky door, passing through which we found ourselves in a small room with hot air. It was a bathhouse, the man easily stripped me of my last piece of clothing and laid me on my stomach. I let out a quiet "ouch" from the contact with the hot wood.

— "Oh, girl, how good you are," the man kept saying, picking up two oak bath brooms and working on my legs. "So fine, young, smooth, firm, you awakened desire in me."

His hand was heavy and the blows of the broom were very weighty and heavy. I turned my head towards him and found him completely naked, just a giant, powerful, broad-shouldered, tall, compared to him I was just a doll. His member, even in a flaccid state, was bigger than any I had ever seen. And now it was filling with blood again and slowly rising until it became parallel to the floor.

— "Oh, girl, what are you doing to me," he said, looking at his erection.

Stepan Yerofeyevich lifted me as if I were a feather and turned me across the bench, so that my knees ended up on the lower shelf. With his mighty hands, he grabbed me by the hips and I felt his thick head between my legs.

— "Stepan Yerofeyevich… don't…," for