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)
Was it even the previous night, though? The utter darkness inside the hood forbade me from developing the faintest sense of the passage of seconds and minutes—let alone hours and days. I felt certain that the torrent of hormones unleashed inside me by my shameful ride on Belkonov’s toy had unmoored me from anything like normal existence: the most terrifying part of it all lay in how my mind seemed simply to accept that I belonged here in this subterranean prison, the room I couldn’t see but I knew was arrayed perfectly for my gospodin’s enemy to come and enjoy me just as he pleased.
And he did, over and over. I heard the door open, and I heard his footsteps approach. Each time I wondered, with terror curling in the pit of my stomach, if it were even Belkonov himself, or if he had instead started to share me with his men, if he had gotten tired of his hooded fuck toy already, and sent the minion who would fuck me and then get rid of me afterward.
But Belkonov, thank goodness, wanted to gloat. It began the same way every time. His shoe against my cloth-covered face. His voice, high above me, in thickly accented English.
“Beg for my cock, whore.”
The effect of the compliance wand had always faded by the time he returned. I always shook my head. Belkonov always pressed the wand into my side and enforced my obedience.
I kissed his shoe, smelling expensive leather, trying to control my need, trying to keep Ivan out of my head.
Belkonov didn’t unchain me, or free my hands. He put me on my face with my backside high.
He said, “Don’t come.”
He unzipped his fly and plunged his hard penis into my pussy, and then into my anus. He came, grunting, after a few minutes of vigorous thrusting in my bottom, with his hands locked around my waist to ensure he could drive as deep as he wanted into my most intimate hole.
My whole body glowed with shame at the terrible arousal I felt despite the man’s casual cruelty. The wand’s operation was all that kept me from climaxing, and I knew that Belkonov knew it from the way my body shuddered as I obeyed, desperately pushing away the unwelcome pleasure that threatened to overwhelm me at every moment.
When he used my ass, I had to fight against everything my gospodin had trained my body to feel so exquisitely, how he had taught me to orgasm when he possessed me in that shameful way. With his paradoxical mix of force and gentleness, judiciously using the compliance wand—at one time to forbid me to come and at another to compel my orgasms—Ivan had educated my bottom. He had fine-tuned my muscles and my nerve endings and my dark submissive need, making them work together until my gospodin had made of me something that I called, in my mind, an ass girl. My master’s ass girl, an anal slut who couldn’t keep herself from craving a man’s rigid member in her smallest, most private opening.
After Belkonov had spurted his seed in my bottom, he withdrew his cock. I heard him walk to the door and open it. Then a servant came in, or a henchman. A man at any rate, I could tell from the way he arranged my limbs so easily, though he never spoke a word. He made me squat over a bucket, and he wiped me roughly afterward. I never got over the hot blush it always caused, or the humiliating way it brought the arousal flooding back into my lower body.
He departed, and returned with a tray that always had the same things: a bottle of water that the man made me drink and a bowl of soup with pieces of bread in it that he made me lap from, placing me in the same position Belkonov did to fuck me.
Belkonov himself watched the whole thing, commenting from time to time. His favorite comments were, in English, “Drink up, whore,” “Put your face right in the bowl, slut,” and, in Russian, “Don’t worry, I’ll share her with you all soon.”
The man put me back on the bucket. To my dismay, every time, I blushed anew.
Then they would leave. Belkonov’s parting words were always, “Don’t even think about playing with your cunt, girl. You’re not here for your pleasure.”
The very worst part was that I knew I would have masturbated, once he had left, if I could have freed my hands, and I guessed he must have surveillance cameras on me. The compliance wand’s effect lasted long enough, though, that I wouldn’t have had the ability to disobey.
The one way I had to tell how much time had passed lay in how my bottom had started to heal. With my hands cuffed behind me I could reach my fingers down to feel the stripes from the knout. Over the course of my time in Belkonov’s dungeon they had grown swollen and then had receded. On the day I couldn’t feel them anymore—though who knows whether it was actually day or night—Belkonov returned with his men, as I had suspected he would.