Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“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 pronounce sweet, and good, and girl… 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.
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 into thinking I 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.”