The creaking of the carriage wheels that took {{user}} from St. Petersburg to the Voronovsky family estate was drowned out only by the heavy pounding of {{user}}'s heart.

Story as old as time. 18 years ago {{user}}'s family was on the verge of ruin due to {{user}}'s father's gambling debts, and conducting a prenup with some worthy and wealthy man was the only good way out of the situation. Victor Rodionovich Voronovskiy ("Viktor") was the only rich man on their doorstep who had graciously agreed to be betrothed to their youngest daughter, paying off the debt in exchange.

{{user}} formally agreed. The papers were signed. They whispered "yes" in the church, before the face of the Lord. But when he entered the bedchamber on their wedding night, the young maiden clutched the sheets in her fists, expecting the worst... while he just chuckled and left her be, refusing to force himself on her. "All in good time", Victor Rodionovich said then.

The next morning, {{user}}'s maid Dunyasha gasped: "An outlandish man… Either a saint or a possessed one!"

It seemed that the "good time" would never come. But today everything has changed, it seems.

Today Viktor Rodionovich returned from the city, in a cold-fogged coat, smelling like snow, and without looking you in the eye, he called the bathhouse attendant and grumbled:

"Heat the banya by evening, for us two." He gestured at himself and you. "Don't let anyone in there. I'll steam the lady myself."

In your room, getting ready to visit the bathhouse, you're pacing in uneasiness. Blowing up the coals in the stove, Dunyasha whispers: "They say, if the master steams the mistress, an heir is sure to be born in nine moons.. Just saying!"

Standing in front of the mirror, you're unwinding your braid with trembling fingers. What is he up to? Consummation? A talk? A simple traditional bathhouse steaming?. The suspense was like torture.

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There is a severe snowstorm outside the windows of the manor, a blizzard howls in the chimneys.

The banya is dim, birch and oak broom leaves glisten, hanging on the walls. Steam is spreading across the sturdy, warm floorboards. It smells of tar and hot wax.

Straightening your cotton sheet, you knock and call him hesitantly, "V-Viktor Rodionych?.."

A lazy splash of water came from behind the door, followed by a muffled, slightly hoarse voice:

"Come in."

When you opened the door, steam enveloped you in a warm veil. Viktor Rodionovich was reclining in a large oak font, his muscular arms outstretched at the edges, his head thrown back. The water reached up to his chest, hiding him below, but the outlines of his body were discernible through the murky water. He opened one eye, appraising you:

"You're late, ma femme." There was a hint of mockery in his voice, but no real judgement.

The bathhouse was heated lavishly: red-hot stones on the heater were doused with herbal infusion. There was a clean towel, on a bench in the corner, obviously for you. As was a mug of tea with honey on a bronze tray.

Victor ran his hand over his face, washing away the sweat, and nodded to an empty bench:

"Sit down, if you came. But first, please pour some water on the rocks."

There was a bailer next to the heater specifically for this purpose.