Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica)

(BOOK TWO OF THE INITIATION 3 SERIES)

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt

Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords

1

Why does the very notion of being in Ursk
terrify me so?

I think it’s because – like North Korea – no
one knows all that much about it. There’s an iron curtain
surrounding it from all geographical sides. No plane is even
allowed in its airspace without being shot down. There are many
speculations in journalistic articles, but few actual media
reports, if any. No one is ever invited there. And the only person
who has tried to write a book about his experiences there (after
escaping from it, of course) was murdered before he could finish in
a highly publicized case.

So forgive me for being a teensy weensy bit
scared.

Fuck that.

I’m volcanically terrified. I’m over-the-top,
stratospherically, out-of-my-mind terrified. I’m so terrified I’m
practically quaking by the airplane window of Air Force Ursk.

I’m strapped into my seat with Max and Greg
beside me. We are all naked. I have been in planes before, but it
still feels weird to land on uncharted foreign soil with my bare
buttocks in contact with the scratchy cushion.

Below us, the mysterious land of Ursk sprawls
like a lush, verdant carpet. I feel like I’m entering a version of
the Forbidden Planet. I peer out of the window, trying to count the
trees. OK, that’s foolish. I might as well try to count the hellish
sheep in the nightmares I’ve been having ever since I knew I was
coming here. I spy a steeple here, glinting red roofs there, a
dome-shaped building somewhere else, and a scatter of terracotta
houses.

No skyscrapers anywhere, but then, why would
they need skyscrapers when most of the population has been thrown
into prisons for dissent, right?

Imagine. I’m one of the first people from the
Western Hemisphere to cross the border to Ursk. I can write a book
about this when I get out. TIME magazine would want to interview
me. So would Larry King. I’ll be the most famous sex slave
alive.

If I ever get out of Ursk, that is. And if
rumor serves us correct, it’s going to take a helluva more than a
stamp on my passport to pass ‘Border Exit’.

My hand grips the armrests as the plane
descends with a piteous whine. Max senses my consternation and
grasps the back of my hand.

“Relax,” he murmurs, “you’re going to be
fine.”

Easy for you to say that. You’ve got a
billionaire daddy to bail you out.

Greg is seated on Max’s other side. The
furrow in his brow denotes that he is deep in concentration. I like
Greg a lot. In fact, I think I may like him a whole lot more than
‘a lot’. But my feelings are all topsy-turvy and runny like a
half-boiled egg when it comes to Greg, especially since I have a
boyfriend who is gorgeous and golden and rich and who loves me
every bit as much as I love him. So I can’t deal with my Greg
preoccupation right now.

It doesn’t help that Greg is engaged to be
married to Alice, Max’s bratty older sister with whom he had an
incestuous relationship.

I know. We’re so majorly fucked up.

The plane’s wheels touch the tarmac of the
landing strip. We jostle and bump in our seats. If there’s a
commercial airport in Ursk, I can’t really see it. This is more
like a private airfield. The never-ending trees line the strip like
quivering sentient watchtowers.

Shit, shit, shit. I’m not prepared for
this.

The plane screeches to a halt. No one comes
for us, and so we have no choice but to stay put in our seats.

“Do we get up?” I say anxiously.

“Do you want to risk getting spanked?” Greg
says.

Spanking, I can handle. It’s the other
unknown factors that we have yet to uncover as strangers in this
strange land.

After a while, Mansk and a couple of guards
come along.

“Get up,” Mansk orders.

We unbuckle our seat belts and straighten
ourselves. I notice the cold gleam of metal in Mansk’s hands.

“Stand,” he says to me.

I obey, my body shivering slightly. He is
very close to me and I can smell his man musk – natural, without
aftershave. I find myself focusing on the scar on his chin and
wondering what it would be like to be fucked by him. That is, if
Potchenko will ever permit him to fuck me.

He proceeds to clip two silver clamps in the
shapes of pins upon my erect nipples. These are tight, cutting most
of my circulation off immediately. Tears squeeze into my eyes. The
clamps are connected to long silver chains, which he proceeds to
pull taut.

He buries these within the petal-like folds
of my outer labia. The cold metal wriggles in between my sensitive
flesh, entrapping my tender clit hood in a vise grip. My poor clit
is imprisoned, and the plump sweet flesh that is trapped begins to
swell with pleasurable girth.

How am I going to walk like this?

The guards are decorating both Max and Greg
with similar accoutrements. They position me between the boys. We
stand in a line – one after the other: Max, me, followed by Greg.
Max’s nipple chains are wound around his balls and below his groin.
The loose ends are pulled taut to exit behind his buttocks, and
attached to my nipple clamps.

My chains are in turn attached to Greg’s
nipples. The tiny links of metal jostle and rub fiercely against my
clit and secret folds of my inner labia, sending alarmingly erotic
sensations all over my pussy.

My creams start to flow. They pool within my
snug passage – eliciting a different sort of electric tingle inside
my groin. It’s molten liquid against a raw fleshy massage.

My poor clit throbs. I feel as though I can
spontaneously orgasm just like that.

They handcuff our wrists behind our
backs.

“Now walk out of the plane,” Mansk
commands.

It’s difficult, I can tell you. Mansk leads
the way down the aisle to the open door. Max follows. The
uncomfortable tug on my nipples jolts me into movement and I
stumble – the crazy sensations in my clit and pussy running all
over like vibrating ants. Every step I take is labored, intensified
and oh-so-pleasurable. Every move I make comes with its own
battalion of waves and peaks, threatening to send me towards the
orgasmic edge any time.

We troop down the stairs, our bare feet
treading upon the lightly studded metal. I’m trying very hard not
to trip and fall.

A sight like I have never seen before greets
us. Truly, I was not prepared for this. The vista from the airplane
window only showed me one side of the airstrip – the wild, untamed
foliage of Ursk. But on other side —

I suck in my ribcage. I cannot quell the
rapid thrumming of my pulse.

Vladimir Potchenko stands before several rows
of his soldiers – a hundred men in each line. And beyond them
stretch thousands and thousands of people. The enormity of the
crowd which has turned out to greet us (no, actually him) staggers
me. There must have been twenty thousand people there. No, more
than twenty thousand. They blanket the ground like a sea of clothed
flesh.

The airfield is just that – an airfield with
several buildings. But the fields that go beyond it are immense . .
. and filled with those silent, patiently waiting people. I swear
there isn’t a single murmur that ripples through the throng. I can
even sense the heat, weight and press of the bodies under the
Eastern European sun. A cool summer breeze sweeps from the distant
purple hills on the horizon.

Have these people come to see us? I don’t
think so. We are just sex slaves. We don’t command that kind of
gravity and attraction.

“Gina, you have to move,” Greg says softly
from behind me.

The tug of the chains upon my nipple clamps
forces me down the steps of the aircraft. The chains dig harshly
into my pussy grooves, exerting their intimate tension. My clit
weeps for the compression upon its sides. It’s difficult to be
graceful when you are so encumbered.

We go down the steps without event. I can
feel all the eyes of the soldiers and the people upon us. What must
they be thinking of when they view our embarrassingly bound state?
Are we the first sex slaves from a foreign land to ever enter
Ursk?

We walk down past the lines of soldiers. A
thunderous roar swells from the crowd, followed by chanting in a
language I am not familiar with. I don’t think they are cheering
for us.

Potchenko walks ahead, surrounded by his
entourage. He gets into a waiting open top Mercedes with several of
his guards. The crowd breaks into raucous applause.

An open cart – pretty much like the ones used
in quaint picture postcards of European peasant life – awaits us
several cars behind. It is attached to two patiently waiting
donkeys. My stomach clenches. So we are to be exhibited before the
citizens of Ursk like animals.

Still, what am I expecting? The red carpet
tour?

Mansk and his guards help us climb onto the
cart. We are still chained to each other, and I stumble behind Max
as I ascend the rickety steps. The floor boards on the cart are
mere wooden planks, rotting with age. Crisscrossing rough-hewn
wooden bars surround us. I feel like an eighteenth century prisoner
being taken to the gallows.

Max, Greg and I are made to kneel upon the
floor of the cart – one after the other, triplets in humiliation
and servitude. Mansk and another guard climb in with us.

“Keep your thighs apart,” Mansk orders us.
“Show genitals . . . always.”

Figures.

A guard outside beats one of the donkeys with
a stick, and we are off. The wheels of the cart trundle and roll
painfully down the asphalt – a medieval contrivance traversing a
modern road.

There must have been ten cars in the
motorcade, with our cart sticking out in the middle like an
extremely out-of-place thumb. All around us are people – cheering,
waving, shouting, chanting. My knees scrape against the floor
boards. The uneven wood fibers grate upon my skin. Thank goodness
the cart is rolling slowly, or I’d lose my balance and fall against
Max’s smooth back.

It soon becomes apparent that the people are
chanting but two words in Urskan: “Velka Vudca.” They repeat this
in a sing-song chorus:
Velka Vudca, Velka Vudca, Velka
Vudca
.

Mansk eyes me. He has been looking at me now
and then – sometimes openly, sometimes surreptitiously when we are
in Potchenko’s presence. He rakes his eyes down my breasts and open
pussy. I lick my lips. I know he wants me. Only thing is . . . will
he ever act upon it and risk castration, dismemberment or even
execution?

File this knowledge away,
my inner
voice tells me.
It might come in useful later.

I clear my throat. Am I allowed to speak to
Mansk without being spoken to? Well, I don’t care. I’m going to do
it anyway.

“Excuse me, Mr. Mansk, sir . . . what are the
people chanting?”

“Velka Vudca?” The words trip from his tongue
easily. “It means ‘Great Leader’.”

Great Leader.
I savor the appellation.
So this is what it means to be a dictator here in this hidden
nation, ostracized by the world. But what do you need the world for
if you are God in your own considerably huge microcosm?

As the parade weaves down the streets, I
study the buildings behind the people. They are extremely Gothic
and colorful – with golden spires pointing to the sky. Gables and
gargoyles festoon the walls, as do carved angels and cherubs.
Tricolored flags flutter in the breeze. I take it that those are
the Urskan national colors.

I could have been in Prague or Budapest and I
wouldn’t have known the difference. Only, of course, I haven’t been
to either Prague or Budapest.

But unlike those cities, an unsettling miasma
permeates the crowd. There is a restless feeling of coercion here.
The people’s cries seem forced – but it’s a strange kind of forced,
as though you are made to recite the alphabet before a particularly
strict headmaster whom you completely fear and respect and even
love . . . while you retain just that hidden streak of
rebellion.

I have experienced those very feelings
against Dean Whitehouse. Russell Devlin. Even Max Devlin. They were
all my doms at one point or another.

And this dictator is the greatest dom of them
all.