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)
His fingers worked me, down there. My whimpers came with each outward breath, one after the other. Part of me—I would have sworn it—tried to stop myself, but my hips moved now even more urgently than they had when I had rubbed my bottom-cheeks. I needed my trainer’s hand… I needed everything it could give me, everything he could give me.
I needed to hear more about this fate so terrible it seemed like he must merely have decided to spin a filthy, degrading lie to exercise his own dominance over me.
“That’s not the most important part, though,” said the man in the black hood. His fingers moved up and down my private lips, spreading the wanton wetness I could feel practically gushing from the untried sheath that opened at their base, so close to the wrinkled dimple of my anus, where his thumb pressed so firmly.
“The most important part,” he said as he brought me to my very first climax, “is that you’re going to be a spy.”
He hadn’t revealed any more about the true nature of my kidnapping until an hour or so later. He had made me get dressed in my old sweats and led me downstairs, my bottom smarting with each step. A van had awaited us, in front of my building. My trainer had helped me into it, and he had sat down next to me.
Between the passenger compartment and the driver’s seat had risen an opaque divider; when I had felt the van begin to move I hadn’t even been able to tell whether a human driver sat up front or the van had some remote guidance system. The thought had occurred to me because the world of stunning technological marvels—wonders that at the same time also somehow seemed both ominous and crappy—the new fake-magical era that Selecta and the other megacorps had brought us all into had clearly reached much deeper into my individual existence than I had ever expected or desired. A little wand that made me do whatever shameful thing my ‘trainer’ told me to do… why not a van that drove itself at the telepathic command of the same horrible, hooded man.
As he told me more about my mission, my brow furrowing more deeply with each word, I had squirmed almost uncontrollably on the faux-leather upholstery of the seat. My bottom had felt… well, it had stopped hurting, really, but my birched cheeks had been sore… but sore in a way that to my dismay had seemed terribly connected to the new, funny feeling in the pussy my trainer had toyed with… had masturbated… with such careless efficiency and made me feel things I hadn’t wanted to feel, and yet at the same time had known I needed so badly.
I had hardly been able to concentrate on his words, as strange and portentous as they had been.
Here and now, though, with the five thugs—no, four thugs and one undercover agent of the Pretorian Guard—to whom my owner had loaned me for the night, for discipline and pleasure, my trainer’s words the night of my ‘recruitment’ came back to me clearly. In the three days that had followed that night, my crash course in the unique methods of the Order of Ostia, I had after all been made—with the help of the compliance wand—to repeat them over and over.
“You need this, Heather.
“You need this for two reasons. First, the organization you’re going to infiltrate, the one currently headed by Ivan Antonov, destroyed your family.”
Despite the soreness in my backside and the highly unwelcome consequences of that sensation in nearby regions of my body, I suddenly sat still. I knew this story, though I hadn’t thought of it for years. How my grandmother and her brother, both of them still in their teens, had been driven from their homes when the warlord had come to the lawless border region. How their father had tried to stand up to the warlord’s thugs. How the warlord himself had shot my great-grandfather in front of his children, and told them to remember, always, and never to come back.
I remembered my grandmother saying, in her musical voice, in her wonderfully expressive native tongue, “We will go back, my dear. Maybe not me, and maybe not even you. But our family. They are still there, and they must pay.”
They. I hadn’t thought of them for years, but it seemed like the passage of time had only made my childish longing to help my grandmother recover some of what she had lost on that terrible day stronger. I had fantasized in those days, aged maybe ten or eleven, about arriving back in a ruined village with a strike team out of one of my own brother’s video games. I didn’t like guns, but I imagined myself with one of them in my hand, finding an old man, an evil sneer on his face, and telling him in my own perfect Russian that I was Vladimir Hasonov’s great-granddaughter, and mine would be the last face he saw.