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That feeling of desperate, satisfied bliss only lasts until I’ve pulled my hands from between my legs, lying on my stomach, trying to catch my breath, and then a rush of shame washes over me.
That, too, is unfamiliar. I’ve never felt shame about any of my sexual exploits. Even raised as I was to believe that sex for pleasure was the province of men, and that women of my status were only expected to lie back and turn those encounters into heirs, I wholeheartedly rejected that. But for the first time, I feel embarrassed about my fantasies.
Mikhail is exactly the sort of man I frequently encountered in my old life. He’s the kind of man I probably would have fucked and never called again–or maybe called once or twice if he was especially good in bed and then discarded him. Back then, I would have been of equal status with him–maybe even more so.
Now, the balance of power is different. I don’t want to feel attracted to him–especiallybecause he’s a customer at my job, but also because he’s now the kind of man who could have power over me. In my present situation, nothing about that is good.
Idefinitelyshouldn’t be fantasizing about getting fucked by him, a few hours after meeting him for the first time.
Butgod, did it feel good.
The soft afterglow of the dual orgasms is still spreading through me, making me feel heavy-eyed and sleepy. I reach behind myself, fumbling for the blanket as I close my eyes, giving in to the embrace of sleep. At least there, so long as I don’t dream about Mikhail, I won’t have to think about my inappropriate desires.
Luckily, I fall into a deep and heavy sleep that I don’t even come close to dreaming.
Mikhail
The screams are coming from very far away.
They’re the unmistakable screams of a woman being hurt. High-pitched, frantic screams. Begging, pleading. “No, no, please don’t, please–”
More shrieks, and then the muffled sound of crying behind a gag, a thick and choked coughing. The slap of flesh on flesh, and then another sound, that of a child crying. None of it should be able to be heard outside the thick windowless walls of cement, but he hears it all anyway, every pleading cry, every childish sob. He hears, but he can’t move. His feet are mired down, held by some unseen force, and no matter how much he strains, he can’t escape.
He can only listen, and know.
It goes on for a long time. The wet slapping sounds, man after man, as if she’s been given to the whole compound’s worth of guards. Through it all, the crying. It never stops. He knows he’ll hear it in his dreams. And then, a voice.
A rough voice, cold and demanding, a voice used to getting its way. “Have you had enough yet,suka? Will you tell us where he is?”
A grunt, and then sobbing pleas. The gag must have been removed. “No, please. I don’t know anything. I haven’t spoken to him. Please, my son–”
“You know enough. Tell me, and I won’t let my men have another round with you. I won’t take part, of course, I don’t enjoy well-worn cunt. But you can save yourself more pain if you give in. Think of your son.”
A pause, punctuated by tears. “I’ll even shoot you first, so you won’t have to watch your son die. Would that help? I can’t save him, I’m afraid. But I can make it easier on you both.”
More crying. More pleading. A grunt of frustration and more of the fleshy sounds. More and more, until he feels he’ll go mad with hearing it. Until the gunshot, followed by the reedy cry of a grieving mother, and then a second, feels almost like a relief.
At least for them, it’s over. For him, the pain is just beginning.
He’s led to their bloated bodies, fished out of the river a week later. He’s taken there by a defector, a man who decided what happened that night was too much for even him. Unfortunately for that man, he decided that after taking part.
He makes sure the man’s death is slow, until every torturous part of that conversation is extracted. Until he’s convinced the man has nothing left to give. He makes the man stare at the bodies as he’s taken apart piece by piece. Only when the first of his revenge is taken does he straighten, bloodied and sweating, and set about a proper funeral for them.
Not the man. He goes into the river.
Every last broken piece of him.
I wake with a start, sweating, my heart hammering in my chest. The rain is still beating down outside my window, the moon casting a pale, weak glow through it, and for a moment, I’m still half in the dream.
The pain and horror of remembering it, even dreamlike, is unmatched by anything I’ve felt since that day. The nightmares often come, and I know I won’t sleep well afterward.
I wasn’t there the night they were killed. But the man I tortured had spilled enough of the details to paint a thorough picture for my mind to taunt me with, night after night. Enough for me to dream of listening, helpless, as all that I had left to love had been destroyed.
My fault.
Cold fury spills through me, the blood in my veins freezing to ice and turning the sweat prickling over my skin cold, too.I’ll avenge you.
The promise is as determined as ever, but the means of doing so is still lacking. With Obelensky dead, the most direct target is gone, stolen from me.When I find out who killed him, I might choose to have words with them as well.
