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Presumably these five men represented a loose organization of Antonov’s business associates. ‘Grigoriy’ wouldn’t have had to do much to get himself included in the little party organized to enjoy the warlord’s largesse, in the form of this gangbang—a night of strict discipline and dominant pleasure with a trillionaire’s ultra-expensive fucking piece. Indeed, Ivan liked to loan his girls to men he scarcely knew, though without the extra benefit of the good-girl wand.
He saved that, his ultimate tool of degradation and dominance, for friends like the one who spoke next: Feodorov Devushkin, the only man of the five whom I had met previously. Ivan had shared me with him before, at the dacha where he kept me most of the time. The friends had enjoyed me together on their enormous cocks during a long night of rough fucking. It had left me so sore between my legs and my bottom-cheeks that I couldn’t walk without discomfort for three days.
“Take your turn with the birch, then, Boris,” Devushkin said in Russian, his voice sounding impatient. “I’m hard and I want to make her take me in that little ass.”
With the help of the wand’s control—its enforcement of the command Devushkin himself had issued to keep still—I suppressed the shudder that threatened to travel through my body at the thought of taking that huge, hard penis in my bottom. I had to maintain the lie that my Russian comprehension was at a very low level. As far as Ivan Antonov knew, the only bits of that difficult language I could understand were the filthy, degrading words he himself had taught me.
So I should, according to my owner’s knowledge, be able to sayPlease fuck me in the ass, MasterandI want your beautiful cock inside me,but I shouldn’t be able to understandI’m hardorI want to make her take me. As far as I could tell Ivan still felt very confident that when he spoke Russian within earshot of me I had not the slightest idea what he said. I needed to keep it that way, despite the truth being the opposite: my Russian, thanks to my maternal grandmother with whom I had grown up, was better than my English.
The Pretorian Guard, I had always presumed—though without actual clarification from any Guard contact—had ‘recruited’ me for that reason, as much as for the submissive sexuality I had managed to hide even from myself until that night. And, of course, for my complete virginity, which they then sold to Ivan, along with the rest of me, for 5.6 million dollars.
Despite my best mental efforts, my mind went back to the night the unnamed Guard agent had silently entered my little apartment. ‘Grigoriy’ activating me, of course, naturally stirred those memories, but I desperately wanted to keep them at bay at the moment. I needed to pay as much attention to the other men, especially Devushkin, as I could. If I were to have a chance at completing this mission without losing my own life, I needed to know everything about Ivan Antonov.
A little table stood a few feet directly behind me, the most prominent thing in the view I had in the little mirror. On it sat the birch with which they had already turned my backside into an agony, punishing me for no reason at all except that Ivan had told them I was a naughty girl who needed strict discipline to give the pleasure he had bought me for.
Again, my mind traveled back to the first time I had seen a birch rod. How my first impression had left me wondering why all the girls in the old stories seemed so scared of it. A bundle of twigs, gathered with string at one end into a sort of handle.
“I’m going to whip you with this now,” the man in the black hood had said, after he had shown it to me. He had touched my back with the compliance wand, and he had told me to take off my clothes. He had told me to put my pillows in the middle of the bed and to lie over them. I had obeyed, my heart pounding in terror, but already aware of the terrible truth of the horrid wand.
It couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t, deep down in the darkest, most shameful places of my heart, already want to do.
CHAPTER2
Heather
“Heather,” the man in the hood said as he woke me, one hand gently rubbing my shoulder and the other holding the rounded tip of the metal wand to my back. “This is for your own good. Get out of bed and take off your clothes.”
I felt a slight tingle, where the thing pressed between my shoulder blades. For a moment, despite the sleepy confusion in my mind, the suspicion that this was all just a very vivid dream, I blushed hotter than I could ever remember blushing before. To my astonishment but also somehow without any surprise—the way things happen in dreams, in fact—I started to obey the bizarre command.
I had on an oversize concert t-shirt and pink cotton bikini panties. I got out of bed despite the way my entire body trembled. I could observe as if from a long way away how a girl who looked and even felt exactly like me had just started to do as the hooded man who had invaded her home had told her.
“What…?” I asked, as my hands reached down as if they had a mind of their own and took hold of the hem of the black t-shirt. “What’s going…?”
He had stepped back from the bed a little to let me carry out his order. Now he moved forward again, his right hand reaching around my back. For the first time I saw the compliance wand, a little silver device whose shiny end protruded from his fist an inch or so.
I couldn’t tell if the man simply moved very quickly, or if something he had done—the wand thing, maybe—had slowed down time for me. I learned soon enough that part of the thing’s operation indeed involved that ongoing effect on the submissive girl’s mind. It let the wand’s user easily do what the man in the hood did then, and touch my back with it again, so that he could issue another command.
“Quiet, Heather,” he said very simply. My brow furrowed. I could imagine finishing my question—saying “What’s going on?” and following it up with “Who the fuck are you?” and then screaming for help. I couldn’t do it. This man, a part of my mind that seemed both completely new and like it had been there unnoticed forever, had told me to hold my tongue.
“Go ahead and take off your shirt and your panties,” he said. “I’m going to birch you.”
My body didn’t stop trembling as, to my horror, I simply obeyed him. I whimpered as I pulled the t-shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor, my face burning as I exposed my little breasts to the unseen eyes behind what I guessed must be the high-tech black cloth of his mask.
It seemed that the power of the wand to enforce theQuietcommand allowed little noises like that whimper, and the one that came from my throat as I put my thumbs inside the waistband of my panties and tugged them down. I looked up into the blank, black surface of the mask, my face a pitiful pout, beseeching him for mercy, though I had no idea even why he intended to punish me, let alone why he would show me mercy.
I felt my pussy, with its sparse golden curls, come into his view. I wondered with another flush of blood in my cheeks whether his hidden eyes had fixed themselves there, between my legs. To my dismay, I felt a surge of heat downthere, too, to match the one in my face. The question “Why?” became the one I most wanted to ask, and I found myself trying to beam it into the hooded, masked man’s mind with my pleading eyes.
At that point I seemed to hear the wordbirchfor the first time. He had said he was going tobirchme. My eyes went to something on the end of my bed—something that shouldn’t be there. A black bag, to match his hood, his pants, and his shirt. I watched him reach into it in a leisurely way, his head turning and bending to look down into its depths and find what he sought.
I felt a moment’s surprise at the slow pace of his movements as he started to pull from the bag something long and thin… something apparently made of several lengths of… of twigs, bound together by stout cords at one end to make a handle.
Couldn’t I, like, scramble over the bed and out the bedroom door? Naked though I was, I would still fare better if I could get outside my apartment, wouldn’t I? His attention had turned to the birch thing and he didn’t seem to be keeping watch on me.
I started to do it. Really, I started to try to do it, though that doesn’t even really describe what happened between my brain and my body. The part of my mind that had realized I might have a chance to get away told my body to turn and get up onto the bed as fast as I could. My body refused. I couldn’t even swing my head in that direction, because all my focus had gone to the birch thing.
I felt my face crumple, my forehead creasing deeply. I heard another of those whimpers come from my throat, the only sounds that the horrible device the man had pressed into my back apparently permitted.
“This is my birch, Heather,” said the man, turning the blank face of the mask to me again. “I’m going to punish you with it because it’s a traditional punishment in Russia.”
