Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) (3 page)

I tense as she brings the brush down onto my
swollen red flesh again. I whimper as she scrubs my outer labia. As
the soft bristles poke into the hood of my clit, I grit my teeth
and try to bear the pain. It’s a prickly sort of pain, but Gerta is
going easy on my clit, perhaps sensing that I must not be too sore
for Potchenko. The muscles of my thighs contract with my prolonged
carriage and I feel like flopping back into the water with a
splash.

“Hold still,” Gerta commands.

She harshly worms two of her sausage-like
fingers into my open pussy hole. She pushes my walls apart and
zooms straight for my cervical mouth. She’s probing and digging in
there as if she’s trying to find something.

She makes several clean sweeps of my vaginal
circumference and pulls her fingers out, which are now covered with
a sticky layer of my creams. She then dips her hand into the water
to wash them off.

I hope I passed her test, whatever it is. I
hope I’m deep enough . . . tight enough for the Great Leader. I
make to sink back into the water.

“Wait,” Gerta rasps.

I hold my hips up again. I grimace as she
shoves those two fingers up my ass this time. This time she’s
rubbing my rectal walls, expanding and massaging them. I close my
eyes against her harsh ministrations. I hope I’m tight enough in
that passage too.

When she has finished
exploring/inspecting/feeling me up in my two most intimate of
tunnels, she pushes me down into the water. My body displaces the
water, which sloshes the sides of the tub. She resumes scrubbing me
down as though I am a horse.

My skin glows and tingles all over.

Strangely enough, since the execution, I have
never felt more alive.

I emerge from the tub, pink and clean and
shining. My skin bears the marks of the bristles. I suppose this is
the Urskan version of a body scrub at the spa.

Gerta points to a wooden table.

“Get there on your hands and knees.”

I am apprehensive, but I obey. To not obey in
this place is possibly tantamount to a public flogging. I climb
onto the table and get down on all fours, just as she asked. My
buttocks jut into the air. I bow my head, but my eyes are
surreptitiously following her from beneath the outlines of my
torso. I watch her fretfully as she picks up a long wooden
spoon.

“You hungry?” she says gruffly.

“Yes.”

She goes to another kettle and scoops up
several helpings of something into a bowl. Then she strides to me
and places the bowl in front of me on the table. It is some sort of
European broth. It smells positively delicious.

My mouth waters again.

“Eat,” she says.

I get up to sit upon my haunches, meaning to
take the bowl in my hands to slurp from it, Japanese style. But she
hits my rump with the spoon, which is still dripping with broth.
Hot drops spatter upon my flesh. I am so desensitized to heat by
now that I scarcely feel it.

“Put it down, stupid girl. Eat like dog. No
use your hands.”

Oh, so she wants to demean me. It wouldn’t be
the first time someone has tried that. It also seems that I have a
new appellation: ‘stupid girl’. I wonder if those are the few words
of English that Gerta knows, and that’s why Mansk sicced her on
me.

I put the steaming bowl down. My long
mahogany hair falls over my shoulders. I’m sure Gerta will plunk
the spoon on me if I so much as get my newly cleaned locks into the
broth, and so I twist my hair carefully into a mock ponytail and
wind it behind my back. Then I bend my head to the bowl, put my
lips upon the hot, hot surface, and slurp the broth
ungracefully.

“Eat faster,” Gerta commands, smacking my
buttocks with the spoon.

Ow! The wooden implement stings like a flat
paddle. I hastily swallow more of the broth. My hair begins to
creep over my angled shoulders once again, and I fearfully contract
the muscles around my scapula to keep it back.

It’s a most uncomfortable position.

As I struggle to finish the rest of my broth
– which tastes mostly of corn flour with very little specks of
meat, to be honest – the blunt end of the spoon’s handle nudges my
vulva. Gerta has plans for it, no doubt. I gasp as the spoon
roughly invades my pussy. I can feel the fibrous texture of the
wood as it worms its way further in . . . and in . . . until its
very tip scrapes against my cervix.

“Eat faster,” Gerta repeats.

As I slurp and lick the rest of the tasteless
broth, she wriggles the spoon within my passage, inching my walls
apart. My juices start to flow copiously. Since I have become a sex
slave, I’m practically a water tap. All you have to do is touch me
and I will spontaneously cream.

“Lick clean,” comes the further command.

I lick the insides of the bowl, wishing I had
some black bread to chase it down. I’m thirsty as well. Gerta slips
the spoon out of my pussy and transfers it to my asshole. Once
again, she burrows it past my still tight sphincter and pushes it
all the way in. My anus closes around the handle like an anemone.
The rod is hard within my rectum, which molds itself firmly around
it.

She shoves it in deeper, so deep that the
handle is completely swallowed whole by my back tunnel. She impales
me with it right up till the curve of the spoon. I’m afraid she
would thrust it deeper in, but she seems to know her limits . . .
and mine.

As I wipe the bowl clean with my tongue, she
twists the handle inside me. The wood grates against the coarser
undulations of my walls. My pussy continues to drip and my nipples
are swollen and tense. I find myself pushing back against the
spoon, trying to take it deeper into me, trying to make it fuck me
in the ass.

I realize I badly need to be fucked. How long
has it been since a cock has taken me? A few days?

As soon as I have finished supping, she takes
the spoon out.

“Get down,” she says. “Now sleep.”

She points at the floor before the fireplace.
A bowl of water is placed to the side. So I am to curl up there,
naked, in front of the fire? On the cold hard floor? I guess I
don’t have a choice. It could have been worse. But what about Max
and Greg? What has happened to them?

I say timidly, “Excuse me, but what about my
friends? The two men I was brought in with?”

I picture all kinds of things happening to
Max and Greg. I mean, anything can happen here. Executions . . .
and even if they weren’t going to kill you, they could sure as hell
chop something else off. Maybe my boys are getting raped even as I
speak.

“Your friends with Great Leader.” Gerta
grins, baring coffee-stained teeth. “Now their turn. Tomorrow . . .
yours.”

So they are being fucked by the Great Leader?
I pray it’s only a fuck . . . I would be so relieved. Even if it’s
a gangbang, I’m going to be eternally thankful. It’s the things I
don’t know and can’t imagine that I can’t abide.

As I curl on the stone slabs beside the
flickering fire, I can’t help but wonder what would happen to me
tomorrow.

Little did I know then that they were going
to be worse as I envisioned.

And I don’t mean sexually.

4

Sometime during the next night, when I’m
worried out of my skull about Max and Greg, Mansk makes an
appearance in my little kitchen chamber. He carries a little black
bag with him.

“Spread your legs,” he says, just like a
doctor.

I study his face. His brow is lined and there
are greyish bags under his eyes.

“Are you all right?” I say. The vivid specter
of his sister standing before the Guillotine still haunts me, in
spite of the fact that I cannot see her face. But I remember the
fall of her dark hair clearly and the defeated slouch of her
shoulders.

Anushya, he called her.

He pauses. His eyes rake mine, studying my
face as intensely as I study his. Mansk is actually not
bad-looking. He has a certain swarthy, masculine charm. I’m more
into pretty boys myself – Max being the perfect case example – but
I’m not averse to rugged men.

Mansk sighs. “We have to go on. That is what
the Great Leader would say.”

Tentatively, I reach out with my hand to take
his. I grasp it firmly. He raises his eyebrows in mild shock. OK, I
know it’s presumptuous of me to touch him without being asked to,
but I thought he needed a bit of touching – and not in a sexual
way.

I say, “But surely family comes first. Were
you and your sister close?”

That faraway look comes into his eyes again.
“The earliest memory I had of her is . . . was . . . at our village
in Praske. We play in the river. Tasha fall . . . trip over a rock.
I reach out with my hand in time and grab her. Stop her from being
carried away by the river.”

He looks away.

He adds, “I can’t stop her this time.”

I say, “I’m sorry.”

I tighten my grip.

He doesn’t say anything for a long while.
Then he clears his throat. “I prepare you. For the Great
Leader.”

Of course. It’s my night. The boys have
probably been whipped and tied and fucked into submission already.
A deep shudder courses down my legs. Please . . . don’t let him be
too rough on me. I’ve been fragile lately. Emotionally more than
anything else.

I go to the table and hike my hips up to sit
on the edge. I open my thighs to show him my pussy. He takes out a
rouge pot from his bag and starts to apply the red compressed
powder onto my intimate lips.

“I thought you were a soldier, not a groom,”
I remark.

“We do what we must when the times
arise.”

The little brush which he applies onto my
tender flesh tickles me and sends an exquisite spasm shooting
across my loins. My womb and buttocks contract.

“Why do you stay here?” I say softly.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. If they . . . he . . .
keeps on doing this to you and your family . . . then why do you
stay here? Why don’t you seek asylum somewhere else?”

Mansk’s guarded eyes gravitate toward the
closed door. I wonder if Greta is out there listening in. OK, I’m
not used to this situation. It’s not good for anyone to be
listening in, right?

He says, “Is not easy. People who try to go .
. . they get hunted down before they cross the border. Or
after
they cross border. That way the Great Leader makes
sure nobody tries too hard.”

This is dangerous territory to be wading in,
I know.

“But isn’t it worth it a try? If you stay
here, who knows which member of your family they’re going to pick
off next?”

“My sister was a traitor.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

He purses his lips. “I tried to warn her, but
she would not listen.”

“I don’t know what it is she did . . . but
I’m sure she was a good person who tried to conform to whatever she
was required to conform to. But in the end, her beliefs in the
greater cause won out.”

I know this sounds generic and I have no
right to be speculating about his sister, but he does not
contradict me. This does not make me right either. I merely have
more unanswered questions piled up.

Mansk says, “Close your legs. We go now.”

He shuts his mouth with a snap.

He doesn’t look at me as he helps me off the
table.

*

Mansk leads me out of the kitchen chamber,
down corridors where sullen-faced women move straggly mops across
the floor. They peer at my breasts and reddened pussy but do not
say anything. I wonder where Gerta is. The corridors are cold
despite the summer sun that blazes outside the windows. Now and
again, we meet patrolling guards.

“This place is a fortress,” I whisper to
Mansk.

He flashes me a knowing look but does not say
anything.

How long am I supposed to in Ursk again?
Well, according to the contract, it’s a month tops. At least, that
is what I read when I signed on the dotted line together with Max
and Greg.

I think I can weather a month. Maybe. If no
one is too cruel for me.

We ascend several flights of stairs. The
third floor is considerably more palatial than military. Sheepskin
rugs are strewn upon the floor. Actual tapestries cling to the
walls. I study the scenes in these tapestries with interest. They
are of Potchenko’s military conquests, with the Great Leader
himself surrounded by a flaming halo, crushing the bodies of his
enemies. The detail of the carnage is exquisite.

“This way,” Mansk says, pushing apart double
doors that are made of polished mahogany – the color of my
hair.

Inside, several grooms – and I take it they
are servants here, not slaves – as well as uniformed guards are
getting several other naked men and women ready. The entire room is
large enough to host several contraptions which are either hanging
from the high ceiling or placed in well-lighted locations across
the floor. And yet, it is intimate enough not to feel like a
hall.

I marvel at the contraptions. They are circus
apparatuses.

There are both swinging and fixed trapezes,
horizontal bars, parallel bars, suspended hoops, slings, cords
dangling from hooks in the ceiling, trampolines, as well as various
multicolored balls and skillets. The room is festooned with
balloons and gay ribbons.

The grooms are dressed up as clowns. Their
violently colorful makeup is more scary than garish.

I spy Max in one section. Thank goodness he
is all right. Two grooms are hoisting him upside down and tying his
legs apart to a suspended hoop. His cock and balls succumb to the
pull of gravity. I’m not sure if he sees me. Other naked slaves are
similarly tethered to bars and cords in various complicated
positions – all involving the display of their genitals to the
greatest advantage.

When they have finished securing Max to the
hoop, he is in a ‘Y’ position. His knees and legs are threaded
through the hoop and his dangling arms are tied with corded ropes.
He finally spots me and attempts an upside down smile. But when one
of the grooms takes a huge juggling club and shoves the slimmer end
up – or should I say down – his rectum, he stops smiling.