Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) (4 page)

I want to say something to him . . . to send
him my love, but we are very far apart.

Two clown grooms drag me to a silver
apparatus that comprises of two horizontal bars – one above the
other. Greg is being similarly brought toward us.

“Greg!” I cry in relief.

“Thank God you’re OK,” he says as soon as he
approaches, breaking out into a wide smile. His shining eyes hold
complicated emotions. Emotions I’m not ready to acknowledge or face
. . . as yet.

Mansk says, “Is this one your boyfriend?”

I say, “No, it’s the other one. The blond.
Max.”

Mansk nods to the clowns and says something
in Urskan. Then he turns to me. “Everything is correct. String them
both up.”

He moves away without as much as a backward
glance.

At first, I am bewildered. The
grooms/clowns/whatever grab my arms and upend me as if I’m a
ragdoll. My balance is completely disrupted. My hair shivers and
trails to the floor like seaweed. Rough hands grab the flesh of my
thighs, my legs, brushing against my pussy and buttocks
interminably. The groom before me squeezes them. His painted face
leers very close to mine – so close that I can smell the fruity,
chemical paste of his gaudy makeup.

Hands grab my ankles and tie them with ropes
to one of the horizontal bars. I’m in a precarious position – wrong
side up and secured to the flimsy bar by only my feet at either end
of the silver rod. My arms are left free.

Someone pinches my clit, and a spool of cream
unearths from the recesses of my pussy. Because I am upside down,
it pools at the mouth of my cervix.

My grooms are certainly taking liberties with
my body, unlike so many of the grooms who have attended to me back
in America – including Greg. Fingers prize open my pussy lips,
stroke my clit, worm themselves ‘accidentally’ into my holes.
Pincer grips tweak my nipples. Hands slide into my clefts. My
juices begin to pool and pool, because I am excited despite my
apprehension . . . or maybe because of it.

I desperately long to be fucked. I can sense
it – this hollowness permeating my vagina, spreading all the way to
my anus. I long to be fucked in both holes – invaded and penetrated
so wonderfully and deeply that I can almost feel the towers of
flesh inside me right now.

What is happening to me? Am I turning into a
nymphomaniac in any circumstance – even one fraught with
uncertainty and danger?

When they have finished with me, I feel like
an acrobat. A bound acrobat. My pussy is a pink flower – just
begging to be played with and despoiled.

They are doing something to Greg on the other
horizontal bar. He’s not being put upside down. His wrists are tied
to the bar in pretty much the same way my ankles are. His muscles
flex and gleam beautifully. His eyes arrest mine – full of stark
meaning. They hoist the bar up and his legs trail toward the floor.
His cock is stiff and upright at three quarter mast, pointing
directly at me.

They manipulate the trapeze bars so we are
parallel to and facing each other. Closer . . . closer . . . so
that Greg’s warm body is pressed against mine, and his cock nudges
my belly. Greg smells of clean soap and shampoo. He probably has
been washed spanking clean in pretty much the same way as I
have.

One clown says something to another. I can
see the sly grin on his face – a rictus of a leer. He seizes Greg’s
penis, which is extremely hard and upright, and maneuvers it into
my open pussy. It’s a feat that requires a certain amount of
adjustment due to my precarious position.

I close my eyes as Greg’s abdomen slithers
across mine – taut flesh rubbing taut flesh, spiking my
arousal.

The spear of his cock enters my glistening
vulva. It’s a rush of hard tissue into my soft, velvety passage,
which is already oh-so-moist and oh-so-ready. I hold my breath to
savor it. My greedy little nether mouth sucks him in – deeper and
deeper, until the crown of his penis is butting against my closeted
innermost mouth. My walls stretch further and further apart.

Ohhhhh.

“You OK, Gina?” Greg murmurs.

“Yes. Are you OK?”

“Obviously.”

“What did they do to you last night?”

His expression turns guarded. “It’s of no
consequence. What matters is that we’re all OK.”

I suppose he’s right. No use dwelling on
yesterday. Or today either, come to think of it.

One of the grooms raps Greg on the buttocks.
I take it that it means ‘No talking’. Greg and I are hoisted up,
up, up – until we are about eight feet from the floor. I can see
the cream and mauve tiles and my semi-reflection upon them. My arms
trail helplessly down. If my ropes were to tear in any way, I would
be heading for a very nasty bump.

But at the same time, Greg’s penis is snug
and heated inside my vagina, and even if his movements are
encumbered, it’s a glorious sensation of being possessed and
filled. He moves his hips against mine, massages his groin into me
to give me more pleasure.

Mansk moves towards us again. Down there on
the floor, he’s oddly smaller than life. He looks up at us
ominously.

“Do not come by any means or there will be
punishment,” he warns Greg.

I did predict it wasn’t all fun and
games.

Music begins to play – a European techno beat
which is strangely contagious and makes me want to bump and grind
my hips. But we were given a warning.
Do not come
. And here,
the punishments may be worse than a slap on the knuckles.

Our trapezes begin to sway, buoyed by some
hidden mechanism up in the ceiling. I gasp in fear. I am rapidly
losing my equilibrium – my sense of self. The floor arcs below me
maddeningly. Any moment, I am afraid my ankle ropes would unwind
from their precarious moorings and send me plunging onto the hard,
hard tiles.

Meanwhile, Greg’s cock inches in and out of
my pussy with each roll of the pendulum. It is not a vigorous
movement. His pillar of flesh contracts and expands within me in
mere centimeters – but it is enough to make me extremely aware of
his cock being there . . . and the fact it is by no means a tether
to keep me attached to the bars.

Everyone else is also in motion one way or
another. Max’s hoop is spinning slowly. Every time his ass rotates
towards me, I can see the club sticking out of his ass.

A commotion buzzes through the grooms and the
guards on the floor. The doors open to admit Potchenko, more
bodyguards and a girl who can’t have been more than nineteen, which
makes her essentially my age. She wears pigtails. She wears a
flouncy pink dress with sequins and ruffles, like a circus
performer. Her rosebud mouth is curled in a petulant little
pout.

Something tells me that this dark-haired
vixen is important . . . and that she is going to cause us a whole
lot of havoc.

The grooms are all bowing and scraping as the
little entourage weaves their way across the floor. The girl chats
to Potchenko in their own language, pointing at everything and
gesticulating excitedly.

“Who is that?” I ask Mansk in a low voice.
I’m not sure he can hear me over the din. It’s strange to be
speaking to someone when you are swinging in arcs.

“That is the Great Leader’s only daughter,
Aimelie. He spoils her . . . as you Americans say it . . . like a
rotten egg.”

I hear Mansk’s lowered voice in undulations.
Louder when our arc traverses towards him, and receding when we are
away.

“I don’t think we add in the egg. Where’s his
wife?”

“His wife died in childbirth. He had a
Western doctor fly all the way from England because he did not
trust doctors here. Most of our doctors are quicks anyway.”

“You mean quacks.”

Mansk ignores this. “But she still died of
many blood loss. He blame the doctor and had him beheaded. It was a
hush hush incident.”

The horror bubbles in my gut again,
threatening to run up my esophagus.

“But surely the doctor didn’t mean for it to
happen?”

“He did not have the necessary equipment. But
the Great Leader was the son of the then Great Leader, his father,
and there were conspiracy arguments of assassination by the West.
We will never know. But be aware of Aimelie.”

His tone is guarded, as if he too has to
beware of her.

“Why?” I am amazed that I am having such a
long conversation with Mansk amid so many prying eyes and ears. But
maybe he’s feeling unnaturally loquacious after his sister’s
execution.

“She is not . . . how do you say it? Right in
the head. The Great Leader knows it too. Got her the best doctors,
but her mind is not normal. And in spite of that, what she wants,
he gives.”

Oh? So he spoils his deranged daughter silly.
Despite me telling myself that everything is going to be OK, the
alarm bells of premonition clang.

Something is going to happen to us, I can
feel it.

“Gina?” Greg’s soothing voice reaches me.
“Don’t think about it. It’s going to be OK. We’re all protected by
laws of the contract.”

“I’m sure the good English doctor was
protected too,” I say bitterly.

Greg keeps silent. His cock shifts inside my
vagina.

Potchenko and Aimelie approach us. They look
up at our joined bodies. Up close, Potchenko is as handsome as ever
with his stern mustache. I feel a tremor of apprehension.

“The American slaves,” Potchenko says in
English, possibly for our benefit. “You can practice your English
with them, yes, my darling?”

Aimelie claps her hands in delight. “Yes,
father. Can we see them closer? Can you cut them down?”

And just when they had gone through the
elaborate do to put us up there.

Nevertheless, what Aimelie wants, Aimelie
gets. She observes us in shining-eyed wonder as the grooms lower
the trapezes and dislodge both me and Greg. I feel a pang of regret
when Greg’s cock slips out of my vagina. This time, the clowns take
good care not to molest me. No surreptitious stroking of my clit.
No pinching of my pussy lips. No sly plunges into either my vulva
or asshole.

Max too is taken out of his hoop and dragged
toward us. The clowns unkindly left the club in his ass. He is
disheveled, sweaty and beautiful. Both my boys are beautiful, with
their gleaming muscled bodies and huge erect penises, standing at
attention for the newcomer’s perusal.

The moment she lays eyes on Max, Aimelie’s
stare goes wide. Astonishment flits across her face, and then a
zealous, almost religious fervor comes into her eyes.

She squeals and utters something to her
father in her own tongue.

“English, Aimelie, please. You need
practice,” her father chides her indulgently.

Part of me wonders if we have been purchased
to also be English teachers to Aimelie. Stranger things have
occurred.

“Father, he is beautiful.” Aimelie goes up to
Max. She starts to caress his face, his golden hair. Her actions
are reverent, in awe. “He is an angel.”

A cold foreboding washes through me.

Aimelie’s hands wander down my boyfriend’s
chest, pausing at his nipples. Then she slowly slides her way down
his abs – rock hard and solid – the way I like to touch him. She
gropes his stiff prick, so straight and tumescent, and plays with
it – rubbing its head this way and that, running her fingers over
his corona and the compressible vein that runs up his shaft. She
cups his firm balls.

Max’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say or
reveal anything. His eyes are justifiably wary.

Aimelie turns to her father, still squeezing
Max’s balls. Her face is shining. “Oh father, can I keep him?”

“He is ours on loan for a month.”

“No. I mean . . . can I really, really keep
him here? Like in forever?”

In dread, I study the earnestness on her
features. She’s dead serious.

Her father looks at us and says, once more in
that loving, fatherly tone that no one outside this castle has
probably heard:

“Yes, my darling.”

5

Max says tersely. “You have no right to keep
us here beyond our contract.”

I’m wondering if I’m in a nightmare myself.
Then again, Potchenko may be trying to humor her as though she is a
child who will be promised a dangerous toy to keep her quiet –
which will then at the final minute be taken away before she can
put it into her mouth.

I’m desperately praying that will be the
case. I need to talk to Mansk. Mansk knows this motley family of
crazies intimately.

Mansk strides up to Max and backhands his
face. ‘Speak to the Great Leader only when spoken to, cur.”

A red splotch appears on Max’s right cheek.
He doesn’t raise a hand to it. He’s too stunned . . . and not from
the physical blow.

Greg steps forward.

“Wait,” he cautions Max. He’s probably
thinking the same thing I’m thinking.

Humor her.

But a large part of me can’t help feeling
scared. We’re not in America, where our rights are majorly
protected by laws even though we may gripe and moan about our
government. This is frontier land, or at least, it feels unexplored
by the Western world – where anything and everything can happen at
the whims of the Great Leader.

And his daughter.

Aimelie studies me as she would an insect.
She comes up to me and prods one of my nipples.

She says, “What is your name?”

“Gina.”

“And this is Max . . . and Greg,” Mansk puts
in.

“What is their tie . . . no, what do you call
it . . . ?”

“Relationship?” her father interrupts.

“Yes . . . to each other?” She forwards this
question to me.

My heart is thudding very hard against my
ribcage. No good will come out of this, but I’m compelled to answer
anyway.

“We are college mates . . . Max and I. Greg
is a friend.”

Mansk says, “Gina and Max are lovers. Greg is
engaged to be married to Max’s sister.”