Based on my understanding of the culture of the Russian Army, I don't think we should at all assume that this encounter was consensual.
And that would really suck--here you are, a poor Russian conscript getting face-raped by a fucking corporal . . . and then you get blown up by a Ukrainian mortar. That's a shitty day.
Back then, my father worked for an airline and we flew everywhere non-rev. So we were supposed to leave on the Lufthansa flight on Saturday (I think) from St. Petersburg to Frankfurt, but it was full. We couldn't catch any other flights out that day, so we went back to our hotel. It just didn't occur to any of us that our visas were expiring that day.
We show up the next morning for the Lufthansa flight. No problem--plenty of seats. Sadly, no upgrade. In those days, they used to upgrade non-revs pretty frequently. But as I recall, we got an upgrade to Business on the connecting flight from Frankfurt to Dallas.
Anyhoo . . .
Then we go through immigration, and the guy notices that our visas had expired the previous day. There's a long discussion between the immigration officer and Dmitri (our driver), and Dmitri comes back and very gravely informs us that "this is the worst of all possible worlds."
So there is some further discussion in Russian between Dmitri and the immigration officer, during which the immigration officer walks off and rifles through our bags that are still on the x-ray machine. It all takes about ten minutes. And Dmitri then comes back and says that the immigration officer wants a "bottle." What? We're all puzzled.
Turns out, my father was bringing back something like 8 bottles of Stolichnaya, which at that time you could get for about $2. My father's like "fuck that dude," and goes over to the little immigration booth and slaps a $5 bill on the counter. The immigration guy's eyes get big and he starts yelling in Russian, and Dmitri very quickly grabs the $5 bill, tucks it into one of our passports, and slides the passports back over to the immigration officer. The passports are quickly stamped and we hustle our happy American asses off to the Lufthansa gate.