Zaria Gorsky, prime minister of Omislava, liked to sleep with boy toys. She preferred sleeping with them in pairs, the way she had tonight. Rising from her enormous gold-covered bed in search of a glass of water at two a.m., she looked back at the exquisite, naked, languidly quiescent bodies of Ivan and… Pavel? Pyotr?… with a smile and a little sigh of remembered pleasure.
Frankly, she thought as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror with a good deal of perverse satisfaction, she couldn’t say she felt entirely sure about Ivan’s name, either. Why did it matter? Zaria was the prime minister, and they were boy toys.
Twenty-seven: the youngest prime minister in European history. Piercing blue eyes, porcelain skin, long, golden hair that boy toys weren’t allowed to touch. She adjusted the black silk nightgown she didn’t take off even as she made her boy toys strip—even as she made them beg to fuck her.
Perky breasts, perhaps on the smaller side, nipples stiffening again into the silk at the thought of what she would do after her drink of water.
Slim hips, but not too slim, filling out the sides of the nightgown enticingly. Trim thighs, the skin still taut and smooth below the hem of the black silk garment that ended only an inch or so below her pleasantly aching pussy.
The real deal: not just the youngest prime minister in history, but undoubtedly also the sexiest. Zaria Gorsky was practically a princess, too, since her father had been prime minister before her. His assassination, though he had been thoroughly corrupt and unloved even by Zaria, had nevertheless swept his daughter to power. The crowds called her Zasha—chanted that name on the streets—and they had swept her to power. The boy toys, however, weren’t allowed to call her by that name; when she let them speak, they had to address her as Prime Minister.
Walking back to the bed, her feet sank deeply into the lush pile of the state apartment’s carpet, and she put the tumbler of water down on her nightstand and picked up her handheld. Seven notifications blazed out at her, of course. She didn’t keep specific track, but the average for two a.m. seemed to be nine, so she supposed she could feel grateful.
She hadn’t heard the chime and seen the red light by the door, either. That seemed to happen at least every other night these days, three months into her administration—some urgent matter, usually involving the power grid.
Zaria understood that such interruptions to her nights of pleasure seemed necessary to her government, and thus also that they were necessary for the continuation of her power and her pleasure. She regarded them as the price she had to pay for those marvelous goods. The prime minister always emerged from the sex princess and told the boy toy to take his cock out of her or, more frequently, Zaria just pushed him away. She always dutifully put on a robe and went to her sitting room, closing the bedroom door behind her, and opened the outer door with a pretended yawn.
She always told them to go see Kaschak.
Zaria didn’t like to think about how very beholden to Sergei Kaschak she had become; that relationship represented a price of power and of pleasure that she contemplated as little as possible. She knew what her reluctance meant: forming an alliance with him, rather than fleeing Omislava to avoid the corruption charges the opposition had already started preparing to bring against her, had proven just as fateful a choice as it had seemed. On the one hand, Kaschak had made her prime minister. On the other, he practically owned her, and though he had shown few signs so far of wanting to collect, a tiny but fiercely burning coal of dread lay in the pit of Zaria’s stomach when she thought about what the future might hold.
Four of the messages on her phone seemed obviously bound for Kaschak’s office in the Ministry of Energy: they all concerned the increasingly dire consumption/production situation in Omislava. Kaschak would, Zaria supposed, make the local oligarchs do what was necessary to keep the complaining people quiet. Zaria forwarded those mails; she supposed she could tell her chief of staff to do that, but the illusion of control seemed important.
Two more notifications had to do with state functions: an international conference concerning, of course, energy in what they had started calling the renewable era, would take place in Om City this weekend. A shiver entirely unrelated to energy of the boring kind went down Zaria’s spine as she thought of the American special envoy for power-grid harmonization, who would arrive tomorrow.
Bradley Porter. He gets me to himself, Saturday night, if I have anything to say about it, Zaria thought. Her free hand drifted under her nightgown to soothe herself, fingers gentle—so much gentler than any boy toy—in the crinkly, neatly trimmed triangle that surmounted her well-fucked pussy. For some reason, American names seemed to turn Zaria on almost as much as rugged American good looks.
And when those good looks go together with flawless Russian… She remembered the moment she had known she wanted to fuck him: he had just switched effortlessly from speaking to the American secretary of state in solid American English to addressing Zaria’s private secretary in note-perfect, highly formal St. Petersburg Russian.
Bradley Porter. English—as spoken by Americans, anyway—had a pleasing roughness to it, rather like the pleasurable roughness she had let Bradley Porter use with her in Washington DC. She had let him bend her over the bed, something she would never have done with the two boy toys currently sleeping on her golden sheets.
Bradley had tried playfully to twist her arm behind her, but she had said No, and he had been content to raise her black nightgown—Zaria had six of them, usually, at any given time, all in slightly different styles, all worn without panties, always. She had a thing about being in control, that way; when she wore panties, she kept them on—no boy toy had the right to take them down. When she took her underwear off and got into her black nightgown, she welcomed their adoring attention.
Zaria looked down at the young men in her bed. Bradley Porter, despite being older than Zaria and having a diplomatic career, had the taut body and the handsome face of a boy toy. Thinking about the way he had kissed her, his hands roaming freely over the prime minister’s slim body in the little red dress Zaria had worn to the embassy dinner… boy toys didn’t kiss like that.
The restlessness in her body now, as she put down the phone, seemed to come from somewhere other than her usual horniness. Somewhere in the back of her mind a reasonable voice murmured a warning, as it had that night in Washington: You don’t sleep with special envoys. You sleep with boy toys.
“Ivan,” she called softly. The one she had thought was named Ivan opened his eyes, but looked at her strangely. “Ivan?” he asked.
For an instant Zaria thought she might blush. Instead, she smiled. I am the fucking prime minister of Omislava.
“What’s your name?” she asked the mouthwatering young man, as her eyes traveled from his long, disheveled blond hair to his high Slavic cheekbones to his broad chest and the abdomen with muscles so well defined it made her clench down where she so brazenly had her fingers.
And his cock, already beginning to rise as his eyes fixed on the little show Zaria had started to make. One of her hands lifted the hem of her nightgown and the other played with her tingling clit. The other boy toy had woken up, now, and he had his huge penis in his hand, but the one whose name wasn’t Ivan had his hands in front of his midsection, folded almost as if in prayer.
Zaria could watch his massive erection grow at the sight of a prime minister masturbating in front of him. His eyes had gone to her increasingly needy pussy, and the pleading attitude of his hands sent a complicated jolt of arousal through Zaria’s body.
“Ivar,” he said, continuing to focus on Zaria’s wanton display. His right hand started to move toward his cock.
“Look at me,” the prime minister commanded. “Don’t touch that cock.”
The force of her authority had enough strength that the other boy toy took his own hand away from his hardness, on the other side of Ivar.
Zaria could feel the need building in her. Bradley Porter still stood at the back of her mind, a little to her annoyance. She suddenly remembered how she had invited him to her dacha—how surprised she had herself felt to hear the words come out of her mouth: “You must come to my family’s house on Lake Ladoga, when you are in Om.”
Why had she said that? The pleasant scene in front of her—the boy toys with their hands held away from their naughty, mouthwatering erections—for a moment gave way in her mind to the bedroom at the Omislavan embassy in Washington… the moment Bradley Porter had tried, without real force, let alone violence, to twist her arm backwards, after bending her over the satin coverlet.
Then the moment, in his strong arms, before he had risen to go, when she had invited him to a place no boy toy—or any other lover since Zaria’s eighteenth year—had ever seen.
Zaria’s fingers had slowed for a moment on her clit, but as she conquered the memory that had for a moment clouded her arousal, a sense impression of that night, of the way her body had responded to the American’s, took hold. Looking at the two magnificent, erect penises awaiting her pleasure, she let rational thought fade away. The slight cognitive dissonance that had arisen, between the delicious sight of the naked boy toys in her bed on the one hand and Bradley Porter on the other, vanished to nothing.
She held Ivar’s eyes. “What’s your friend’s name?” she asked in a low voice.
Ivar glanced over his shoulder at the other boy toy, whose eyes had gone wide.
“Paolo,” he said a little nervously.
Right. Italian. The brief conversation she had had with them, in the anteroom, before telling them they could take off their clothes, came back to Zaria.
“Paolo,” she said, smiling wolfishly, “come here and lie on your back for me.”
She noticed with a bit of disapproval that the Italian’s cock had lowered its head a bit, in clear anxiety at pleasing a prime minister.
“You may use your hand to keep yourself hard,” she told him rather sharply. Paolo licked his lips and began to play with himself again, his penis stiffening again immediately. Zaria’s clit sent another thrill through her hips at the sight. As Paolo obeyed her instruction, crawling across Ivar to lie supine in front of her, massive erection rising like a magnificent pillar from his lap, Zaria’s fingers couldn’t help getting more urgent, slipping down between her private lips to gather more slickness so that she could spread it over her clit.
She decided she would do her favorite thing. With her eyes fixed on Ivar’s blond beauty, she straddled Paolo with her backside turned to his face. She took his huge cock in her hand to keep him in place so she could slide her pussy down the stiff length of him.
Her nightgown pooled around her hips and Paolo’s lap, hiding the lewdness of her fucking the handsome young man whose name and nationality she had so easily forgotten. The prime minister let out a happy moan as she began to move like a wild animal on the boy toy cock, still watching Ivar. He had taken her permission to Paolo as applying to him also, and begun to pump his long, hard shaft as he watched Zaria fuck the Italian.
She felt Paolo’s hands on her flanks, guiding her gently, and she glanced back at him for a moment.
“No hands, Paolo,” she instructed, and he took them away with wide eyes. Zaria liked to be in control with her boy toys.
She closed her eyes for a moment, just riding the huge, warm cock inside her, working her back and her thighs and her hips toward the climax that would soon arrive. When she opened them, she spoke to Ivar.
“Come stand in front of me,” she said, a little breathless. “I want that cock in my mouth. Get over Paolo’s knees.”
Zaria liked feeling full of naughtiness. Her favorite thing was to have two penises inside her, and to control both of them.
“Put your hands behind your back,” she told the blond boy toy when he had taken his place at the end of the bed, his knees on either side of Paolo’s and his huge thighs rising like tree trunks until his hardness jutted out right toward Zaria’s face.
She took hold of Ivar’s hips, used him as a support to help her get more of Paolo’s cock inside her. A cry of pleasure burst from her at the feeling, and she began to lick and tease Ivar’s penis. She took him inside, using her tongue with all the skill she had practiced with the help of the many boyfriends of her early twenties. She supported herself with her left hand and used her right hand wickedly on his balls and his shaft, the way she knew would drive him wild.
At the feeling of the two cocks, of the sheer physicality of the shameful deed, the silk of her nightgown around her and the nakedness of her boy toys, Zaria started to come. Despite her best mental efforts, the American came into her mind, and the way she had climaxed on his hardness, bent over her bed.
No, not like that, Zaria told herself as she moaned around the cock in her mouth, riding the one in her pussy. Like this. She tried to concentrate on the boy toys, on giving them exactly as much pleasure as she wanted them to feel.
No one had ever bent her over the way Bradley Porter had, though. When your father was the terrifying prime minister of Omislava, your boyfriends let you take control, especially when you made it clear that you knew how to make them feel good.
Another orgasm built in her lower back. She ground her hips down onto Paolo, moved her mouth and hand up and down Ivar. She could feel that both boy toys were close to coming.
Zaria loved feeling full of naughtiness, because she could get away with anything. When she saw the American again… when she took him to her dacha… she would make it clear: she might like him, and she might fuck him, but she didn’t intend to bend over for him again.
Ivar and Paolo came inside her, with the pleasing, uncontrolled jerks of their strong muscles that men so often seemed to make under the influence of their orgasms. Zaria had grown very used to the taste of semen, and her boy toys were told by the majordomo who found them and had them tested to drink pineapple juice the morning Zaria meant to have them. She kept the cocks in her mouth and her pussy as they softened, enjoying the feeling of having them there, still working her hips to make Paolo moan softly in his aftershocks.
She looked up at Ivar, smiling around his cock as she suckled at it. The handsome, rather vacant face looked down at her with wide eyes.
“Thank you, Zasha,” he said.
She pushed away from him, settling back on her haunches over Paolo’s waist. She didn’t feel real displeasure, but she had to be vigilant.
“Madame Prime Minister,” she told him. “Don’t forget that.”
Bradley looked at the video feed from the drone stationed over the Gorsky dacha, thinking about Zaria Gorsky. The Guard tradecraft Bradley had used to obtain his invitation to the grand old estate, once the gift of Peter the Great, had worked just as well as the assessment team had predicted it would.
Now he watched the Guard team land on the wooded shore, five nymphobi ready to help Bradley accomplish the most important Guard operation since the beginning of the collapse a year before, with the fateful game of Discipline outside Paris. They would conceal themselves in the little safehouse on the lake shore until Bradley called them in. The drone’s extensive electronics’ capability detected no sign that the laughable security in the dacha’s guardhouse had picked up any sign.
Bradley turned to his other monitor, where an infrared image from another drone—hovering invisibly outside the prime minister’s palace in Om—occupied the screen. Zaria had decided she wanted another round with her male bimbos, he noted with amusement.
For a few moments, Bradley watched the three red forms painted by body heat on the infrared camera. Zaria’s little one posted up and down lewdly on one cock as she used her considerable oral skill on another. That male hardness could itself be seen on the screen, like a thick typographical em-dash between the waist of the standing bimbo and the face of the riding girl, bobbing back and forth to pleasure it.
Bradley couldn’t help envying the sensations provided by the beautiful, deceptively small mouth that he couldn’t see on his screen now, but remembered very well indeed. He had put the micro-sensor on the prime minister’s ultra-sensitive perineum as she had gone down on him, in fact, preemptively reawakening Bradley’s cock after their first urgent fuck. Bradley remembered the feeling of her little bottom pushing into his hand even as they made thrilling eye contact.
That sweet, small, provocatively innocent-seeming mouth around his hardness had made it very difficult to concentrate on maneuvering the invisible sensor into place under her naughty black nightgown. Zaria’s own arousal had reacted with the chemical that held the device to Bradley’s finger properly, though. He had heard over the comm-link in his ear, even as Zaria imperiously stopped the blowjob and climbed nimbly and sexily atop his hardness, the confirmation tone. From that point on, the Institute assessors had had all the data they needed.
On the screen the red forms came to their clear climaxes, Zaria keeping her face in place as the hips in front of her jerked forward. The bimbo’s hands hovered at his sides, as if the young man was trying very hard to keep them from touching Zaria’s head—something her majordomo, Bradley knew, made extremely clear a male bimbo must not do with the prime minister, as much as Zaria Gorsky enjoyed sucking cock.
All of that featured in the assessors’ report, of course. Bradley, as a skilled perses of the Pretorian Guard, could probably have predicted even without the sensor or the report that Zaria would want to wake her bimbos for another fuck. He might even have guessed her choice of her favorite position.
He certainly couldn’t have reached the level of analytic detail the report gave about that position, however. The assessment team made a convincing case that the configuration of naked male bodies and Zaria’s nearly naked female one told a very interesting story about the young prime minister’s real sexual needs and the fascinating way she kept them in check.
On the screen, Zaria had just told the men she had just fucked to get dressed and leave. They didn’t have audio from the state apartment, but he didn’t need it: the prime minister’s brightly colored infrared shadow had gotten back into bed, and those of the two men had started to get dressed. Bradley shook his head slightly in near-disbelief at how very intriguing a challenge Zaria posed, then called the report up for a final read-through before heading to the airport.
Subject ZG presents as a promiscuous, slightly dominant young woman with a healthy arousal cycle that seems to depend on having her way with male lovers. Her sexual history as we have been able to determine it shows this tendency from its start at eighteen. Facilitated by her father’s position, subject was clearly able to experiment as she chose, and she seems quickly to have developed an interest in using her developing sexual skills to control a succession of partners.
These early sexual relationships are well enough documented, due to her position as first daughter of Omislava, that we can trace a recognizable pattern of what would ordinarily look like an egalitarian dynamic with a slightly female-dominant tendency. The power imbalance between subject and her boyfriends also meant that she gained a reputation as a rich bitch, cementing and probably feeding back into the dynamic to strengthen it further in subject’s own mind.
Subject appears to have chosen celebrity partners notable for their physical beauty, models of various types in particular, who could be relied upon to play the junior role in the partnership, until subject inevitably broke up with them. Occasional rumors seem to indicate that several of these breakups resulted from attempts on the part of the man to take control in bed, but obviously the quality of such information is inevitably very low. Note, however, that it is nevertheless very clear from the broad outlines of her sexual behavior that she has not been penetrated anally.
When she ascended to the premiership in the wake of her father’s assassination, her sexual choices, though no longer covered in the media, predictably became the talk of the intelligence community, and so we know rather more about them. This detail shows a highly stereotyped pattern of sexual behavior: one or, more frequently, two beautiful young men, brought to the ministerial palace; two sexual sessions, followed by dismissal of the male partners.
In the sexual sessions themselves, the male partners, when induced to divulge information concerning subject’s tastes and behaviors, all seem to have the same story: subject refuses to remove her nightgown, or to have it removed; subject refuses to let her partners use their hands; subject enjoys her partners’ penises on her own terms, with an emphasis on employing her very well developed oral skills to dominate her partners with the pleasure she metes out to them.
Despite this apparent account of a female dominant—and thus an inappropriate subject for Guard action other than regime change—this team unanimously believes subject to be in fact an alpha minus submissive, and thus an extremely important, if very challenging, target for Guard recruitment.
Twelve hours later, settling in at the Hotel Britannia, only a block away from the palace, Bradley found a note on his pillow.
A car will come for you after the conference tomorrow, 1800h at your hotel. Z
He felt no surprise to find that she had written in English, though his Russian was much better—and Zaria herself had said as much at the embassy party. Indeed, Bradley had used his Russian in the way suggested by the assessment team, to provoke the prime minister’s initial interest in him. Zaria Gorsky, however, wanted to demonstrate her skills, in language as in the bedroom, as a way to assert control.
A control she doesn’t actually want, Bradley thought, fingering the heavy ivory cardstock that bore only the Cyrillic initial G at its top. Well, Zasha, we’re going to do something about that, aren’t we?
Bradley had just enough investment in his ostensible job as an energy envoy to make the conference exceedingly frustrating. Every Guardsman of his rank had to acquire a thorough acquaintance with the doomsday scenario through which the world had begun to live. Bradley had a greater stake in the economic collapse than most of his fellow agents, too, since his family had worked the Oklahoma oilfields for generations before the mega-bust of 2042.
The darkness of the lean years in his home had settled into his soul, Bradley thought sometimes. If so, that quest for justice, or for revenge, had driven him into the Pretorian Guard via a civil service mentor who had discerned his passion. It came out most often these days when he had to try—and nearly always to fail—to persuade other diplomats to do the right thing, rather than the easy thing.
Wind farms and solar were easy these days, and the numbers looked almost as good as the rows of visibly energy-creating devices to which politicians could point, but wind farms and solar wouldn’t do the job on their own—not even close. Batteries presented a much more expensive, and a much bigger challenge. And if batteries were difficult, battery efficiency seemed damn near impossible, most days.
Bradley’s job really came down at the moment to repeating those two words: ‘battery efficiency.’ Over and over, in every human language.
Currently Russian. Currently to as little avail as the words ever seemed to have in any other language.
He thanked providence, though, as he sat through meeting after meeting in which the important, good work got shoved to the side in favor of what would make everyone feel better. As a Guardsman, he had sworn to uphold the Mithraic prophecy, with its prediction that a few men, working secretly, could bend the course of the onrushing freight train of economic collapse.
He had sworn. Maybe he believed that some unknown genius had figured out that only a cadre of sexual dominants could save the world, and maybe he only did it so that he could take out his darkness on the Ostia agents he fucked and disciplined.
In any case, his role as a perses in the Guard gave him a great deal more hope for civilization than his cover as an energy envoy. The Mithraic prophecy made it reasonably clear that diplomats could do nothing about the collapse: their task, from the perspective of the Guard, amounted to rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic in a distracting enough manner that the real work could take place below decks.
Bradley just pitied his fellow diplomats, who didn’t have the same consolation—who didn’t have any idea that a secret organization worked tirelessly on the same problem they did, and with a greater chance of success. He saw his colleagues weeping openly, very often, between sessions at conferences like this one.
Today had proven no exception: Sergei Kaschak, the actual ruler of Omislava, had no interest in doing anything but pursuing the fool’s gold of vanishing fossil-fuel reserves. Even solar, which would require sending money out of Omislava to acquire components, seemed beyond this small but geographically crucial breakaway state.
Zaria had opened the conference that morning with Kaschak at her side. That had given Bradley at least a bit of visual pleasure, as well as some rather aroused anticipation. The girl, with the provocative mix of sexiness and political acumen in her piercing blue eyes, could make a dark pantsuit look like the baby doll nightgown she inevitably wore to bed.
Of course Zaria had very little use for that political skill at the moment. Under Kaschak’s thumb, she spent her days at social functions and signing documents and her nights with her bimbos. Part of the good Bradley hoped to do on this operation—though Zaria would certainly not see it this way—involved giving her the opportunity to shine the way he felt certain she could in the Eastern European sphere of economic and diplomatic power.
As he walked back toward the hotel from the tragically but inevitably failed final negotiating session, he let his mind wander to just how difficult a time Zaria Gorsky would have over the coming days of her sexual training. Rather than focusing on the dry details of the assessors’ report, practically committed to his memory now, he remembered the moment he had tested their conclusions: the apparently playful grabbing of Zaria’s wrist to twist it back behind her as he bent her over her bed.
He had felt in her beautiful body, through the delicate fabric of her little nightgown, everything the assessment team had promised: an instant, perhaps only a microsecond, of yielding, followed by a longer moment of tension—as if Zaria had found herself caught between two elements of her mind.
Then real resistance, pulling away, and Zaria straightening up—though not all the way—to look over her shoulder at Bradley, her right index finger raised in a gesture of negation.
“No, no,” she had murmured in English, reasserting her control.
Bradley had smiled, exactly as if the whole thing were only a game. He had put his hand on the small of her back again, and watched her eyes go wide at the freedom. The tension had returned, but the prime minister of Omislava had bent for him, and then her sweet, velvety pussy had greeted his American cock with a torrent of arousal when he had entered her from behind, a few moments later.
One hand lightly on her back and the other equally lightly on her hip, he had fucked her hard and steadily, and she had come even harder—much harder than she had done half an hour later when she had rode his hardness to orgasm after the sensational blowjob.
This agent, he had written in his report afterward, concurs with the assessment team. Subject ZG needs submissive sexual training, and will respond well to it once broken by Guard agents.