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But Belkonov, thank goodness, wanted to gloat. It began the same way every time. His shoe against my cloth-covered face. His voice, high above me, in thickly accented English.
“Beg for my cock, whore.”
The effect of the compliance wand had always faded by the time he returned. I always shook my head. Belkonov always pressed the wand into my side and enforced my obedience.
I kissed his shoe, smelling expensive leather, trying to control my need, trying to keep Ivan out of my head.
Belkonov didn’t unchain me, or free my hands. He put me on my face with my backside high.
He said, “Don’t come.”
He unzipped his fly and plunged his hard penis into my pussy, and then into my anus. He came, grunting, after a few minutes of vigorous thrusting in my bottom, with his hands locked around my waist to ensure he could drive as deep as he wanted into my most intimate hole.
My whole body glowed with shame at the terrible arousal I felt despite the man’s casual cruelty. The wand’s operation was all that kept me from climaxing, and I knew that Belkonov knew it from the way my body shuddered as I obeyed, desperately pushing away the unwelcome pleasure that threatened to overwhelm me at every moment.
When he used my ass, I had to fight against everything mygospodinhad trained my body to feel so exquisitely, how he had taught me to orgasm when he possessed me in that shameful way. With his paradoxical mix of force and gentleness, judiciously using the compliance wand—at one time to forbid me to come and at another to compel my orgasms—Ivan had educated my bottom. He had fine-tuned my muscles and my nerve endings and my dark submissive need, making them work together until mygospodinhad made of me something that I called, in my mind, anass girl.My master’s ass girl, an anal slut who couldn’t keep herself from craving a man’s rigid member in her smallest, most private opening.
After Belkonov had spurted his seed in my bottom, he withdrew his cock. I heard him walk to the door and open it. Then a servant came in, or a henchman. A man at any rate, I could tell from the way he arranged my limbs so easily, though he never spoke a word. He made me squat over a bucket, and he wiped me roughly afterward. I never got over the hot blush it always caused, or the humiliating way it brought the arousal flooding back into my lower body.
He departed, and returned with a tray that always had the same things: a bottle of water that the man made me drink and a bowl of soup with pieces of bread in it that he made me lap from, placing me in the same position Belkonov did to fuck me.
Belkonov himself watched the whole thing, commenting from time to time. His favorite comments were, in English, “Drink up, whore,” “Put your face right in the bowl, slut,” and, in Russian, “Don’t worry, I’ll share her with you all soon.”
The man put me back on the bucket. To my dismay, every time, I blushed anew.
Then they would leave. Belkonov’s parting words were always, “Don’t even think about playing with your cunt, girl. You’re not here for your pleasure.”
The very worst part was that I knew I would have masturbated, once he had left, if I could have freed my hands, and I guessed he must have surveillance cameras on me. The compliance wand’s effect lasted long enough, though, that I wouldn’t have had the ability to disobey.
The one way I had to tell how much time had passed lay in how my bottom had started to heal. With my hands cuffed behind me I could reach my fingers down to feel the stripes from the knout. Over the course of my time in Belkonov’s dungeon they had grown swollen and then had receded. On the day I couldn’t feel them anymore—though who knows whether it was actually day or night—Belkonov returned with his men, as I had suspected he would.
When the door opened that time, instead of the silence that accompanied his own solitary visits to use me, I heard boisterous laughter. Four or five men, it sounded like to me.
This is it, said the calculating, logical part of me that I had carefully kept awake and protected.Either the plan is going to work or I’m going to die, probably in a very painful way. Definitely in an utterly degrading way.
I refused to think about the parts of the plan that depended on things far beyond my control: things Ivan had hopefully done, things the Pretorian Guard agent had promised would happen. Thankfully, I didn’t have much time to think about anything extraneous to the immediate situation in Belkonov’s dungeons, because I heard him stride straight to my side and then I felt the compliance wand press against my back, followed by the tingling that meant he had activated it.
“Obey every command these men and I give you,” he said, his voice hard and loud, the tone of an incompetent commander who feels he must put on some dominant act in front of his thug henchmen.
Then he spoke in Russian to one of the others.
“You’ll see, like I told you. Go ahead and unchain her. Take the cuffs off too so her hands feel better on your cocks. Just not the hood. Ourbenefactordoesn’t want you to see her pretty face, but you should use the mouth all you want. The slut can’t help doing whatever you tell her to do.”
The door slammed heavily shut.
Belkonov had stood up as he gave his instructions to his minions. I heard him move away, and then I lost track of him because another man had come over. I felt his hands unfastening the chain that bound me to the wall, and then the cuffs around my wrists.
“Get up,” he said in Russian.
Oh, no.I tried to resist. I shouldn’t know that Belkonov’s thug had just given me a command; I shouldn’t know the language. For an instant I thought I could do it, could stay in place on the floor. Then I started to move, compelled by the wand’s effect.
Belkonov saved me. “In English, you fool,” he said in Russian, before they could notice that my movement represented helpless obedience.
The henchman spoke again in accented English. “Get up.”
I had enough wiggle room within the confines of the wand’s operation that I could shift myself and push up in a different direction, disguising my previous attempt at compliance. I got up, with my hands instinctively over my breasts and my pussy.
“Hands on your head,” Belkonov barked.
