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They.I hadn’t thought ofthemfor years, but it seemed like the passage of time had only made my childish longing to help my grandmother recover some of what she had lost on that terrible day stronger. I had fantasized in those days, aged maybe ten or eleven, about arriving back in a ruined village with a strike team out of one of my own brother’s video games. I didn’t like guns, but I imagined myself with one of them in my hand, finding an old man, an evil sneer on his face, and telling him in my own perfect Russian that I was Vladimir Hasonov’s great-granddaughter, and mine would be the last face he saw.
In the van my face went hot with anger and with a strange kind of embarrassment—that I had neglected to carry out the duty of vengeance my grandmother had laid upon me and that this man… the man who had just whipped me, then touched me so very intimately against my will… had brought unguessed-at, humiliating pleasure… that this ‘trainer’ had reminded me of that duty.
He had continued to speak, while I had fallen into my brief reverie of remembering my grandmother and her retellings of the awful story of her flight to the West. As my mind caught up with his flow of speech, the blush that suffused my cheeks became more intense, its nature changing as to my dismay I felt heat gather between my thighs as well.
“Second, Heather, you need this because you are the kind of girl who can’t be happy unless you are serving a dominant man with your gorgeous body, receiving his discipline and his training—and taking his cock however and whenever he sees fit to give it to you.”
CHAPTER4
Ivan
I watched them whip Heather on the video feed from my friend Feodorov’s discipline room. I usually enjoyed watching friends use one of my girls. Since the one man Feodorov had invited whom I didn’t know—the one named Grigoriy—had leaned over Heather in that intimate way, his hand between her thighs, though, a largely unfamiliar emotion had crept into my chest.
Alpha rage.I’d heard other dominant men describe it—sometimes in a positive way and sometimes in a negative one. Positive, because if you owned the girl in question you would of course reclaim her from whoever currently had temporary possession—whipping or fucking or degrading her, it didn’t much matter. Negative, because if the slut didn’t belong to you, the alpha rage could definitely get you into trouble.
Positive, because—according to more than one acquaintance who shared my passion for exercising mastery over beautiful young women—alpha rage represented a very solid indication you had started to develop feelings for one of your little whores. Negative, by the same token, because really, who wanted to develop that kind of feeling?
One of these acquaintances had said that whenever he had begun to sense alpha rage building in his mind—he had clearly and purposefully refrained, I had thought, from sayingheart—he had given the girl away to a low level subordinate to use as roughly and shamefully as possible. Seeing his former prized concubine degraded that way, he claimed, did the trick and left him free to buy another slut, one he could take unalloyed pleasure in loaning out after he had deflowered her and broken her in for a week or two.
Feodorov himself held the birch, in the image on my screen. I zoomed the camera in so I could see only Heather’s adorable bare bottom, the perfect little twin globes made into a tracery of lovely red lines by the whipping my friends had bestowed. As I watched, Feodorov delivered a hard cut with the rod, its half-dozen twigs crashing across Heather’s lower hind-cheeks and upper thighs.
She let out a scream of agony, her bottom writhing as she moved her hips in desperation. Despite the alpha rage, or maybe in fact because of it, my cock had gotten as hard as iron against my thigh—harder maybe than I usually got when I watched a little whore punished for her wantonness.
Did it have to do with the good-girl wand that had come with Heather as part of her enormous purchase price? Something about the way its operation restrained the girl’s limbs without any visible means of binding her always seemed to arouse me more than practically anything I had ever experienced. It really did appear almost as if they had bound Heather to the whipping bench with invisible straps—she moved her body under the awful ministration of the birch only with her obviously involuntary reactions to the pain and no further. Somehow commands issued under the wand’s operation found their way into Heather’s unconscious, so that the lovely naked girl restrainedherselfatop the bench, presenting her bottom for chastisement as if she knew she had earned this terrible lesson.
The wand must, I reflected, have something to do with it, at least insofar as it made Heather so very pleasurable both to discipline and to use on my cock. The simple variety provided by the unique experience had a role here—the delight of sampling a forbidden world of pleasure with a so-recently-innocent girl who had no choice but to serve my lust in the most humiliating ways possible.
Maybe more important, the depth of submission Heather displayed… the way that—as now, on the screen, at Feodorov’s brutal command—she put her trembling hands behind her and spread her little bottom cheeks to reveal the tiny ring into which I couldn’t seem to get enough of plunging my hardness… the way that she cried out as a man entered her there, the way Feodorov’s closest colleague Viktor did now as I watched in close-up… the way she sobbed as the glistening shaft invaded her most private place…
I shut the video feed off.
I had never done that before, while watching friends use one of my concubines.
I thought about calling my chauffeur. He and my best limo currently waited, engine idling as a show of sheer contemptuous superiority to the rest of the energy-starved world, outside Feodorov’s city palace. He would send Heather down when they had finished with her, which could lie hours in the future, once they had inundated her thoroughly punished body with their seed.
I thought about taking one of my other limos over to Feodorov’s myself, of going up to have a share of Heather with them.
I could hardly imagine a more obvious show of weakness, could I?My eyes widened in shock that my mind had even entertained the feeble notion.
Should I give Heather to a lowly lieutenant? Ask to watch her whipped within an inch of her life and then brutally gangbanged by her new master and his friends?
I wouldn’t give away the wand, of course. They had told me it would only work on the right kind of girl, and I had verified the information with a few attempts on other concubines and even a henchman. I could probably find another slut like Heather, one who needed domination so much that her cunt visibly wet her panties at the news she would be shared that night, as Heather’s had that afternoon when I had told her of the night to come.
I would find another little whore, and she and I would watch Heather taught a terrible lesson for her slightest misbehavior to her new master. Without the wand, he would have to strap her down, but her birching and her punishment fucking would proceed all the same, as she screamed out her penitence.
The recollection, to my dismay, didn’t arouse me at all.
Her penitence.
Her penitence for what? For what crime?
For making me fall in love with her.I swallowed hard. I thought not of the many strict sessions with the birch or with my open hand I had bestowed on Heather’s adorable bottom over the past four months since acquiring her, but of the dinners, candlelit, at my elegantly furnished table. The lovely gowns she had worn over lovelier lingerie, all of course with the purpose of having them ripped from her body later before I plunged my cock into her luscious cunt or fucked her face as she knelt before my chair.
I thought of her golden hair, her hazel eyes, the shy smile she had given me when I had put a diamond choker gently around her neck, fastening the clasp and, unable to help myself, kissing her forehead before I pulled back to look down into her lovely face.
Of the way she looked at me and asked her innocent questions about old Russia and my family’s part in its storied history… how from serfs in the service of the family whose brutal scion would found the criminal empire I now ruled, my own family had risen in status over generations. Of how with her lively eyes and articulate speech, her patience with my broken English, she made me want to ask questions of her, too—and how her answers made me feel that despite age and distance Heather and I somehow belonged together.
I reached out, trying to break the fugue I had fallen into, thinking about Heather not as the owned bed girl she should be but as somehow worthy of more. I meant to turn the screen back on, but my hand fell again without touching the button.
