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He reached his hand out. My thoughts and feelings roiled with such fear and confusion that I could hardly remember what had been said in Russian and what in English. I hoped fervently that the pleading that came out of my mouth wouldn’t reveal any knowledge I shouldn’t have.
“Please, Master… please… don’t…”
But Ivan took the knout in his hand without looking at me, and went to stand in the same place Pyotr had stood. More strenuously than ever, I tried to twist myself around in the restraining leather. I could see his face, could see his gaze fixed on my already terribly punished bottom, my spread legs, the private parts where he had thrust his hardness and taken his pleasure so many times. He raised the horrible whip to the level of his shoulder.
“Ivan… please…” I begged, through my sobs of fear and shame and every kind of pain.
“Master,” he said in a voice like stone, still looking only at my backside and started to bring the knout down.
CHAPTER17
Heather
Ivan whipped me six times. It hurt much more than the lashes from Pyotr, but all the resistance had fled from my body, and my mind had traveled far, far away. I clung to the punishment bench, shuddering with each terrible impact and crying out automatically as the agony coursed through my nervous system.
My hips jerked in time with my master’s rhythm, and I rode the bench shamelessly in search of some relief from the fire in my rear end. I heard Misha and Grisha laughing at my lewd display. Another henchman yelled out, after the third lash, “That’s it, boss. Whip that ass!”
Ivan brought the knout down slowly and steadily, and by the time he delivered the final one I had lost count of how many times the leather had cracked across my bottom and my thighs, seeking out even the tenderest place between my legs.
The place that belongs to him, I thought, somewhere in the distance,so he gets to do whatever he wants with it.
“Get her off the bench,” I heard my master say to his horrible butler. “Give her her coat and shoes and bring her to the limo. I’ll send her to Boris naked, so that he sees immediately how well disciplined she is.”
So I wouldn’t have any chance to talk to Ivan, to tell him that Belkonov had meant to kidnap me. The hope that had risen when I had heard Misha and Grisha talking about that had faded; if Ivan intended togiveme to Boris Belkonov, how much difference would it make that the head of the power plant had intended totakeme for himself?
But Ivan Antonov, I knew, was a very complicated man. To an alpha male like him, I suspected a gift like a bed girl only worked as a preemptive gesture. As I whimpered with every step, following Pyotr from the dining hall to the foyer, I wondered if maybe I could find a way just to say one thing—he meant to kidnap me!—to my master before all was lost.
I didn’t have any faith that the Pretorian Guard would find a way to get me out of Belkonov’s house if I ended up there, either. If they did, I imagined, it wouldn’t be unscathed. None of that mattered, including my mission, though, compared to the coldness in Ivan’s face and the conflict and confusion inside me over whether that icy demeanor showed his real feelings or the hard facade he adopted to run a dangerous empire.
I heard Pyotr speaking, as if from a long way away, and for a moment I panicked, thinking I would have to respond though I hadn’t really heard the words. Only after several seconds of terror did I realize that he had spoken in Russian, to a maid, telling her to fetch shoes for me from my room.
I felt my face twisted into a woeful mixture of emotions as I understood that only the sheer mind-stealing pain, sadness, and horror of my situation had saved me from giving myself away: so terrible was the agony in my bottom and thighs, and so great my fear, that I had almost said, in Russian, something like, “I’m so very sorry, sir, but what did you say?”
Pyotr had the coat, and the maid had the shoes: my gorgeous white pumps, the ones Ivan had given me the night he had dressed me like a princess and fucked me like a little whore, as I screamed out orgasm after orgasm over the table in his private dining room. The mere sight of them drew a racking sob from deep in my chest.
I slipped into the shoes, feeling as always—despite the pain from my backside at every movement of those muscles—the extreme naughtiness of wearing heels and nothing else. Pyotr stood by the enormous oak door of the palace’s grand entrance, holding the coat for me as if I were an honored guest departing for their own grand abode.
I didn’t mean to look him in the face, because I felt sure he wore a look of triumph at my downfall. Something in me demanded to see that expression, though—something dark and perverse, seeking further abasement. I glanced upward from the coat to the butler, and I had the unexpected satisfaction of seeing not a sneer but a look of cold anger: Pyotr had counted on fucking me.
“Aww,” I said, locking eyes with the man in a way I had never dared, figuring that I might allow myself the indulgence since everything had already come apart. “Are you still hard, Pyotr? I’m sorry you’ll have to go to your room and jerk off into a tissue. If it helps, let me tell you that your little old cock could never satisfy a girl like me.”
My reward came in the form of flared nostrils and eyes like death. I turned my back on him and started to extend my arms to don the big black coat, doing my best not to whimper or wince at the agony that accompanied every movement.
I stopped reaching backwards, and instead looked over my shoulder at the butler. “Poor Pyotr,” I said. “You didn’t even get to finish whipping me.”
I turned away, and began to put on the coat. I took it as a sign of my little triumph when Pyotr put his mouth against my ear and said in his thick accent, “I hope Belkonov destroys your cunt and your ass for you, whore. Would that satisfy you?”
The maid had opened the door. Pyotr thrust me through it, toward the limo waiting in the thickly falling snow. I stumbled and nearly fell, but I caught myself on the railing of the steps, my attention focused on the car. The chauffeur climbed out of the driver’s seat and stepped to the passenger door. He looked at me, at the top of the steps, expectantly.
What the fuck could I possibly do? Run? Try to find the Pretorian Guard agent who had activated me and get him to arrange an extraction for me? No chance—the man almost certainly wouldn’t even be at Devushkin’s palace, halfway across town.
I clutched my coat tightly around me and descended the steps. The chauffeur opened the door of the limo.
I would go to Belkonov’s house. I would try to see Ivan, somehow, get a message to him that I had vital information, something like that. The Guard would realize that I didn’t represent an asset anymore, and get me out. I would survive, somehow. My thoughts churned in my head, not a single one fitting together with another to make a plan.
I walked toward the car.
Astonishingly, Ivan’s voice came from inside the passenger compartment, speaking in Russian to the chauffeur, his tone annoyed.
