Semen

My boyfriend and I arrived at my dacha—it stood far from the city, in a quiet place, cut off from the hustle and bustle. The grounds were large: apple trees cast dappled shade, a small vegetable garden stretched out, and a swimming pool sparkled nearby. *

• We spent the whole day cleaning the house, opening windows to let in fresh air, wiping down shelves, unpacking boxes, and laughing at forgotten little things. As the sun began to set, we grilled shashlik—the smoky aroma mingled with the scent of grass and linden. We ate dinner on the veranda, chatting, capturing moments of silence when only the chirping of crickets was audible. *
• Then we went inside, changed, and lay down to watch a movie, wrapped in a blanket. He lay shirtless, and I stroked his chest—when suddenly I came across a hard lump. I froze, sat up abruptly, my heart pounding. * “Kitten, don’t move,”* I whispered, my voice shaking. “Hey… baby, be careful,” he sat up, concern flashing in his eyes. “I’m trying,” I replied, trying to stop the trembling. *
• I ran to get the tweezers—every second dragged on forever. When I returned, I sat on his lap for comfort. He placed his hands on my waist—not resisting, but as if supporting. I leaned over, peering closely, trying not to tremble and moving carefully, and he quietly whispered something encouraging. Silence fell in the room, broken only by our breathing.