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In the instant when my body had just, of its own accord, decided to kiss Ivan Antonov’s cruel hand, my brain had tried to tell me that I was doing it because I meant to deceive him intothinkingI had fallen in love with him. For the blink of an eye—I had in fact actually blinked, because the spontaneous gesture arising in my muscles had taken me by surprise—I had believed the lie. Of course this hand-kissing, this utterly submissive moment of reverence for the evil warlord the Pretorian Guard had sent me to turn or to kill, represented a mere deception. How could it have been anything else?
“You make me feel so…” Ivan murmured, his lips against my hair. I had been able to tell that he sought an English word, one that he hadn’t had in his vocabulary. He had wanted to say something different, something more expressive. After a moment he had simply said, “Good.”
And I had loved him for it. Not pretended to love him.
Here in Feodorov’s house, with the unnamed friend in my ass looking at me in the little mirror with an air of clearly feigned contempt, my heart thrilled with joy that Ivan had sent for me. The man whose organization had destroyed my family those many years ago, who himself currently ran his region with an iron fist, killing his rivals without mercy… the man who had sent me home with his friend to serve five strangers in the most shameful, painful way possible… I wanted nothing more than to go back to him in hope that tonight he might hold me again.
When Ivan sent me to serve his friends and colleagues—tonight made the third time—he always dressed me the same classic way: lacy black lingerie complete with garter belt, nylons, and heels, covered in a snow-white overcoat, as if to emphasize the wanton slut who lurked beneath the innocent exterior. Feodorov and his friends had, as Ivan explicitly always invited his friends to do, literally ripped the tiny, expensive lacy panties off me before birching me. They had used a knife to cut the bra and the garter belt. They had used their rough fingers to tear the stockings into shreds.
In the limo, then, I wore only the black heels and the white coat. My nudity under the woolen coat with its silk lining never ceased to feel strange, nor did it allow me to do anything but think of the man who dressed me thus.
Yes, he kills his rivals, my brain started in.But only after they give him no choice.
Did I believe that? How could I not? I had seen him hesitate that very morning, before he gave the order while I listened, silent on my knees, clad only in the white lace panties that Ivan had specified as my everyday uniform the morning after he had brought me home and taken all my virginities in a single night.
I could imagine how another leader of what had been the Klimatov ‘family’ in those days and was now the Antonov family would have grinned as he gave the order for my great-grandfather’s death. Boris Klimatov, Ivan had readily told me when I had asked at dinner on my third night as an owned bed girl, had done a great many terrible things.
In his broken English, Ivan had told me—the girl he had purchased for nothing more than the right to plunge his massive cock into me whenever and however he chose—of his internal conflict.
“Klimatov built this little empire,” my master had told me, a wry half-smile turning up the left corner of his mouth and suffusing his distressingly handsome face with a thoughtful air that had taken me very much by surprise, “with a little intelligence and a lot of violence.”
In the limo on my way back to Ivan’s city house, I bit my lip as I remembered it: the way his shoulder-length golden hair had framed those ice-blue eyes as he looked at me. The sudden impression I had had that my new owner hadn’t intended to speak so candidly to me. The sensation that seemed as much physical as emotional, welling up inside my chest, of danger.
Not from Ivan, but from my own needs and how frighteningly well my gorgeous, brutal, thoughtful master fulfilled them.
“I would never do,” Ivan had continued, “half of what Klimatov did—even to maintain my position. Sometimes…”
His voice had trailed off, and then the smile had turned for a moment into a look of sarcastic scorn, as if he had no choice but to scoff at the thought he had just had.
Sometimes what?the voice inside my head had shouted. I hadn’t seen it clearly then, but I could grasp the moment fully, looking back as I sat nude beneath my white overcoat, being driven back to the man I loved—the man who had sent me to another man’s house to have my bare backside whipped and my bottom filled with cock. I had desperately wanted confirmation of what I had suspected—no…hoped, really, to my dismay—might be true the moment I met my new master. That Ivan Antonov didn’t deserve to die for what an unrelated man had done to my family eighty years ago.
I had swallowed hard, there at the dinner table, the first of the many elegant meals his chef had served us since my arrival as the warlord’s new concubine. I had asked my question very softly.
“Sometimes what, Master?”
I couldn’t suppress a little sob, even remembering it in the limo: the way Ivan’s eyes had lit up with that dominant glow when he had heard me call himMaster. For a moment, a real smile had played upon his lips, only to give way to the ironic curl of dismissal.
“Nothing, Heather,” he said, obviously regretting—if only slightly—that he had said so much. “Finish your dessert and then go to my bedroom and get undressed. You should clean your anus on the bidet, too. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
My face had blazed hot as I had obediently risen from the table. As I had walked to Ivan’s enormous master suite, the familiar screaming match had begun to unfold inside my head—between the independent, logical woman I had thought I was until the Pretorian Guard had ‘recruited’ me and the submissive, captive bed girl who meekly washed her sore little bottom-hole so that her master could have her again there.
At the same time, though, as if in counterpoint to that raging internal conflict, another idea had quietly taken hold. I had felt absolutely sure that I knew what Ivan had meant to say.
Sometimes he wished he could let go of the criminal organization he had inherited from the Klimatov family.
Ivan’s butler opened the door of the Antonov palace for me.Palacewas the word the Russians always used for these enormous city houses, though it had taken me a while to get beyond my anglophone notions of what a palace should look like. Not that Ivan’s mansion lacked any luxury one might have found in Versailles or the tsars’ great residences; for comfort it probably exceeded those houses greatly.
Still, my master’s palace looked more like a big townhouse to me—but it seemed the modern warlords had decided to style themselves after the grand dukes and princes of old Russia. I often reflected that men like Ivan and Feodorov—even Boris Klimatov—probably only barely matched the cruel, violent aristocrats of old, at least as my grandmother had told of them in her thrilling, harrowing stories from the old country. Not the ones about how the Klimatov family had destroyed her family—those stories were only sad and scary. Nana had known better ones—more entertaining ones, anyway—about the tsars and their nobles, how they had lived and died, in constant feuding with one another.
Not unlike Ivan’s feud with the Traschkas,I thought as I bowed my head in front of Pyotr, the butler, the way Ivan required me to do. As his owned concubine, I occupied a place simultaneously at the top and at the bottom of the pecking order among the servants of the palace.
They saw me—and Pyotr in particular saw me, because his station called for him to be in near-constant attendance on Ivan—bending naked over the punishment horse with the marks of the birch displayed on my bottom. They even saw me with Ivan’s rigid cock thrust deep inside my mouth as I knelt before him in his study.
They also saw me clad in the most expensive couture, and served me the finest champagne and caviar. Pyotr, at Ivan’s command, had drawn the bath in which I had soaked, whimpering, my first night in the palace, after my master had forcefully—though only after carefully obtaining my consent, before thrusting his massive hardness home in my virgin sheath—made a woman of me.
Ivan had solved the problem of this paradox by explicitly making me subservient to the rest of the servants. I could be whipped by Pyotr for making eye contact with him, or with any other servant.
“Master Ivan,” the butler said, “is waiting for you in the study, slut. Give me your coat.”
