Some theoretical outside observer might well have called my sale to Ivan Antonov a black-market transaction. That phrase—black market—could hardly have begun, however, to describe the darkness that surrounded his acquisition of my body for his exclusive sexual use.
Exclusive, except of course when he shared me with friends and colleagues.
The way he did the night my contact in the Pretorian Guard finally activated me and gave me my mission.
One of the five men to whom Antonov had sent me in his Mercedes limo with its dark tinted windows put his hand on my thoroughly whipped ass and squeezed hard as he bent over me where I lay atop a punishment bench, unbound but helpless to disobey their every obscene, degrading command. I cried out, my whole body shuddering in pain and helpless, humiliating need for the hard fucking they undoubtedly planned to give me.
I felt his warm breath on my ear. I felt his two middle fingers press roughly into my aching vagina, hot and surely terribly wet. To my dismay, I clenched hard on those invading digits, a sob bursting from my chest at the wanton, uncontrollable sensation.
I had no idea which one it was, of the five associates of Antonov who had just closed some sort of deal with the warlord who owned me, selling him some of the increasingly scarce power-plant machine parts he needed to maintain his grip on his little empire. The man with his brutal hand on my backside could have been any of them, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell him apart from the others even if I could see his face.
Like a good fucking piece, or at least like one who knows her bare bottom will be caned mercilessly for any disobedience, I had kept my eyes on their exposed cocks and away from their bearded faces. This one, whichever of the five he happened to be, probed into my pussy with an arrogant, practiced, casually cruel expertise that made me moan despite my desperate effort to hold onto some shred of dignity. He pressed his moist lips against my ear and he spoke.
“Mission is go. Seven alpha six.”
I had expected the man’s voice to say something in Russian—something very lewd and horribly degrading. Antonov had by then made certain I had learned enough of his language that he could degrade me in it in any fashion he liked, though he generally preferred to make his obscene threats and lewd promises in English.
Most of his friends, colleagues, and associates, though, didn’t have the same facility in dirty English Antonov did. When they wanted to let me know I would soon receive their rigid manhoods in my most private places, they tended to state their intentions in the Russian equivalent of phrases like, This whore cunt is going to get stuffed full of my big tool whether you want it or not, slut.
Which is pretty much what I expected the nearly anonymous man with his hand painfully gripping my whipped ass and his fingers in my treasonously wet pussy to say.
Instead, he activated me, Heather Foster, the sleeper agent of the Order of Ostia whom Ivan Antonov hopefully would never see coming.
If the horrible metal oblong that one of these five men had received from my owner, the device Antonov called his good-girl wand, hadn’t kept me immobilized, I would have startled violently. That probably wouldn’t have given away what had just happened and blown my cover and that of the man who had just spoken into my ear. Of course, Antonov’s fucking piece would shudder when one of her temporary masters promised, say, to ride her little bottom until it would take her a week before she felt right when she sat on the toilet.
The good-girl wand’s power over me, however—the way it prevented any intentional movement whatsoever, once its wielder had instructed me to keep still—provided a paradoxical reassurance, though. I let out a moan, but I didn’t move in any sort of unexpected way that might have alerted one of the other four, who were presumably not agents of the Pretorian Guard, that I had just received the order to turn Ivan Antonov, or to kill him.
“What are you telling her, Grigoriy?” shouted another of the men, his voice slurred with the vodka I had heard them consuming as they whipped me over the bench. “Get your fingers out of her cunt. Ivan told us not to make her feel good. And it’s my turn to whip that ass.”
The lips left my ear, and the fingers left my pussy. I let out a wrenching sob, which I knew they would take for a sound of wanton, submissive need for the fleeting stimulation the agent’s fingers had provided. The one who had touched my back with Antonov’s horrible wand once they had thrown me over the bench had said very specifically, in heavily accented English, “Make all the noise you want, whore. We want to hear you, and it will teach the other girls a lesson.”
They couldn’t tell, just from that sob, though, how deeply another slew of emotions mingled with the arousal that brutal hand on my ass and in my pussy had brought. Fear, of what I would have to do and of what would befall me because of it. Longing, simply to go home after these long months as Ivan Antonov’s fuck toy.
Pride, that the Guard had placed so much confidence in me.
“Da, da,” I heard the man who had just activated me say as he stood up. He continued, in Russian that sounded perfect to my anglophone ears. “But we fuck her after that, yes? In all the holes?”
I couldn’t keep another sob back, at the casual cruelty and degradation in his tone.
“Da,” replied the voice who had told ‘Grigoriy’ to take his fingers away. “Of course. But no coming for her.”
I tried to hold back the whimper that rose into my throat, but the command We want to hear you had terrible power over me even in its simplicity. I let out the kittenish sound, and worse, one of the involuntary bodily movements that even the good-girl wand couldn’t suppress made me push my bottom, poised over the end of the bench, out toward them, as if desperately offering my most private places to my owner’s business associates.
Ivan told us not to make her feel good.
I felt my face twist into a mask of woe at the terrible wrongness of it—and at the way that very thing, the brutality and the cruelty of the man who had bought me on the black market, made my body arch with desperate need for the pleasure denied and the pain imposed instead.
I heard two or three of them chuckle behind me.
“Look at that,” one of them said in broken English. “The little whore likes it, doesn’t she? Where does Antonov get them?”
The man who went by Grigoriy—though of course that stood very little chance of being his actual name—had stood up and moved away. They had put a mirror in front of me, a little round one on a stand, so that they could watch my face as they whipped me and used me. In it, I could see them, or at least the ones right behind me. I caught a glimpse of Grigoriy’s dark suit, but he turned and went to the side, out of the mirror’s field of view. I felt sure he wanted to make certain I couldn’t identify him, and it sent a chill of fear up my spine.
If Ivan figures out that I’m a mole, he will torture me, and I will talk… and I won’t be able to describe the man who activated me.
Presumably these five men represented a loose organization of Antonov’s business associates. ‘Grigoriy’ wouldn’t have had to do much to get himself included in the little party organized to enjoy the warlord’s largesse, in the form of this gangbang—a night of strict discipline and dominant pleasure with a trillionaire’s ultra-expensive fucking piece. Indeed, Ivan liked to loan his girls to men he scarcely knew, though without the extra benefit of the good-girl wand.
He saved that, his ultimate tool of degradation and dominance, for friends like the one who spoke next: Feodorov Devushkin, the only man of the five whom I had met previously. Ivan had shared me with him before, at the dacha where he kept me most of the time. The friends had enjoyed me together on their enormous cocks during a long night of rough fucking. It had left me so sore between my legs and my bottom-cheeks that I couldn’t walk without discomfort for three days.
“Take your turn with the birch, then, Boris,” Devushkin said in Russian, his voice sounding impatient. “I’m hard and I want to make her take me in that little ass.”
With the help of the wand’s control—its enforcement of the command Devushkin himself had issued to keep still—I suppressed the shudder that threatened to travel through my body at the thought of taking that huge, hard penis in my bottom. I had to maintain the lie that my Russian comprehension was at a very low level. As far as Ivan Antonov knew, the only bits of that difficult language I could understand were the filthy, degrading words he himself had taught me.
So I should, according to my owner’s knowledge, be able to say Please fuck me in the ass, Master and I want your beautiful cock inside me, but I shouldn’t be able to understand I’m hard or I want to make her take me. As far as I could tell Ivan still felt very confident that when he spoke Russian within earshot of me I had not the slightest idea what he said. I needed to keep it that way, despite the truth being the opposite: my Russian, thanks to my maternal grandmother with whom I had grown up, was better than my English.
The Pretorian Guard, I had always presumed—though without actual clarification from any Guard contact—had ‘recruited’ me for that reason, as much as for the submissive sexuality I had managed to hide even from myself until that night. And, of course, for my complete virginity, which they then sold to Ivan, along with the rest of me, for 5.6 million dollars.
Despite my best mental efforts, my mind went back to the night the unnamed Guard agent had silently entered my little apartment. ‘Grigoriy’ activating me, of course, naturally stirred those memories, but I desperately wanted to keep them at bay at the moment. I needed to pay as much attention to the other men, especially Devushkin, as I could. If I were to have a chance at completing this mission without losing my own life, I needed to know everything about Ivan Antonov.
A little table stood a few feet directly behind me, the most prominent thing in the view I had in the little mirror. On it sat the birch with which they had already turned my backside into an agony, punishing me for no reason at all except that Ivan had told them I was a naughty girl who needed strict discipline to give the pleasure he had bought me for.
Again, my mind traveled back to the first time I had seen a birch rod. How my first impression had left me wondering why all the girls in the old stories seemed so scared of it. A bundle of twigs, gathered with string at one end into a sort of handle.
“I’m going to whip you with this now,” the man in the black hood had said, after he had shown it to me. He had touched my back with the compliance wand, and he had told me to take off my clothes. He had told me to put my pillows in the middle of the bed and to lie over them. I had obeyed, my heart pounding in terror, but already aware of the terrible truth of the horrid wand.
It couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t, deep down in the darkest, most shameful places of my heart, already want to do.
“Heather,” the man in the hood said as he woke me, one hand gently rubbing my shoulder and the other holding the rounded tip of the metal wand to my back. “This is for your own good. Get out of bed and take off your clothes.”
I felt a slight tingle, where the thing pressed between my shoulder blades. For a moment, despite the sleepy confusion in my mind, the suspicion that this was all just a very vivid dream, I blushed hotter than I could ever remember blushing before. To my astonishment but also somehow without any surprise—the way things happen in dreams, in fact—I started to obey the bizarre command.
I had on an oversize concert t-shirt and pink cotton bikini panties. I got out of bed despite the way my entire body trembled. I could observe as if from a long way away how a girl who looked and even felt exactly like me had just started to do as the hooded man who had invaded her home had told her.
“What…?” I asked, as my hands reached down as if they had a mind of their own and took hold of the hem of the black t-shirt. “What’s going…?”
He had stepped back from the bed a little to let me carry out his order. Now he moved forward again, his right hand reaching around my back. For the first time I saw the compliance wand, a little silver device whose shiny end protruded from his fist an inch or so.
I couldn’t tell if the man simply moved very quickly, or if something he had done—the wand thing, maybe—had slowed down time for me. I learned soon enough that part of the thing’s operation indeed involved that ongoing effect on the submissive girl’s mind. It let the wand’s user easily do what the man in the hood did then, and touch my back with it again, so that he could issue another command.
“Quiet, Heather,” he said very simply. My brow furrowed. I could imagine finishing my question—saying “What’s going on?” and following it up with “Who the fuck are you?” and then screaming for help. I couldn’t do it. This man, a part of my mind that seemed both completely new and like it had been there unnoticed forever, had told me to hold my tongue.
“Go ahead and take off your shirt and your panties,” he said. “I’m going to birch you.”
My body didn’t stop trembling as, to my horror, I simply obeyed him. I whimpered as I pulled the t-shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor, my face burning as I exposed my little breasts to the unseen eyes behind what I guessed must be the high-tech black cloth of his mask.
It seemed that the power of the wand to enforce the Quiet command allowed little noises like that whimper, and the one that came from my throat as I put my thumbs inside the waistband of my panties and tugged them down. I looked up into the blank, black surface of the mask, my face a pitiful pout, beseeching him for mercy, though I had no idea even why he intended to punish me, let alone why he would show me mercy.
I felt my pussy, with its sparse golden curls, come into his view. I wondered with another flush of blood in my cheeks whether his hidden eyes had fixed themselves there, between my legs. To my dismay, I felt a surge of heat down there, too, to match the one in my face. The question “Why?” became the one I most wanted to ask, and I found myself trying to beam it into the hooded, masked man’s mind with my pleading eyes.
At that point I seemed to hear the word birch for the first time. He had said he was going to birch me. My eyes went to something on the end of my bed—something that shouldn’t be there. A black bag, to match his hood, his pants, and his shirt. I watched him reach into it in a leisurely way, his head turning and bending to look down into its depths and find what he sought.
I felt a moment’s surprise at the slow pace of his movements as he started to pull from the bag something long and thin… something apparently made of several lengths of… of twigs, bound together by stout cords at one end to make a handle.
Couldn’t I, like, scramble over the bed and out the bedroom door? Naked though I was, I would still fare better if I could get outside my apartment, wouldn’t I? His attention had turned to the birch thing and he didn’t seem to be keeping watch on me.
I started to do it. Really, I started to try to do it, though that doesn’t even really describe what happened between my brain and my body. The part of my mind that had realized I might have a chance to get away told my body to turn and get up onto the bed as fast as I could. My body refused. I couldn’t even swing my head in that direction, because all my focus had gone to the birch thing.
I felt my face crumple, my forehead creasing deeply. I heard another of those whimpers come from my throat, the only sounds that the horrible device the man had pressed into my back apparently permitted.
“This is my birch, Heather,” said the man, turning the blank face of the mask to me again. “I’m going to punish you with it because it’s a traditional punishment in Russia.”
My mouth opened, my jaw going slack. The man had just spoken in nearly flawless Russian—though not quite as flawless, part of me realized, as my own.
I had thought maybe he meant something else about birching me. Or maybe one part of my brain had at least managed to persuade another that he couldn’t mean by it the horrible thing toward which my mind had leapt… the mortifying image in the dark, forbidden place where I shoved things not worth thinking about.
Of course I had never seen one before. Even the concept had been vague, probably because it didn’t make sense to me on reading about it that a singular word, birch, could refer to something made of a lot of separate pieces of the thing to which it referred—twigs that would traditionally, I supposed, come from a birch tree.
Russia. My grandmother’s old books, some of them about young women’s experiences in school.
I almost managed to form my lips into a W shape. I mean, I had the impression I had almost started the movement of my face muscles that would round my lips that way. It took a moment to understand that the impression had no truth to it, that the man’s command Quiet simply prevented me from doing anything even related to speaking aloud.
My furrowed brow and my pleading eyes tried to ask the question without words, though I couldn’t even tell if he was looking at my face or my exposed pussy. Cheeks blazing, I thrust my hands in front of the little nest of curls and the untried cleft it concealed badly enough that I blushed every time I got a glimpse of myself nude in the mirror.
“Nyet,” said the man, simply and calmly, then kept speaking in Russian. “It’s forbidden to cover yourself. Use those naughty hands to strip down the comforter and the top sheet. Put the pillow in the middle of the bed, then get over it. I want your bottom nice and high for your first punishment.”
Punishment. Why? What had I done? It didn’t make any sense, for of course he couldn’t be intending to whip me for covering myself, could he? That had only happened because he had already broken into my home, already meaning to do it.
Feeling completely foolish for even buying into this home-invader’s idea a little, I nevertheless couldn’t stop racking my brain for some misdeed. I had graduated from my educational facility with perfect marks just after my eighteenth birthday, three months ago. I had to my surprise earned employee of the month at my shitty job in the laundromat.
First. What did that mean? Yes, of course, I’d never received corporal punishment even in a world where it seemed to be making some sort of horrid comeback, at least for women. I worked, at the tippy-top level, for Selecta, the megacorp that seemed largely responsible for urging the return of such ‘traditional values.’ But I had put all that—even the paddle that hung symbolically on the wall of my supervisor’s office—into that same dark region of things not worth considering.
My first punishment. To my horror, my body had already started to obey. I watched myself pull the comforter and the top sheet off the bed. I felt my hands taking the pillow into them as if some other girl were telling me about the sensation of softness.
Whimpering, I got onto my bed. I tried not to. I tried to stop my muscles from moving my limbs as he had commanded, but despite the shouting in my mind I lay down over the pillow. A tiny whining sound emerged from my nose at the feeling of having my bottom raised that way, presented for a man’s attention with the frightening rod in his hand.
At last he spoke again, though the words confused me even further.
“I’m going to punish you for your own good, Heather,” he said. “To introduce you to your new life and to teach you obedience.”
I twisted my head to the side—apparently the influence of the wand allowed that. I saw his mask turned toward my backside. I saw the birch raised high above my bare, offered bottom.
He started to whip me. The sound of it, and the feeling of the impact on my bare rear end, deceived me terribly, at least at first. The twigs, traveling through the air, made only a soft whooshing sort of noise—not at all like any of the whistling, whipping sort of sound effects I had heard in shows or movies—and when it hit me it only sounded like a sort of crackling.
The sensation took me by surprise dreadfully as well. The man—my trainer, whom I would soon learn to call sir, though he would never give me any other name by which to refer to him—struck me three times in a slow rhythm, before he spoke again. The first stroke of the birch forced a sharp puff of breath out through my nostrils, and made my body tense up, though that mostly happened out of simple fear that it would hurt.
It didn’t really hurt though, at first. For half a second I even wondered why girls in old books seemed to fear the birch so much—maybe, I thought, it just had to do with the way their teachers raised their skirts and took down their drawers to give them their awful lessons for misbehavior or bad grades.
I yelped at the second cut of the rod. My hands, at either side of my face, curled into fists, taking some of the sheet into their grasp. The man had struck harder with that stroke, but the increased force wasn’t responsible for the little cry anywhere near as much as the way the discomfort had built into pain with horrible rapidity.
At the third stroke, I whined pitifully, prevented by my trainer’s command from making the much louder shriek I wanted to let out at the pain. My head came up from the mattress and my back arched. The warmth in my bottom and my upper thighs became a blazing agony. It seemed like the half-dozen twigs that constituted the terrible device could reach my whole rear end with each awful cut.
“Heather,” he said, “listen carefully. I am your trainer. You will call me sir.”
The birch came down again. I felt the puff of air from its downward flight toward my burning bottom and my muscles tensed. I realized immediately that the tightness made the pain worse. A sob burst from my chest and I found myself squirming to try to soothe some of the awful sensation away, my bottom and thighs clenching and unclenching in what I felt certain must appear to my trainer a lewd display.
“Do you understand me?”
For a millisecond my mind traveled in a circle: he had told me to be quiet, hadn’t he? And that command, thanks to the wand thing, seemed one that I couldn’t disobey. How could I answer? Then, without any premeditation I could grasp, I answered the question.
“Yes, sir,” I whimpered.
“As you’ve just found out, my compliance wand ensures your obedience to me even when my commands conflict with one another. Your body, and the part of your mind most closely linked with your basic urges, simply obeys my latest command.”
I felt the tiny breeze again. I let out another little whine of fear even before the birch struck, and then a sob of agony. My tears flowed freely onto the sheet beneath me; I could feel their dampness under the cheek I had turned to the mattress.
My trainer. My basic urges. I felt my face go hot.
He brought the rod down and I felt my hips buck over the pillow. My poor bottom, a fiery torment, surged shamefully.
“Just six strokes for now, Heather,” my trainer said. “Put your hands behind you and rub those pretty little cheeks for me.”
I couldn’t figure out how to marshal the welter of sensation and emotion in my head, my chest, my belly, and—worst of all—further down. My hands, thanks to the wand, simply obeyed this latest command despite the mortification it brought. As my fingers took gentle hold of the hot globes of my rear end, though, and I felt for the first time the strange, almost lacy, pattern of the welts left by a birch rod on a girl’s backside, I had a very different impression of my body’s response.
Deep down, I understood to my distress, I had actually started to rub my whipped bottom because I desperately wanted to. I wanted to know what a birched backside felt like. I wanted to soothe away the smart while the man who had punished me for no apparent reason watched me rub my bare hind-cheeks.
That unwelcome realization gave way almost instantly to another one—even more unwelcome in one way but, in another, dismayingly gratifying… and, worse, terribly seductive.
I bit my lip as a whimpering moan emerged from my throat. It felt good. Much, much too good. I wanted to stop gently kneading my smarting, overheated ass, to take away my hands. I believed I would have stopped, without the influence of the wand, but the worst part of this revelatory moment lay in how very unsure I was of that—how strong a suspicion I had that in fact I would have kept cherishing my poor little bottom-cheeks on my fingertips even if my trainer had simply birched me and then told me he would permit me to rub the tender place he had just punished.
“That’s it, Heather,” he said. “Good girl.”
Another whining sound made its way out of my mouth. The words had an effect on me that seemed to shake the foundations of the person I had thought myself. The wand… I told myself the wand had done that, even as I moved my hips to work my bottom in my hands and move myself rhythmically against the pillow in search of release from some dreadfully delicious need that the birching had awakened in me.
Good girl. My forehead creased hard. How could those words have made me thrust my hips this way? To… well, to behave myself like the opposite of a good girl. To move my virgin pussy that shameful way in search of forbidden pleasure, in a manner I had always refused even to try because of the dark thoughts that rose when I did so much as consider it.
Basic urges. Oh, no.
“Take your hands away, now,” said my trainer very sternly.
I gasped, and let out a tiny, sighing cry, all the Quiet command would allow me. My hands released my whipped bottom-cheeks and lay to the sides of the pillow, clenching and unclenching into fists of frustration.
The birch touched my back, but without force. I emitted a questioning whine through my nose, unsure for a moment what he meant to do, and then I understood as I felt the full length of it laid along my bare back.
“A reminder,” my trainer said. “Of your punishment. Spread your knees.”
Oh, no. My body did it, and the feeling that I might have obeyed him even without the influence of the compliance wand grew distressingly strong. I felt the air moving against my pussy, and I bit my lip.
Then my head arched back, and I moaned quietly, though part of me wanted to cry out with the greatest force. The man who had invaded my home had thrust his hand between my thighs and taken hold of me… all of me, it felt like… two fingers on my clit and his thumb up against the tiny ring between the rear cheeks he had birched. The rod, my reminder, rolled back and forth on my back with the tensing of my muscles.
“I’m recruiting you as a concubine to be sold on the black market,” he said, bending over me to place his lips against my ear. “You’re going to be a warlord’s little slut.”
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.
In the van my face went hot with anger and with a strange kind of embarrassment—that I had neglected to carry out the duty of vengeance my grandmother had laid upon me and that this man… the man who had just whipped me, then touched me so very intimately against my will… had brought unguessed-at, humiliating pleasure… that this ‘trainer’ had reminded me of that duty.
He had continued to speak, while I had fallen into my brief reverie of remembering my grandmother and her retellings of the awful story of her flight to the West. As my mind caught up with his flow of speech, the blush that suffused my cheeks became more intense, its nature changing as to my dismay I felt heat gather between my thighs as well.
“Second, Heather, you need this because you are the kind of girl who can’t be happy unless you are serving a dominant man with your gorgeous body, receiving his discipline and his training—and taking his cock however and whenever he sees fit to give it to you.”