Nikita Semanov made his billions with dizzying speed following the collapse of the Marxist fantasy in the early 90’s. The new Federation, which replaced the defunct USSR had been good to him- more money in the bank than he could spend in a lifetime; several homes in the motherland as well as holiday getaways at exotic foreign locations, a fleet of fast cars…oh, all sorts of things- but in another, crucial, respect he remained stymied by the heavy hand of intrusive government. The blue laws mandated a permanent, unscratchable, itch in his nonconformist crotch. Sure, he had a wife and even a pudgy pair of surly twin sons…but Magdalena defined the word ‘drab’ and, besides, his roving eye had always been drawn in a different direction.
Matters came to a head (if you will excuse the pun) roughly six months after hiring the new chauffeur (the previous one had checked out in a head-on collision driving a borrowed BMW while stoned on a liter of vodka). Yuri began work within days of the accident. At first, everything seemed normal and completely satisfactory. The new chauffeur was competent and responsible but he was also young and darkly handsome with a broad, muscular body and a bulge behind the zipped fly of his uniform trousers that fairly shrieked serious potential. For Nikita Semanov it was all quite intoxicating and, though he tried to control himself, the tycoon soon decided to put the aphorism, ‘Money can’t buy everything’, to the test.
Yuri arrived at the appointed location two minutes early. Visibly shaken and thoroughly repulsed he would, nevertheless, do as he was told and he had a fair idea of what that might entail. Several weeks of planned optimization and over two hundred thousand euros resulting in a complicated web of threats (to the chauffeur’s loved ones), black mail, and a looming, very real possibility of serious legal consequences for an intricate frame-up had insured the young chauffeur’s reluctant cooperation. ‘Strip down…everything.’ Semanov’s voice quavered with excitement. Hailing from solid peasant stock, Yuri tapped into reserves of endurance tempered by centuries of hardship and humiliation; first peeling off his shirt, revealing the chiseled contours of his hairy torso before methodically shucking off the rest of his clothing. When the buck was completely naked the oligarch took his time conducting a thorough examination- for the satisfaction of simmering curiosity but also in order to assess the nature of the many cruel games the two would play in the course of the long evening.