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Heather
The man in my bottom rode me very hard. Ivan had gotten me used to taking his massive hardness in my smallest hole, and whoever this was—one of Feodorov’s friends, I thought, though except for Feodorov and now ‘Grigoriy’ I didn’t know any of their names—didn’t possess Ivan’s endowment, thank God.
Still I cried out, though, from the discomfort of the cock surging pitilessly in and out of my anus and even more from the humiliation of receiving a buttfucking from a man whose name I didn’t know. I knew these aggressive, arrogant men who so obviously thought themselves dominants wanted to hear me acknowledge their mastery.
Making the sort of noises I knew would arouse them soothed away some of the pain; I had learned that early on in my service to Ivan Antonov. It gave me my own paradoxical feeling of submissive power over the men who punished and used me. Less comfortably for me, also, it aroused me, too, and made the whole degrading experience not just bearable but—more than half to my distress rather than my enjoyment—a source of shameful pride and humiliating pleasure.
I wouldn’t have been able to come with this thug in my ass, even if they hadn’t used the wand to forbid it. I did sometimes orgasm when Ivan fucked my ass. If I had behaved myself according to his standards that day, he would, as a reward, often instruct me to play with my clit and my pussy as he enjoyed me.
To my distress, my mind traveled there, to Ivan’s house, to the many rooms, the many pieces of furniture both elegant and utilitarian in those rooms, where my owner had used me along the narrow path where the nameless criminal thrust his smaller manhood with such abandon. His hands firmly on my hips, Feodorov’s friend thrust in at full length with every stroke, making sure to press his lap against the welts all five of them had left with the birch on my naked bottom and thighs.
“Look at me in the mirror,” he grunted in English so heavily accented I could—ironically, given my perfect Russian—hardly understand him.
I had closed my eyes, letting out a submissive cry with every return of the uncomfortable fullness in the forbidden tunnel Ivan had trained for his use. My master had widened me with a series of plugs, each one bigger than the last, for the first month of his ownership. A twisted sense of gratitude filled my chest for the ‘care’ taken by the man who had bought me in helping me serve his humiliating lusts, and those of the others to whom he loaned me out.
Thinking of Ivan despite myself, I opened my eyes the instant my subspace-addled brain understood what Feodorov’s friend had said. I didn’t want them to realize that I hadn’t been under the influence of the wand for the last few minutes: it represented a deception I had cultivated with Ivan as well, one my Pretorian Guard trainer had taught me. In it, perhaps, would lie my salvation.
Or Ivan’s, my wayward brain said.
At a crucial moment, as here in Feodorov’s house at a much less important one, I could perhaps act unexpectedly, exercising my free will when those who thought themselves in control felt certain they had me completely under their command. It could save me. It could, if my trainer had his way, let me kill Ivan Antonov.
Or…began the little voice in my mind again. My open eyes focused on the petty criminal whose dark gaze looked back lustfully in the mirror at the face of the girl whose ass he had just started to spurt his seed into. So unlike Ivan’s ice-blue eyes. The unintelligent, sharp-bearded face so different from Ivan’s characteristic penetrating expression even when in the throes of passion, looking at me, his owned concubine, to see me overcome with the pleasure of submitting to his dominance.
I cried out over and over, giving them what they wanted, terrible need surging between my thighs at the abject degradation of receiving the unknown minion’s hot essence in my most private place. I became vaguely aware of Feodorov, behind me, speaking into a phone that had just rung, in Russian.
“Da, Ivan.Da.” Feodorov’s voice sounded strangely sullen. “Da. I’ll send her home right away.”
Or, with my one free action, I could save Ivan’s life. I could save the life of the criminal warlord I love.
CHAPTER5
Heather
The dismay I had felt when I had realized I was falling in love with Ivan Antonov had known no bounds. And it had happened at what seemed to me simultaneously the most humiliating and the most cliché possible moment: Ivan cradling me in his arms after using my ass more forcefully than ever before.
He had sat me painfully on a kitchen stool after a naked birching for speaking out of turn, asking to go to the bathroom when Ivan had been in the middle of an important phone call. He had tugged me backwards on its polished wood surface until my punished bottom cheeks protruded far enough over the edge that I, at his command, could spread them and present my anus for his huge, deep-thrusting cock.
He had bent me forward and held me there with his hands under my arms, gripping my ribcage, and his fingertips kneading my breasts firmly and ultra-possessively as he used me brutally, to assuage the monstrous erection he always got when he whipped me.
He had fucked my smallest hole until I sobbed in pain and shame from some uncharted locale deep in subspace… and then he had somehow fetched, and turned on, a wand vibrator I hadn’t even known he possessed… and reached around to force it between my thighs… and held it against my clit…
Me, screaming and sobbing and coming, as my master put his other arm all the way around my upper body to hold me firmly against him even as I writhed in pleasure-pain and pain-pleasure.
Him, coming too, as if at the stimulation of my pleasure… his penis jerking long and urgently in my anus…
Ivan holding his still rigid cock inside me there while the delicious, tormenting wand brought me to another climax.
Then. The very next moment—the next nanosecond—in my memory, though hours might actually have elapsed between my final orgasm and the glowing, all-consuming freezeframe that had distressed and frightened me just as much as it had made that shiny, joyful feeling leap up in my heart.
“Shh, sweet girl,” Ivan had said as he held me curled up in his arms, sitting in his enormous leather-covered armchair. “Shh, good girl.”
His musically accented English. It had seemed to me, at that moment anyway, like his Russian accent had made me fall in love with him. Something about the effort he clearly expended even to pronouncesweet,andgood, andgirl… how it so clearly meant he wanted to communicate with the bed girl he could just have used for his cruel sexual pleasure… it didn’t of course constitute the entirety of his twisted—but clearly evident—affection for me, but perhaps it provided the symbol of that warmth that my mind always went to, when I thought of him.
“Master,” I had whispered. Just that. I had taken his hand, and I had kissed it on the palm. The hand that wielded the birch with such brutal ‘justice’ as to whip a young woman for asking if she might go to the bathroom. The hand that spanked me over its owner’s knee when Ivan judged I hadn’t shaved my pussy closely enough that day.
