Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) (2 page)

Naturally, I do not wish him to act upon it.
He is not unattractive, but I’d rather be fucked by Max and Greg
any day.

I finish my act of voiding. I reach for the
toilet paper to wipe myself. He watches all this with interest as
though he has never seen a woman do this before. (And maybe he
hasn’t.) When I stand up and flush the toilet, he stands back. The
fact that he is licking his lips as he takes in my curves suggests
that he finds me desirable.

Is he forbidden to touch me sexually?

We are standing face to face, very close to
one another in that tiny space. And yet his twitching hands remain
at his side. I suddenly feel triumphant. Empowered. Untouchable
like a video game adventurer who has covered himself with a secret
elixir and can now go through the sea of zombies unscathed.

“I show you something?” he says.

Perhaps I have spoken too soon. I
immediately turn wary. Is he going to take out his dick and ask me
to suck it? It has happened. Not that I mind sucking dick, of
course. But still, I’m not digging the whole ‘I’ll let you pee if
you suck my cock’ thing.

He thumps his chest. “Mansk.”

“Huh?” Is he trying to tell me
something?

“I . . . Mansk.”

Oh, that’s his name.

“Hi, Mansk,” I say cautiously.

“You?” he inquires.

“Gina.”

“Geena.” He savors my name. “Beautiful. Like
you.”

“Thank you.”

I’m a tad nervous about where this
conversation is heading. I’d rather he just order me to get down on
the toilet seat and fuck the hell out of me. At least that way,
I’ll know where I stand (a.k.a. sex doll).

“Gina, I show you something.” He whips out
his cellphone from his pocket.

I brace myself.

He presses ‘Play’ on what is obviously a
recorded video. He holds the screen up for me to look.

At first, I frown, wondering where this is
heading. The images seem to be taken in some sort of warehouse. A
naked man is being held against the wall by two unseen people. He
is crying. In shock, I recognize him as my groom from the auction,
the one who made me kneel before him to suck his cock just before I
went on stage.

My heart squelches.

Why is he showing me this?

My groom’s face is splotchy and bloody,
suggesting that he has been beaten several times. Then the camera
dips down to focus on his penis. Even as I watch in horror, unable
to tear my eyes away, a gloved hand seizes his limp cock. It holds
the appendage aloft, pulling it to its full length even though it
is not in tumescence. And then a quick flash passes down the screen
– metal catching the artificial light – and suddenly, the cock is a
bloody stump.

The screaming carries over the recorded
sound compressors and I clasp my hands over my mouth. I feel like
screaming myself.

The guard explains, “He touch you.”

My body is shaking.

I find my voice. “B-but he’s my groom. He’s
allowed to touch me.”

“But you own by Potchenko.”

“No! He touched me before Potchenko bought
me. He wasn’t to know.” Tears spring to my eyes. That groom wasn’t
pleasant to me, but he didn’t deserve this fate.

Mansk shrugs.

“Potchenko command. We obey.”

I shrink from him. If I was terrified
before, nothing compares to the ice cold chill that runs in my
veins now. And to think that this man . . . this Potchenko who
callously orders the dismemberment of someone not from his country
. . . will be my master.

What would he do to Max and Greg? Max is my
boyfriend and Greg has fucked me a couple of times, albeit under
forced conditions. Is that why he bought both Max and Greg? Now I
know why Mansk is treating me with kid gloves. It’s because I’m
someone else’s private property. Someone who will maim and mutilate
anyone else who would dare touch me.

And I’m trapped in a private jet forty
thousand feet above the Atlantic with him.

My screams ring out silently in the cavern
of my skull.

3

I think I must have fallen asleep, because
when I wake up, Max’s arms are around me. For a moment, I’m
disorientated, and then I remember where I am.

“Don’t touch me!” I wriggle out of Max’s
grasp as though he is made of fire.

He stares at me. “It’s all right, Gina.”

I’ve told them both about what happened to
my groom, of course. But Max is not taking it seriously.

“You can’t touch me, Max.”

“I’m not touching you. I’m just sleeping
next to you.”

My pulse is racing. “Max, we don’t know what
this man is all about. For all we know, ‘touching’ constitutes just
that. Touching!”

“I think you’re being paranoid. You’re my
girlfriend. I’m not even fucking you, for Chrissake.”

“I’m not your girlfriend here, Max.” I’m so
frightened for him. Can’t he see that? “We don’t belong to each
other here. We’re just someone else’s property!”

“Calm down.”

“No, it’s you who don’t understand!”

Greg is roused. His brown hair is tousled
and his eyes are bleary with sleep. “What time is it?” he
mumbles.

Max says firmly, “No, Gina. It doesn’t mean
that if your groom was mutilated, I would be mutilated too,
especially if we are all put here together. They can’t put us
together and expect us not to touch. Don’t forget who we are and
don’t forget that we are bound by the rules of the contract. The
auction was for charity and so is our servitude.”

Greg sits up and leans his back against the
wall. He’s sober.

“And yet, there’s always the element of
unpredictability,” he says quietly.

“Shut up, Greg. You’re scaring her.”

“It’s not a matter of scaring her. She’s a
consenting adult. She has a right to know things and make her own
decisions.”

Now we’re talking sense. I calm down enough
to fume.

“I still think you’re both making too big a
deal about this,” Max argues.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious,”
Greg says. “You’re protected by who your father is, Max. But the
two of us are working class citizens.”

“That’s not the point. My father protects
all three of us.”

“Not equally. He bought Alice and not us,”
Greg points out.

This seems to hit a nerve with Max. A rush
of pity floods me, but is soon replaced by my overwhelming
fear.

My voice is tinny. “What have we heard about
Vladimir Potchenko?”

The two boys eye one another.

Greg says, “The personal life of the man
himself? Not much. People know fuck all about him. He’s behind his
own iron curtain.”

“Forgive us if we didn’t have the time or
means to Google him before we left,” Max adds drily.

“I can only remember what I’ve read in TIME
or something or other,” Greg goes on. “He’s a dictator in the
Benito Mussolini sense.”

“Or Fidel Castro,” Max says.

“No, worse.”

“Castro is pretty bad.”

“Yeah, but you don’t hear of widespread
torture and the murder of his political enemies.”

“No, I’m pretty certain there were
reports.”

This talk is not making me feel better, but
it’s necessary. I need to face my demons and deal with them if I’m
going to survive my term here.

“What are the reports?” I whisper.

I wonder if anyone is recording our
conversation. Oh help, I’m getting paranoid!

Greg wrinkles his forehead. “I can’t recall
in totality, but there were asylum seekers who escaped and told
their stories. We’re talking about a very closed country that
nobody knows much about. Like North Korea. They have their own way
of life. There are state dungeons in which they throw political
prisoners and torture them in all kinds of ingenious ways to make a
point. There are concentration camps in which prisoners vanish and
are never to be heard of again.”

My hand flies to my mouth for the second
time that night.

“Just because it happens, it doesn’t mean
it’ll happen to you, Gina,” Max quickly interjects.

He’s so certain I’m concerned only about
myself, but my terror is more for him and Greg.

“But this is a man who sanctions this,” I
say.

“Well, we have Presidents who seemingly
sanction . . . or turn a blind eye . . . to the torture of Afghan,
Iraqi and Vietnamese prisoners of war,” Max says heatedly.

“But we’re the good guys,” I argue.

Max looks at me deadpan. “Not to the folks
who got tortured.”

Greg holds his hands up. “Let’s not get into
a debate over this. I’ve done enough of that in college.”

Well, I’m still a college sophomore and I
haven’t gotten into the really big debates yet. Which reminds me,
Max and I are supposed to go back to college in the fall. What if
we don’t manage to get back into college? Surely someone will look
for us, right?

My parents know I’m supposed to be spending
the summer with Max. They don’t know that I’m halfway around the
world, about to enter a modern lion’s den. I’ve already made my one
phone call to my Mom when I arrived at Max’s house, and that was
all she needed from me to know that I’m OK. She was chuffed when
she found out I had hooked up with Max.

Such a catch
, she said over the
phone.

If only she and Dad had known what went on
in Max’s house . . . and beyond.

Footsteps scrunch outside. My heart stills.
Despite his bravado in the face of danger, even Max pales a
little.

The door unlatches from outside. Mansk
stands there with two other guards. He smiles.

“Mr. Potchenko want see you.”

Max gets to his feet. “All three of us?”

“Yes.”

My stomach sinks to ground. And by this, I
mean the absolute ground, forty thousand feet below.

4

We are led as we are – collared and naked
and barefooted – to a part of the Airbus we have not yet ventured.
Here, the walls are plastered with some sort of embossed wallpaper
that catches the light in a certain angle and reflects it in
shimmers. The floor is plushly carpeted. How big is this aircraft
anyway? How many rooms?

Mansk prods me forward. I am the first to
enter the first class cabin, or what constitutes as the first class
cabin because it’s far larger than any first class cabin I have
ever seen. It is festooned with luxurious leather sofas and
armchairs, all done in pristine white. I’m almost dazzled. A fixed
sideboard groans with cold cuts, cheeses, fruits and sandwiches in
all kinds of bread and sizes.

My stomach rumbles. We have not been fed
since we came onboard. Maybe they don’t intend to feed us. Maybe
part of our torture involves having us kneel in front of this
mouth-watering smorgasbord to stare at food we cannot taste or
devour. It will be our private version of one of the Chinese
hells.

Vladimir Potchenko is nowhere to be seen.
The chamber is lined with his guards. There are no stewardesses.
Only stone-faced men.

Mansk points at a spot on the floor in front
of the table.

He says, “Kneel.”

Yes, I’m right. We are going to be here for
hours. I’ll bet there will be no toilet breaks either. Pretty soon,
they’ll be pressing icepacks against our bladders like some sort of
Japanese game show parody to win a million dollars.

I make to kneel, but Mansk catches my wrist.
“You come with me.”

The boys raise their brows in concern, but I
shake my head. This is our lot. I stumble after Mansk to the door
that leads to the cockpit. The fear bolts to my throat again.

Steady
, I tell myself.
Sooner or
later you’re going to have to face him.

Why does he feel like an executioner?

Mansk knocks cautiously, and I know the
dictator is in there. A word rasps from inside the cockpit. Mansk
wrenches the handle open.

“Go,” he instructs me. He doesn’t move.

I realize I’m supposed to go in alone.

The cockpit is what I expect from an Airbus.
Not that I’ve been in many of those. Vladimir Potchenko is seated
at the pilot’s seat, his dark hair towards me. He does not turn.
Beside him, the pilot speaks in a tongue foreign to my ears,
pointing at items on the instrument panel. He turns to regard me
and does a double take when he sees that I am naked.

I stand there, shivering, as Mansk closes
the door behind me. So I am to be left there alone with Potchenko
and his captain.

The captain is a ruddy-cheeked, tow-headed
man in his forties. He glances nervously at Potchenko and says a
few words. Potchenko answers. He still does not turn, as if I am of
no consequence.

I am left standing for a long, long while as
the captain continues to instruct Potchenko on the finer arts of
dashboard instruments. Outside, we cruise the blue, blue skies. Not
a cloud is in sight. I guess we are too high up for clouds.

I keep very, very still. My pulse throbs
against my neck like a heavy drum. I am aware of the
shush-shush-shush rustling of the blood in my ears, but I daren’t
move a muscle even though the air-conditioning hits me full blast
on where I stand.

Potchenko says something to the captain. The
captain gets up and comes over to me. His sharp blue eyes wear
concern.

“Are you cold?” he asks me. His voice is
deep, accented.

I nod timidly.

He takes off his jacket and puts it around
my shoulders. His eyes take in my breasts and puckered nipples and
roam down to my shaved pussy. My clit lies snug between its clefts
and is very red and visible.

Almost reluctant to leave me, the captain
goes back to his seat. The two men converse again, this time over
another flashing instrument.

Finally, Potchenko turns to me. He is as I
remembered from the amphitheater – a force of nature. He hits me
full blast with his frontal presence, and I almost take a step
back. The door is behind me, a forbidding barrier to my escape. His
hair is jet black, as are his eyes, which are burning and
coal-like. His moustache frames a hard, cruel mouth. I can well
imagine that mouth giving the order to annihilate entire Guantanamo
Bay-like populations of political prisoners.