The Chronicles Of Power

The shower shut off in the small bathroom.

Steam still hung thick beneath the ceiling as Count Ivan Kolotoff slowly emerged from the haze. Droplets traced their way down the young man’s shoulders as he methodically dried himself with the small, rough towel. His movements were calm, precise, and practiced.

He was ready for another day.

His sixtieth in Sir’s and Ma’am’s house.

His teeth were brushed. His body had been shaved from head to toe; they wanted him as smooth as a seal. He had masturbated.

Now he turned his mind to vigilance, precision, and awareness.

Nothing could be allowed to escape his notice.

He committed everything he saw to memory. Small changes could matter just as much as large ones. He pieced a puzzle.

Like the bathroom, the bedroom was small and sparsely furnished. A narrow bed stood against one wall. In front of it sat a simple desk with a chair and a single table lamp. A wardrobe stood at the back of the room.

Ivan smiled faintly.

The wardrobe served no purpose.

He owned nothing.

The luggage he had brought to the house had last been seen when Stephen placed it in the back seat of the Bentley. After that, it vanished, and Ivan never saw it again.

The only things he had were those that belonged to the room: a toothbrush, toothpaste, shower gel, shampoo, the small towel, an alarm clock, and a drinking glass.

Nothing more.

Although the house appeared to be almost entirely made of glass from the outside, the staff’s rooms had no windows. Neither did his colleagues’. Daylight never reached this place.

They lived in perpetual twilight.

Ivan sat down at the desk, switched on the table lamp, and pulled the day’s schedule closer. The circle of light fell across the neatly printed sheet of paper.

He read through the day’s assignments slowly, one line at a time.

08:00 – Collect the laundry basket from the laundry room. Gather your own laundry and that of your colleagues. Start the washing machine.

08:25 – Breakfast.

08:45 – Replace the burnt-out light bulbs in the library, the entrance hall, and Molly’s room.

09:15 – Transfer the laundry to the dryer.

09:20 – Serve breakfast to Sir and Ma’am.

10:00 – Fold the laundry. Put it away in the rooms. Change everyone’s bed linens. Clean the laundry room and thoroughly clean the washing machine.

12:00 – Gym.

He smiled.

The gym was clearly important to Sir and Ma’am. They wanted to keep him in shape.

He had no objection to that.

An hour of training was built into his schedule every day, and it was one of the few things he genuinely looked forward to. It had taken him a few days to get used to handling barbells, dumbbells, and weight machines while naked, but that, too, had become routine. The body adapted far more quickly than the mind.

The gym was rarely empty for long.

The others in the house always seemed to find a reason to be there whenever Ivan was training. Sometimes Molly would stop by with fresh towels, or Lucy carrying a dust cloth for a surface that hardly needed dusting. Ma’am appeared from time to time, leaning against the wall with a cup of tea or a glass of champagne, quietly watching his workout. Occasionally she commented on his posture, his technique, or the way his body was changing. She did so in exactly the same tone she used when discussing food, art, or furniture.

Even Tamara seemed to pass by more often than chance could explain.

Ivan set the schedule aside.

The rest of the day looked much like any other. The tasks changed, but the rhythm never did. One time slot followed the next. Laundry, cleaning, serving, and entertainment. Sometimes Sir and Ma’am had guests, and then the day’s schedule could be turned upside down. But today seemed set to be an ordinary weekday.

Ivan glanced at the alarm clock.

07:59.

He stood, took a deep breath, and rested his hand on the doorknob.

It was time to begin another day.

By the time noon approached, absolutely nothing of importance had happened.

Ivan had carried out every task on his schedule. The laundry had been folded and put away. The beds had been made with millimeter precision. The laundry room gleamed. The floor was dry, the worktops wiped clean, and the washing machine thoroughly scrubbed.

Even so, something felt off.

He had noticed a few small irregularities.

Lucy had been helping Tamara in the kitchen, even though Tamara normally worked there alone. Molly had been cleaning with unusual intensity, almost obsessively. She had dusted the same surfaces more than once and straightened objects that were already perfectly aligned.

It suggested that something was about to happen.

A dinner party.

A visit.

Some kind of gathering.

Yet he hadn’t heard a single word about it, and nothing on today’s schedule suggested the house was expecting guests.

That was strange.

He let the thought linger as he walked down the hallway toward the gym.

Then he heard voices.

A low murmur.

Without thinking, he slowed his pace.

The sound was coming from the gym.

It was usually quiet at this time of day.

He paused outside the door for a moment before opening it.

The room had been completely transformed.

The exercise machines were still there, but they were almost lost behind elegantly set tables. White tablecloths, flowers, and fine china filled the space between the weights and the treadmills. Along one wall stood a serving table laden with canapés, delicate hors d’oeuvres, and rows of champagne flutes sparkling beneath the lights.

Tamara and Molly stood a short distance away, perfectly positioned and ready to serve. Both wore their black uniforms, but their posture was unusually straight, as though they were waiting for a signal.

Even so, that wasn’t what caught Ivan’s attention first.

Around fifteen women drifted among the tables and exercise equipment. They were dressed with effortless elegance, refined without appearing formal. Some held champagne flutes while others spoke quietly in pairs. Their laughter was subdued, their movements unhurried, and everything about them projected quiet exclusivity.

The moment Ivan stepped through the doorway, the conversations faded.

The murmur died.

Fifteen pairs of eyes turned toward him.

No one spoke.

Ma’am excused herself from her guests with practiced ease and gave a light clap of her hands.

It wasn’t the sharp, commanding clap the staff knew so well. This one was softer, almost playful, meant for an audience.

“Well then,” she said with a smile. “At last, the main attraction of today’s luncheon has arrived. Please, have a seat.”

The women settled around the elegantly laid tables. Chairs scraped softly across the floor, silk rustled as they took their seats, and champagne caught the light. Some watched Ivan with open curiosity. Others leaned toward one another, whispering behind raised glasses. A few gestured discreetly in his direction, exchanging lifted eyebrows and expectant smiles.

Ma’am swept a hand toward him.

“Allow me to introduce our Ivan. Our silent statue. Our work of art.”

She turned to him.

“You may begin. I believe this could become something quite beautiful.”

Then she took her own seat.

Ivan began his workout.

His movements followed the same routine as every other day. The weights rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His muscles tightened and relaxed, his skin gradually glistened with sweat, and his breathing slowly grew heavier. Every so often, a soft oh or an appreciative murmur drifted from the tables.

Before long, the whispers began to spread.

“Ivan,” one of the women murmured. “Do you think he’s Russian?”

Ma’am smiled over the rim of her champagne flute.

“I think so,” she replied. “But I honestly don’t know. That’s part of his charm. He’s like a beautiful secret.”

“What if he’s related to Anastasia?” another woman said. “A descendant of the Tsar’s family.”

Ivan continued his workout without the slightest change in expression.

If only she knew how close she was to the truth.

“No,” a third woman said. “His name is Ivan. That’s a soldier’s name. I think he comes from a humble family instead. Men shaped, generation after generation, by blood, discipline, and the battlefield.”

Several of the others nodded.

The idea appealed to them.

Their imaginations filled in the gaps where knowledge ended.

In truth, none of them were entirely wrong.

His great-grandfather had been Count Kolotoff, owner of a vast estate outside St. Petersburg and a man with close ties to the Tsar and the rest of the imperial family. The Revolution swept it all away. The estate, the fortune, and the family name were lost almost overnight.

The Count’s son escaped execution by enlisting in the Red Army under the assumed name Ivan Glob. Against all odds, he survived the Russian Civil War.

His son, also named Ivan Glob, later fought in the Second World War and was among the first Soviet soldiers to enter Berlin.

Then came another Ivan.

And another.

Generation after generation, they lived as ordinary soldiers and laborers. The titles were gone, and so was the wealth, but the story of what the family had once been was passed from father to son.

It had never been allowed to die.

Ivan had made his decision long ago.

He intended to reclaim what his family had lost.

Power.

Wealth.

Influence.

And the house where he now lived, he thought as he pressed the bar overhead one last time, seemed an unusually promising place to begin. He would learn everything. They would be left with nothing.

His workout was over.

Even so, Ivan felt he had something left to give.

He finished with fifteen minutes of yoga. His movements slowed, becoming controlled, almost meditative. When the final pose flowed seamlessly into two high Cossack kicks, warm applause rose from the women seated around the elegantly laid tables.

Ma’am smiled with quiet satisfaction.

“Very good, Ivan,” she said. “Now clean the machines and the mats before continuing with today’s duties.”

She spoke in the same calm tone as always, as though the performance had been nothing more than another item on the day’s schedule.

The women immediately returned to their conversations. Champagne glasses were raised, quiet laughter drifted through the room, and chairs scraped softly across the floor. Before long, the gym was once again filled with the low murmur of voices.

Ivan fetched a cloth and began wiping the sweat from the exercise machines, cleaning them methodically, one after another.

Then he felt a light hand on his shoulder.

He turned.

One of the guests was standing behind him.

She was tall, slender, and elegantly dressed. Her exact age was difficult to judge, though she was probably around sixty. Her posture was impeccable, her hair carefully styled, and her jewelry understated yet unmistakably expensive.

She let her hand drift slowly along his arm, feeling the muscles beneath his skin before lightly brushing against his cock.

“You were… magnificent,” she said.

She leaned in a little closer and lowered her voice.

“You’re not my employee, so I can’t order you to do anything. But perhaps if…”

She held up a thick wad of cash.

Ivan didn’t have time to count it, but he caught the edges of several hundred-dollar bills.

He glanced toward Ma’am.

When their eyes met, she gave him the faintest nod.

Permission.

Ivan smiled politely, offered the woman his arm, and she accepted it with a soft giggle, slipping her hand through it.

Together they walked toward the glass doors leading into the garden as the murmur of the luncheon party slowly faded behind them.

She led him across the lawn. She talked the entire way, barely pausing for breath. Ivan had no idea what she was actually saying. It was the effortless small talk of the upper class, filled with names, places, and people he had never heard of.

Even so, he listened carefully.

Not to the words.

To the way she spoke.

The effortless confidence. The easy certainty. Every sentence delivered without the slightest hesitation, as though the world had always existed to accommodate her.

More than a century of ordinary lives had erased much of his family’s inherited knowledge of the old aristocracy. Even so, something remained. He recognized the rhythm, the way she carried herself, the way she occupied space. It lay buried deep in the past, but it was still there, carried in the blood.

As they walked, he let his gaze wander over the house.

He counted windows.

Measured distances.

Located Sir’s and Ma’am’s bedroom.

There was no way to reach it by climbing.

He filed the observation away.

They came to a shaded corner of the garden where an ancient oak spread its enormous branches. The sun had passed its highest point, but shafts of light still filtered through the leaves, scattering bright patches across the grass.

Beneath the oak, they kissed.

She slipped her arms around him, letting her hands glide over his back and down to his hips. The workout still showed in his body; his muscles were taut and firm. Ivan returned the kiss, his hands resting lightly against the back of her silk dress.

“Uh… no,” she whispered.

He stopped at once.

She would decide what happened next.

He left his hands at the small of her back.

She kissed well. She tasted of champagne and cake. She tasted expensive. One hand slipped around to the front of him, taking hold of his cock and slowly working his foreskin back and forth. Then she stepped away, licked her lips, and told him to lie on his back.

The grass was soft beneath him.

The short blades tickled his skin, still warm from the afternoon sun. Even the lawn looked immaculate. Not a weed in sight, not a single thin patch where the grass had failed to grow. The gardeners did their work well. They were young women from the village by the sea. Ma’am often sat in a lounge chair watching them work, occasionally summoning Ivan to refill her tea or champagne for her own amusement. One plump, dark-haired girl had nearly driven her lawn mower into a tree the first time she caught sight of him.

The woman began circling him.

Her movements were slow and graceful, almost choreographed. Sunlight caught her gray hair, turning it to silver beneath the branches of the oak. Her dress swayed gently around her legs as she came to a stop behind him.

She smiled.

She lifted her dress and lowered herself over his face.

The fabric settled around him, shutting out the sky.

He found himself inside a quiet, blue-tinted chamber of silk and shadow while the leaves overhead continued to rustle in the warm breeze.

She wore no underwear. Her clean-shaven pussy hovered above him, remarkably well kept for a woman of sixty. He breathed in. She smelled warm, earthy, aroused. She lowered herself a little farther, and he set to work with slow, deliberate movements of his tongue. She leaned forward, taking his cock in her hand, caressing his balls as she stroked him with practiced ease.

He increased his pace. At times he circled her clitoris with his tongue before drawing it gently into his mouth. She began rocking against his face.

Then he felt her tongue on the head of his cock.

Playfully, she matched his rhythm.

Lick.

Suck.

Lick.

She had done this before.

Her movements grew faster. It felt less as though he was pleasuring her than as though she was using his face for her own satisfaction. He could hear her jewelry softly rattling. The faster she moved her hips, the slower and more teasing her mouth became. It was a game he couldn’t win.

When she climaxed, she pressed herself firmly against him. He felt the muscles in her thighs tighten. She didn’t make a sound, though he could feel her body trembling. At last she released his throbbing cock.

She remained seated on his face for a long while.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang. He felt her juices slowly running down his cheeks.

He heard the clasp of a handbag being opened.

Something landed on his stomach.

She stood, smoothed her dress, and walked away without a backward glance.

On his stomach lay four—

No.

Five hundred-dollar bills.