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CHAPTER1
Heather
Some theoretical outside observer might well have called my sale to Ivan Antonov a black-market transaction. That phrase—black market—could hardly have begun, however, to describe the darkness that surrounded his acquisition of my body for his exclusive sexual use.
Exclusive, except of course when he shared me with friends and colleagues.
The way he did the night my contact in the Pretorian Guard finally activated me and gave me my mission.
One of the five men to whom Antonov had sent me in his Mercedes limo with its dark tinted windows put his hand on my thoroughly whipped ass and squeezed hard as he bent over me where I lay atop a punishment bench, unbound but helpless to disobey their every obscene, degrading command. I cried out, my whole body shuddering in pain and helpless, humiliating need for the hard fucking they undoubtedly planned to give me.
I felt his warm breath on my ear. I felt his two middle fingers press roughly into my aching vagina, hot and surely terribly wet. To my dismay, I clenched hard on those invading digits, a sob bursting from my chest at the wanton, uncontrollable sensation.
I had no idea which one it was, of the five associates of Antonov who had just closed some sort of deal with the warlord who owned me, selling him some of the increasingly scarce power-plant machine parts he needed to maintain his grip on his little empire. The man with his brutal hand on my backside could have been any of them, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell him apart from the others even if I could see his face.
Like a good fucking piece, or at least like one who knows her bare bottom will be caned mercilessly for any disobedience, I had kept my eyes on their exposed cocks and away from their bearded faces. This one, whichever of the five he happened to be, probed into my pussy with an arrogant, practiced, casually cruel expertise that made me moan despite my desperate effort to hold onto some shred of dignity. He pressed his moist lips against my ear and he spoke.
“Mission is go. Seven alpha six.”
I had expected the man’s voice to say something in Russian—something very lewd and horribly degrading. Antonov had by then made certain I had learned enough of his language that he could degrade me in it in any fashion he liked, though he generally preferred to make his obscene threats and lewd promises in English.
Most of his friends, colleagues, and associates, though, didn’t have the same facility in dirty English Antonov did. When they wanted to let me know I would soon receive their rigid manhoods in my most private places, they tended to state their intentions in the Russian equivalent of phrases like,This whore cunt is going to get stuffed full of my big tool whether you want it or not, slut.
Which is pretty much what I expected the nearly anonymous man with his hand painfully gripping my whipped ass and his fingers in my treasonously wet pussy to say.
Instead, he activated me, Heather Foster, the sleeper agent of the Order of Ostia whom Ivan Antonov hopefully would never see coming.
If the horrible metal oblong that one of these five men had received from my owner, the device Antonov called hisgood-girl wand,hadn’t kept me immobilized, I would have startled violently. That probably wouldn’t have given away what had just happened and blown my cover and that of the man who had just spoken into my ear. Of course, Antonov’s fucking piece would shudder when one of her temporary masters promised, say, to ride her little bottom until it would take her a week before she felt right when she sat on the toilet.
The good-girl wand’s power over me, however—the way it prevented any intentional movement whatsoever, once its wielder had instructed me to keep still—provided a paradoxical reassurance, though. I let out a moan, but I didn’t move in any sort of unexpected way that might have alerted one of the other four, who were presumably not agents of the Pretorian Guard, that I had just received the order to turn Ivan Antonov, or to kill him.
“What are you telling her, Grigoriy?” shouted another of the men, his voice slurred with the vodka I had heard them consuming as they whipped me over the bench. “Get your fingers out of her cunt. Ivan told us not to make her feel good. And it’s my turn to whip that ass.”
The lips left my ear, and the fingers left my pussy. I let out a wrenching sob, which I knew they would take for a sound of wanton, submissive need for the fleeting stimulation the agent’s fingers had provided. The one who had touched my back with Antonov’s horrible wand once they had thrown me over the bench had said very specifically, in heavily accented English, “Make all the noise you want, whore. We want to hear you, and it will teach the other girls a lesson.”
They couldn’t tell, just from that sob, though, how deeply another slew of emotions mingled with the arousal that brutal hand on my ass and in my pussy had brought. Fear, of what I would have to do and of what would befall me because of it. Longing, simply to go home after these long months as Ivan Antonov’s fuck toy.
Pride, that the Guard had placed so much confidence in me.
“Da, da,” I heard the man who had just activated me say as he stood up. He continued, in Russian that sounded perfect to my anglophone ears. “But we fuck her after that, yes? In all the holes?”
I couldn’t keep another sob back, at the casual cruelty and degradation in his tone.
“Da,” replied the voice who had told ‘Grigoriy’ to take his fingers away. “Of course. But no coming for her.”
I tried to hold back the whimper that rose into my throat, but the commandWe want to hear youhad terrible power over me even in its simplicity. I let out the kittenish sound, and worse, one of the involuntary bodily movements that even the good-girl wand couldn’t suppress made me push my bottom, poised over the end of the bench, out toward them, as if desperately offering my most private places to my owner’s business associates.
Ivan told us not to make her feel good.
I felt my face twist into a mask of woe at the terrible wrongness of it—and at the way that very thing, the brutality and the cruelty of the man who had bought me on the black market, made my body arch with desperate need for the pleasure denied and the pain imposed instead.
I heard two or three of them chuckle behind me.
“Look at that,” one of them said in broken English. “The little whorelikesit, doesn’t she? Where does Antonov get them?”
The man who went by Grigoriy—though of course that stood very little chance of being his actual name—had stood up and moved away. They had put a mirror in front of me, a little round one on a stand, so that they could watch my face as they whipped me and used me. In it, I could see them, or at least the ones right behind me. I caught a glimpse of Grigoriy’s dark suit, but he turned and went to the side, out of the mirror’s field of view. I felt sure he wanted to make certain I couldn’t identify him, and it sent a chill of fear up my spine.
If Ivan figures out that I’m a mole, he will torture me, and I will talk… and I won’t be able to describe the man who activated me.
