Zaria couldn’t help it; she started kissing the American before the car had even pulled away from the hotel. She hadn’t gotten him out of her mind all day: his striking combination of a dark, hyper-intelligent gaze with bearded roughness, as he had sat at the long table for the conference’s opening ceremony. She had wanted to pull Bradley aside and rip the dark business suit off him right then and there.
Now, as soon as the door of the black Mercedes had closed and its smoky windows obscured them from prying eyes, she turned and put her hand up to his cheek, then moved it down to his neck and used her grip to pull him down and her up until their lips met. Bradley laughed a deep, rumbly American laugh, and kissed her back.
“Privyet, Madame Prime Minister,” he said, between kisses, as Zaria climbed on top of him on the leather-covered bench seat.
“Hi,” she replied, and kissed him again. She noted with a rather complicated mix of emotions that Bradly kept his hands at his sides, while hers roamed freely over his strong shoulders and his close-cropped head. She hardly knew why he turned her on so very thoroughly, but it must, she thought, have something to do with his eyes: as he looked up at her between kisses, they seemed to see through her and to approve of her—despite… no, because of the shameful things she kept hidden.
Not just approve, either: his handsome face, so much more intelligent that any boy toys, said that he wanted her. He kept his hands at his sides, probably because of the way she had rejected the arm twist, Zaria told herself—or perhaps he had heard something about how she liked her lovers to behave. Nevertheless, Bradley’s chocolate eyes had a hunger in them that made Zaria shiver. She had seen it that night at the embassy in Washington DC, and despite the mostly passive way he received his limousine kisses, she could see it even more strongly in his eyes now.
Zaria knew what sexual desire looked like—her boy toys showed it to her on a nearly nightly basis. She could recognize the basic emotion in the American’s eyes. But whether because it differed on different sides of the vast cultural divide between Slavic culture and the American New World, or because Bradley Porter simply had more experience, his evident desire—Zaria thought she could feel it, now, growing between her thighs, through his trousers and hers—seemed more… significant? More valuable?
She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She kissed him again, hard, loving the feeling of the car’s motion, out on the highway now. Pulling her face back at last, she said in English, “It’s twenty minutes to the dacha. Do you think you can wait to fuck until we get there?”
The transactional tone Zaria had purposefully adopted and the mocking smile she put on her face had an unexpected effect on Bradley’s face. His eyes narrowed a little bit and became, if possible, a bit more smoldering. For a strange moment that made Zaria’s eyes widen a bit in surprise, he seemed to fight with some force inside him—some anger, perhaps? Or some other, darker urge.
The expression sent a jolt of arousal through Zaria’s body, made her move her hips over his lap in a wanton search for pleasure. As soon as the darkness had come, though, it had disappeared, and Bradley’s face had on it a wry, amused look, with only a hint of the sexual hunger still behind it.
“Good things come for those who wait,” he said.
Zaria’s brow furrowed in confusion as she tried to figure out whether the English proverb actually went that way. Prepositions in this language were so difficult.
“Isn’t it…?” she started to ask, and then she understood, as she looked into his eyes. She giggled, to her surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that.
“Are you a good thing?” he asked softly. Now the hunger seemed to emerge a little further. And… perhaps, now that she had seen it more clearly, the darker thing—passion, Zaria thought, feeling her eyes go wide again. Bradley’s voice seemed almost a growl, now, and it sent a delicious shiver up her spine.
A little to her embarrassment but helpless to resist, she took hold of his shoulders and ground down with her hips again, biting her lower lip at the feeling even as she felt a blush creep onto her face. What was wrong with her? She had giggled—and now she had actually blushed. She felt suddenly very glad for the dark glass separating them from the driver—a loyal man, but one who would of course report to Kaschak.
In that same voice, Bradley said, his expression now very amused indeed, “Can you wait, Madame Prime Minister?”
She giggled again, letting the unfamiliar inner sensations, put away so long ago in favor of enjoying passive boyfriends and beautiful boy toys, take firmer hold. She had begun instinctively to fight the way the American made her feel, but… what was the harm, really, in feeling that way?
Zaria glanced to the side, out the window, for a moment to see where they were, and how far they still had to travel to get to the dacha and her sumptuous bedroom there. She saw that they had almost reached the entrance to the long drive that led through the park to the isolated house. She turned back to Bradley as she felt the limo slow to pass the guardhouse, giving the man inside time to raise the gate for them.
“It’s only a few minutes now,” she purred. “I believe I—”
To her surprise, the car had stopped. She felt a surge of anger at the delay as she turned again to see whether she needed to return to her own seat and lower the window to resolve some idiotic dispute between members of her staff. She couldn’t hear anything through the soundproofing of the limo, and she saw only the wall of the guardhouse.
“I’m sorry,” she told Bradley as she started to climb off him. “I don’t know what—”
But to her astonishment she saw in the American’s eyes not the affable expression of a man who knows his powerful lover will get the difficulty sorted out, but the darker, harder look he had seemed to conceal a few moments before. For some reason she didn’t at first understand, Zaria’s heart began to beat much faster.
What she saw in Bradley’s eyes became much more threatening, then. His huge hands, which had lain beside his thighs the whole trip so far, suddenly came to life, one of them going to the back of her head to twine strong fingers in her hair and the other to her waist to hold her firmly in place atop him.
At the same time, she felt the limo shake a little, as if something was happening in the invisible, inaudible driver’s compartment; as if the driver’s door had opened, and something strenuous was occurring.
“I know what’s going on,” he said in his perfect Russian. “But you’re not going to like it, Zasha, I’m afraid. At first, anyway.”
Zaria’s lips parted in shock. Much more than his strange words—so unexpected that she almost couldn’t comprehend him at first—the American’s tone sent a thrill of fear through her whole body.
Indeed, for a moment she didn’t even realize that he had called her Zasha. When she did, her face instantly went as hot as the sun, and reflexive anger took over.
“Don’t call—” she hissed.
But Bradley had moved his right hand from her waist now, to clamp her whole upper body down over his, while his left hand had gone to the door to lower the window. Too astonished to struggle, Zaria turned to see looming right outside the car window an unfamiliar bearded man dressed in a black outfit that made her think of a ninja, so completely did it cover him. With alarm so great it made her feel detached from reality, she saw that he had some kind of goggles on his forehead—night vision, she understood immediately.
“We set?” Bradley asked the man in English. “The driver secure?”
“Yes, Persays,” the man in black said.
Persays? Zaria wondered. Or Perses? It didn’t sound like any English word she knew. Things in her mind had started to happen in a discrete way—little thoughts like the question of persays seemed to be able to take center stage despite having no real importance.
The really important thing—the fact that the American had apparently kidnapped her—had a great deal of trouble taking shape. The idea, she told herself, terrified her too much, so she wouldn’t, and couldn’t, give it any room.
“Thanks, nimfobus,” Bradley said. “Go ahead and drive us to the dacha while I give Zasha here her first lesson.”
Nimfobus. Or… Nymphobus? Again Zaria’s brain seemed intent on focusing on the strange word, instead of the situation at hand.
Somewhere at the back, her mind nevertheless acknowledged another, much more familiar word that the American had used.
“Zasha,” Bradley said in Russian as the window rolled up again, and she felt his huge hands return to the places they had held before—the left one in her hair and the right on her lower back, just above her tailbone, “I need you to listen very carefully to me. Do you think you can do that?”
Zaria gave a little cry as he accompanied the question with a tug at the back of her head that lifted her face in order to look into her eyes, then held it in place despite the way she instinctively tried to shake her head to free it from his control.
“I don’t understand…” she whispered, realizing to her distress that she sounded like a little girl—and that she had spoken in Russian, rather than the English she had intended.
She felt the car start to move, caught a glimpse of the open gate out the window as they passed it.
“Answer me, Zasha,” Bradley said, his voice harsh and commanding. In his eyes, to her dismay, Zaria saw that the hungry, dominant look had taken over his face entirely.
She thought suddenly of the moment in Washington DC, when he had tried to twist her arm back behind her.
“Stop it,” she said in English, winning back command and sounding more like a prime minister. “This isn’t fun.”
For an instant, as she anticipated with every shred of her willpower that the American would let go of her and end what clearly must be a stupid game, she wondered whether she had spoken the truth. The sense-memory of how her body had reacted in Washington joined with the dismaying response of her tingling, stiffened nipples and, worse, of the warming places between her thighs.
“Oh, it’s going to be fun for me, honey,” he said very calmly in Russian. “Maybe it will be fun for you, too, once you learn to do as you’re told.”
Zaria’s jaw dropped, and her breath began to come in little panting gasps. Bradley smiled up at her, the same appraising smile that had lit a flame inside her at the embassy reception, but now put in so sinister a context that it made her shudder.
“You can answer me,” he said evenly, “and tell me you plan to listen carefully. Then you can kneel down and demonstrate that intention by sucking my cock. Or we can start the hard way, with you over my knee—and then sucking my cock to thank me for disciplining you and teaching you to listen carefully. Those are your choices.”
For a long moment, Zaria’s brain became a disconnected stage for detached thoughts: Perses. Nymphobus.
An arm behind a back.
Bent over a bed.
Hands, holding her in place. The prime minister who didn’t like men’s hands on her, even though she liked to give blowjobs. Never kneeling, though. Never.
“I don’t understand,” she said, but firmly this time, and in English. “But stop this little game, whatever it is.”
Bradley had known, of course, that Zaria would refuse to acknowledge the choice. The spanking she would now receive had a much greater chance of progressing her, though, if somewhere in her mind she knew that she had chosen it.
He didn’t respond in words, in any language. He let his muscles do the talking for the moment. In the spacious back seat of the limo, Bradley had ample room to use his grip on Zaria’s lithe little body both peremptorily—to begin to teach her physical obedience—and very effectively. As he began to maneuver her upper body downward and toward his left side, the prime minister’s fight-or-flight instinct finally kicked in, and she began to struggle and to cry out.
In Russian, now, she screamed, “Help! I’m being kidnapped! The prime minister is…” Zaria had expended all her breath, then, and she needed it for the futile effort to writhe out of Bradley’s forceful grasp.
Two conflicts, Bradley could tell, had started to unfold in Zaria’s mind and body. The first lay between her intelligence, which he knew could perceive very clearly that resistance was not in her best interest, and the fear that made her scream and struggle. That conflict however, stemmed from and fed back into a much deeper one.
“Eight,” said the voice of Wendy, his team’s assessor, over Bradley’s comm-link. “High galvanics, obviously.”
Bradley didn’t really need the information about the level of Zaria’s sexual arousal, though. He could feel it in the way her body moved in his hands and now over his left knee as he positioned her for her first punishment. The prime minister’s physical resistance did not have the wholehearted violence of a person who wanted with all their being to escape.
Zaria Gorsky’s body had begun to betray her in the way she had so obviously dreaded—and, though semi-consciously, for which she had yearned. She knew, deep down, that the spanking she would now get only represented what she had needed so very badly and for so long. The young prime minister had earned it with her complicity in Sergei Kaschak’s corruption, and she had earned it in her high-handed treatment not just of men but of all those around her.
More important, she had earned it just now in the limo, by refusing her new master’s first command.
Holding her upper body securely down against the leather seat and his left thigh, Bradley reached his right hand under her hips, now, to find the button on her pants. Zaria cried out, “No,” and renewed her struggle, but this time even more ambiguously. Her second “No” seemed less sure, and Bradley suspected, letting his lips curve into a smile at the idea, that something had just happened between her thighs.
“Nine, with a clench,” Wendy told him.
Just as I thought. Bradley let the smile grow. Zaria had a very difficult—an insoluble, really—problem now. Every time she struggled, and felt herself entirely restrained by her kidnapper’s strength, it increased her sexual arousal.
“Congratulations,” came the assessor’s voice again. “That’s final confirmation that you’ve got a submissive on your hands, Perses.”
As if Bradley had had any doubt. He had felt entirely certain the moment he had sensed the tension in Zaria’s body as he had started to bend her over in the embassy bedroom in DC. Here in the limo, slowly rolling toward the dacha that would serve as her sexual training facility, the only difference lay in his complete freedom at last to give the prime minister what she had coming, and to enjoy her as he chose.
“Zasha,” he said softly but with iron in his voice. He left a long second’s pause, to allow her to react bodily to his use of the nickname that represented such an important flashpoint for her personality. Zaria didn’t disappoint; she twisted under him, and she let out a wailing cry of frustration as Bradley found the button and began skillfully to unfasten it.
“Galvanics decreasing. Humidity very high. Steady nine,” the voice in his ear said. “And, ten.”
He spoke practically into Zaria’s ear, now, as he bent toward her blonde head, which moved almost rhythmically back and forth with the girl’s increasingly feeble struggles.
“You can take down your pants and your panties for me, and show me you’re beginning to learn, and you’re ready to accept the punishment you’ve earned, and to thank me properly afterward. Or I can take them down for you, and spank you until you’re ready to suck my cock.”
The sudden stiffness in her body, along with the shudder that had gone through her as Bradley had said the word panties, told him that she understood how her choice had changed, and how much more terrible it had become.
Zaria’s panties, the assessors had determined, represented a crucial element in her personal constellation of sexual fantasy. Unable to see into her thoughts, they couldn’t tell Bradley exactly what the girl’s underwear meant to her, but their importance seemed undeniable from the way she always wore them when sleeping alone and never wore them when sleeping with her male bimbos.
That fact had, in the team’s judgment, confirmed an otherwise unsubstantiated rumor that Zaria had broken up with a film star often called ‘the world’s most attractive man,’ because he had tried to take her panties down. Not for a spanking or anything even vaguely dominant or disciplinary—the movie star had simply wanted to fuck her, as what straight man wouldn’t?
Bradley had just given her a terrible dilemma: if she resisted, he would take down her panties. She could do it herself, if she gave her kidnapper the sign he had asked for that she would obey him despite the humiliation of what he had demanded.
The limo stopped. “We’re here, Perses,” said Greg Stark over the intercom.
Zaria gave a little cry, and attempted another twist out of Bradley’s grasp, to no avail.
“Let me go,” she hissed. “I’ll… I’ll give you so much money.”
Bradley ignored her completely for the moment, only tightening his left arm’s hold across her back as he responded to his nymphobus.
“Fine. You can step out of the car and just keep watch until I’m ready to bring her into the house. She’s got a spanking coming.”
The young prime minister responded to the definitive tone in his voice with a cry of protest and a renewed struggle to break free. In the taut muscles beneath the expensive fabric of her elegantly tailored pantsuit Bradley could feel the dual conflict she faced, inside her mind and her imagination: the harder she tried to fight him, the less she had to pay attention to the war going on between her rational mind and her body’s needs—but that resistance to both Bradley and to herself had a price, and Zara would start paying it right now.
He held her down firmly, and he unbuttoned the waist of her trousers and pulled down the zipper in a single practiced movement. Zaria cried out again.
“Nyet… please, no.”
But Bradley used the position of his right hand to cup the girl’s pussy through the modest cotton panties he had known from the assessors’ report to expect. He took hold of her there firmly, with two fingers pressing down between the slim thighs he felt tremble at his hand’s presence. He used the movement of the rest of his body, though, to make the contact seem an incidental part of his positioning her for her spanking.
Zaria’s plea became a sob, deep in her throat, as her hips bucked in a new way over Bradley’s knee.
“Ten,” Wendy told him. “And… recalibrator.”
The young prime minister had just experienced more sexual arousal than ever previously observed by the assessment team. Since they had been working from a data stream coming from her perineal sensor for several months, and Zaria Gorsky had fucked at least a dozen beautiful young men in that time, this recalibration had a good deal of significance.
Could he feel her clench, under his fingers? Bradley didn’t think he could be certain, but he could definitely feel the dampness gathering there at the gusset of Zaria’s modest little-girl panties—the same kind she had undoubtedly worn all her life.
The ones she doesn’t want taken down by anyone else, ever—but also needs taken down so very badly.
He moved his hand around her back so that he could pull down her trousers as she began to struggle desperately again to keep him from baring her backside. Her right arm flailed out and made contact with his shoulder, and her legs kicked, but Bradley had no trouble ignoring the glancing blow and containing the backs of her knees under his other thigh.
At the same time, he got the black pants down to the middle of her thighs, so that he could see in the limo’s dome light the adorable pink seat of her underwear. As he watched, his cock swelling along his thigh at the sight, her bottom squirmed lewdly with the vain effort to get free.
“Don’t!” she hissed in Russian, now, twisting her head over her shoulder in an attempt to see him. Then, in English, she tried again to take some measure of control, speaking in a tone she thought perhaps sounded calm, but in which Bradley could hear her arousal. “I have no idea what you think you’re doing, Mr. Porter, but I promise you are going to pay for this.”
Bradley laughed at her calling him Mr. Porter. He almost said, “Mr. Porter is my father,” just as a standard dumb joke. It wasn’t true, of course: he had in fact just suffered through diplomats calling him Mr. Porter all day. He had a good deal more to accomplish, however, in the area of what the prime minister of Omislava would call him from now on, and he used his laughter to go in a much harsher direction.
Before the mirth had subsided in his chest, he had tightened his hold on her upper back even further, raised his right hand high, and brought it down very hard on Zaria Gorsky’s little bottom. His big hand covered both cheeks as he left it there, squeezing the taut, rounded apples of her rear end through the thin cotton of her panties. The loud, sharp sound of the spank still seemed to hang in the air even of the confined space of the limo.
That sound gave way instantly to a cry of shock and pain from Zaria. Her struggles began anew, her bottom wriggling delightfully in Bradley’s hand. His own arousal began to play a significant role in the way he handled the scene, and he let it shape the tone of his verbal response to her addressing him as Mr. Porter.
“You’re going to call me sir, or master, from now on, Zasha,” he told her. “Whether you’re thanking me for disciplining you or begging for my cock in your ass.”
That brought Zaria back to Russian. “You’re crazy,” she spluttered. “You’re fucking crazy. Let me go.”
In Bradley’s ear, Wendy told him what he needed to know. “That’s another recalibrator. She dipped to eight for a second when you spanked her, but she’s back at ten now.”
“I’m very far from crazy, Zasha,” he said, keeping the sternness strong in his voice—something Bradley found especially easy to do in Russian, a language that seemed designed to deliver absolute commands. “And I’m going to take down your panties now, for calling me that, and spank you until you call me master. Then you’re going to kneel and suck my cock, like I said.”
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