AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I did my absolute best impression of confusion, a task made much easier by my apprehension that no, I probably couldn’t wash pots to the standard required in a kitchen like this one.
Anya moved toward me, covering the tiled floor in the huge strides of a commanding officer in absolute control of her war camp. I didn’t have to feign my shrinking back against the swinging door or the nervous energy in my legs, begging the rest of my body to run away.
Someone yanked the door open the rest of the way and grabbed my shoulders—someone tall. Pyotr growled in my ear, “Stay right where you are, whore.” Then he said, in Russian to Anya, “Don’t let her get away with anything.”
Anya’s eyes went from the butler to me and back, the scorn seeming to radiate in chilly waves from her hazel eyes.
“Don’t worry, old man,” she replied. “This little cunt won’t be able to sit down by the end of breakfast.”
Again she helped me conceal that I knew exactly what she had just said: my little whimper of fear at her words could very easily also have represented my response to her sheer physical presence looming over me and the way she reached out to take me by the elbow and start to haul me toward the sink she had pointed to.
She turned me, and brought me past her, my bare feet breaking into a humiliating semi-run as I tried to satisfy her enough that she might loosen her painful grip on my arm. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek as the surge of sensation there made its way through my body, and the terrible shame of the moment, the fear of what would happen next, the feeling of complete abjection, took their unwelcome effect between my thighs.
The distance to the sink, where I could see three pans already awaiting my clumsy services, seemed to extend itself forever, when I looked at the other girls and saw them regarding me with a mixture of horror, contempt, and—worst of all—embarrassment of their own. The blushing blonde woman, probably even younger than me, eighteen maybe, stirred the most complicated sensations and emotions: I thought I could see in her green eyes that she, too, had fought hard against the dark desires that the Pretorian Guard had exploited in me. The thought of how aroused she must have gotten, watching my ordeal, made my own involuntary, mortifying neediness down there even worse.
When I looked down at the floor, though, the distance seemed nothing at all. I knew after all, to my dismay, precisely what would happen there at the sink, before I even had the chance to show my inadequate dishwashing skill. The tiles went by, and Anya squeezed my elbow harder—so tightly that I cried out in pain—and then she had me in front of the deep sink, its dull metal showing murky reflections, white from Anya’s cook’s uniform and creamy pink from my bare skin.
She bent me over without ceremony, and without warning, and began to spank me with the flat of the long, heavy wooden spoon. I had been punished with the birch rod and with my master’s hand—each of them so many times I had lost count by now. I had supposed that I had felt as much pain as it was possible for my ass to feel without serious injury befalling me. I had been completely wrong, it turned out.
CHAPTER15
Heather
Something about the leverage from the length of the spoon and the relatively small size of the surface that Anya whipped into my poor bottom-cheeks made even the first stroke from that fucking spoon feel like the worst punishment I had ever gotten. The already sore state of my ass from the birching at Devushkin’s palace the night before undoubtedly had a part to play. I didn’t feel certain, though, that the wooden spoon wouldn’t have represented the most painful experience of my life to date even if my butt had been pristine.
I tried to think these stupid, pseudo-objective, evaluating thoughts, rather than letting my mind go to what I knew deep down had to be the true source of how agonizing this horrible ‘lesson’ felt. That lasted about two seconds, though. I could feel their eyes on me: all the women in that kitchen. Their gazes, from all sides, at my naked body—my weeping, sobbing face, my little breasts, my bottom with its tracery of red and purple from what Ivan’s associates had given me the night before—bore into me with an emotional pain that seemed nearly as bad as what the terrible spoon could do.
Even that didn’t really compare with having to listen to, and worse to understand, the horrid, humiliating things Anya said as she paddled me with her long, heavy spoon, alternating her attention between my right and left cheeks and my right and left thighs in rapid succession.
She thought I couldn’t understand, of course, so though she addressed the degradation to me, Anya of course intended it for the ears of the cooks and the maids. I could already sense—it seemed, to me anyway—the way they all judged me as their master’s favorite fuck toy. The girl he sent to serve his friends and to be whipped by them, not so much because as a nearly omnipotent warlord he could do such atrocious things as because I must be the kind of girl who enjoyed that shameful treatment. The head cook’s horrible words, though, seemed to make it infinitely worse, and that in turn made the agony of this punishment so unbearable that I had begun to scream and to struggle under her impossibly strong restraining left arm by the third stroke of the spoon.
“Look at the little cunt, girls,” Anya said, her words delivered in a monotone equally full of fury and of scorn, loud enough to carry easily over both the sharp, ringing smacks from the spoon and my wails of agony and shame. “Look how the master makes her keep it bare and smooth for him, to help her learn submission, and yet she can’t seem to obey the simplest commands, can she? Do you see how they whipped her last night, when she went out for fucking by the master’s friends, and still she remains a shameless whore who doesn’t see the slightest reason to learn our language so that she could help out in her master’s house.”
As the terrible beating continued and the excruciating fire blazed higher and higher with every horrible spank from the tormenting spoon, I found myself reaching out to hold the opposite side of the sink, where a little metal lip met the tile of the wall—to pull on it with my scrabbling fingertips, as if I were trying to climb up on top of it, and I could somehow get away like that. I could hear one of the maids weeping nearby—surely the one who had blushed as she watched me go by on the way to this awful lesson in abject obedience.
“Do you see the little flower there, when I spank her bottom and she can’t help showing us everything like the disgusting slut she is? The master likes that hole best—all powerful men do, but good girls know how to say no, don’t they? This cunt can’t deny her master her anus, though—not because she belongs to him like a two-ruble whore but because she likes it in her little rear, good and hard. He doesn’t need to use his silver wand to have her just the way he chooses, does he? You can see that just from a glance between these little cheeks, can’t you? They’ve made her good and loose for their fucking, and she likes it that way. I’ve never spanked a bottom that needs a lesson in modesty as much as the master’s little cunt’s backside needs one.”
Anya paused in her tirade and in her delivery of my undeserved punishment. For an instant I actually supposed—though I knew much better—that she had finished. I understood at the same moment as I heard the spoon raised, I felt certain all the way to the height of the horrid woman’s shoulder, beginning what I hoped without much conviction would be its final descent.
No: Anya spanked me not one but three more times, without any further words of humiliation. Undoubtedly the head cook wanted to concentrate fully on making me scream louder than I had to that point. She succeeded all too well. I truly didn’t think I had ever in my young life felt as much pain as that third stroke of the back of the wooden bowl delivered. I seemed to leave my body entirely. I could hear a girl screaming and I knew the girl was me, and I felt the pain, but it all also seemed to come apart, so that whatever I—Heather Foster, American spy who had become the submissive bed girl of a Slavic warlord—might represent, I couldn’t put that idea together with the horrible agony in my bottom, or the helpless, wanton need between the fuck toy’s thighs, or the terrible shame of how close the two things lay together.
Or the feeling that they all knew, Anya and the cooks and the maids—they all knew that Ivan had bought me because he liked to whip girls before he fucked them, and I was the kind of girl best suited to the pursuit of that particular form of dominant masculine pleasure.
She took her arm away and left me bent over the sink. She didn’t even tell me to start washing the pots.
Part of me felt desperate to see what the other girls’ faces looked like, as if maybe they wouldn’t all be turned away in horror and embarrassment. I didn’t. I told myself that if I seemed completely crushed by Anya’s horrible ‘lesson’ they would be more likely to forget I was there and to talk about what they knew of Ivan’s movements. Really I couldn’t bear to see their reactions.
Sobbing quietly, with my left hand behind me desperately and mortifyingly trying to rub away some of the pain from my butt and my thighs, I reached out my right and turned on the hot water. I filled the sink halfway, then turned it off and started on the pots. I made as much noise as I could, to convince any observers I had absorbed myself in the task, while I listened hard during the silences.
Two of the junior cooks, arriving with more pots for washing, rewarded my efforts almost immediately. I felt a thrill of anxious hope and then of sudden fear as I heard them discussing Ivan and me in rapid Russian, as if I hadn’t even been standing there.
“He told Pyotr not to expect him back tonight. I heard him.”
I kept my attention on the pots, not daring to look up for fear of alerting them that I understood. I felt sure that the other girl had looked at me, though—maybe was still looking—when she spoke in reply.
“Did he give her to Pyotr, then? Will he fuck her tonight? Does Pyotr have the wand thing?”
The first girl made a very Slavic sound with her lips, an exhalation that meant she had no idea and she didn’t care. Then she spoke the dreadful words that I had in the back of my mind, trying to keep them from taking me over completely and sending me into a useless panic.
