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My consciousness seemed to have broken into many parts. One of them tried to please the rigid penis in my mouth, moving my head back and forth in time with my frenzied bouncing on the horse’s rubber phallus. Another wondered, fearfully and irrationally, if Ivan had left without saying anything.
But my gospodin relieved that worry; I felt his hand crash down on my right bottom-cheek, and I cried out around Belkonov’s cock. I posted up in the saddle again, my pussy moving up on the enormous dildo, and then back, trying to offer my backside to the man I loved, desperate to show him that I meant to be a good girl for him despite this dreadful trial.
Ivan spanked me again, and my heart flooded with gratitude even in the face of the pain. My master’s punishing me for riding his enemy’s horse, sucking his enemy’s cock, stirred the dark need inside me so urgently that I felt my pussy gush around the rubber phallus. When I squirmed back again, inviting another spank, I could hear the wet sound of my private lips moving against the saddle.
I couldn’t stop myself: I moaned around the hard member in my mouth, and I pushed my bottom back further. Ivan spanked me again.
“Come look,” he told Belkonov in Russian. “She’s as wet as a bride on her wedding night.”
Belkonov ripped his cock from between my lips. The shame and need generated by my master’s words—the way they called up my own forbidden fantasies and made a dark perversion of them—sent a wrenching shudder through my whole body.
My hips jerked and my knees bounced, and somehow I wanted both to show Ivan I could be a bride… his bride… and to show Belkonov that his terrible toy had brought out the filthy slut in me. Beneath me my pussy, much too full, squirmed over the saddle. I could feel the wetness there, the sign my gospodin’s enemy had designated for his next brutal act.
I rocked frantically, crying out, trying to find the release that eluded me, as if it lay around a curve on the race course inside my head. I felt Belkonov’s hands on my hips, stilling my motions with an iron grip. I struggled, squirmed, whimpering in desperation. The thought of what I must look like to Ivan, how it must seem to my master that I wanted his enemy’s hardness in my anus, made me throw back my hooded head and arch my back, paradoxically trying even harder to do as I must to save the man I loved.
“Look at that,” my gospodin said. “Well done, Boris. I’ve never seen her need it in the ass so bad.”
Only at the last second did I keep myself from crying out, No, Ivan… please, no. I want you. My mind had begun to have trouble even telling Russian from English.
Belkonov himself saved me, if I could have called it that. He translated for me, his voice full of degrading mockery, his words slow as he did his best to bring all their humiliation into a foreign language.
“Your old master just told me he’s never seen you need it in your little bottom so badly, And you got my horsey all wet, you little whore.”
I moaned, hanging my head again. Another jerk of need traveled through my trembling hips.
“Please,” I whispered, my monstrous arousal and my lingering consciousness of having a mission aligning somehow. “Please, Master. I need it so much.”
They had wanted… no, I pled with the voice in my head, not they… not Ivan, not my real master…
I begged that part of my mind, besought it for an instant’s mercy, but my body’s response to the overwhelming stimulation of Belkonov’s degrading toy refused even to let my message through. The sheer physical need seemed to answer me back.
They. They wanted you to shame yourself on this obscene rocking horse, and you gave them precisely what they wanted, you filthy little whore.
You love it.
You need it.
What’s untrue about what you just said? You do need it so much, don’t you, Heather?
I felt the head of his rigid penis there, at my smallest, most embarrassing place. I marveled, on the most basic, animal level of my brain, where my thoughts seemed to intersect directly with the nerve endings in my overstimulated erogenous zones. I cried out in obscene, sexual wonder, at how a man’s cock could somehow feel so soft, there at its tip, and yet so hard, so firm.
Somewhere, stubbornly, a reasoning part of my consciousness had enough strength to raise a red flag. If the plan were to succeed, I couldn’t give in to Belkonov this way; I couldn’t need his hardness in my poor, whipped bottom this much.
My cry of helpless need changed to a screaming moan of discomfort, then. My master’s enemy had begun to push his cock in, where I felt I already had much too much inside me. I sobbed, and I tried to bounce on the horse’s huge phallus, hoping to ease the terrible pressure from the hardness demanding entry in that too-tight place.
