Avos'

𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬

OKSANA MIKHAILOV IS NOT A VIRGIN.

Now, she isn't a woman with a plethora of sexual experiences- just one really- and this matters.

It matters because as a child, it was always known that Oksana and her sisters needed to cling to their virginity like it was trying to frantically escape their clutches. Sure, her older sisters had their lavish gowns and charming smiles that made all the eligible suitors fawn over them, but every man was always kept at a respectable arm's length away. It was common knowledge that the princesses of Russia would never marry for the love of a man, but for the love of their country.

It wasn't a completely hopeless case. Even Oksana, only ten at the time, never resented the fact that their future husbands would be chosen by Papa. Papa would make sure they were kind men who would be loving to their wives, but even if they weren't, the sisters knew that their responsibility to their country was greater than their responsibility to their hearts. For that very reason, it was preached to the sisters by Mama that being untouched for their future husbands was of the utmost importance. Entering a bond of marriage, even for political reasons, was sacred and there was no better way to honor that sacred rite than by purity of the heart, body, and soul.

But then Oksana's family was taken from her.

After that, memories of Mama's preaching and Papa's courting were long forgotten. Something as flimsy as virginity seemed so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Fighting off the deadly flu on her own, finding ways to eat, and learning to survive were crucial. Every other lesson about proper etiquette and the importance of decorum was permanently put on the back burner.

That is until Oksana met Francis Laurent.

She had been sixteen and living in France for the time being. During her second day in a quaint little village, she had been starving. She hadn't eaten in three days and was ready to roast her own shoe over the fire to put some sort of food in her stomach. She had been delirious, stumbling along a dingy cobblestone road when she passed out. When she woke God knows how many hours later, there was a boy her age sitting over her with a fresh baguette hovering over her nose. She hadn't thought twice about devouring it, not even when Francis laughed at her eagerness.

From there, Francis had been her lifeline. When food was hard to come by- and it always was- there was Francis with fresh bread and pastries to tide her over. Over the few weeks she spent in that little village, she and Francis became close and one night, both took advantage of that closeness by giving each other what had never been given before.

It was...lovely, she guesses. Quick, awkward, clumsy, but overall lovely. She didn't feel taken advantage of or mortified that all the doctrine carved into her brain was all for nothing. Mama was gone, Papa was gone, marrying for the love of country was out of the question, and she needed to embrace her new reality.

But after that night, without even saying goodbye, she left.

She left because it was time. She had spent far too long in that village and the shadows of the night turned menacing with each passing day. After Francis, she decided that for the foreseeable future, there would be no one else.

It wasn't due to the lessons of her youth, wasn't because of guilt, and it wasn't even because she hadn't enjoyed it. It's because, at the end of the day, she always needed to do what was best.

She needed to run, and no man would ever change that fact.

Now, as Tommy's lips eagerly claim her own and his hands frantically unclip her brassiere and as she pushes down his trousers, the only thing she wants to do is run.