I pulled Heather’s mouth off my raging erection. With both hands around the back of her skull, I tilted her head up toward me. Her eyes wide and a little wild as if at the suddenness of the movement, she gazed back into my face, mouth still wantonly open, lips shining with her saliva and my pre-cum, tongue stuck out just a little. My cock leapt and my hips twitched at the surge of arousal that swept through my loins, just at the sight of my precious bed girl’s naked beauty, at the abandoned, submissive expression in her eyes.
“Do you remember when I fucked your ass for the first time, girl?” I asked, my voice emerging in a low growl, under the influence of the rampant sexual need and my will to dominate the lovely young woman who knelt so provokingly before me.
Provokingly… Yes, my hardness seemed to say, as if a man’s cock had a mind and a voice of its own, Heather Foster is the kind of girl who provokes the lust of the man who owns her, isn’t she?
My reason, my rationality, the part of me I used to make decisions in the daylight, protested. My American concubine hadn’t asked to kneel and suck my cock, had she? When she did beg to serve me, she pled for my mastery because she had on the one hand the threat of a whipping and on the other the promise of her own pleasure only after she had satisfied my lust.
I had bought Heather at great expense, and I exercised my will over her because of my own passion to master the gorgeous girl; Heather didn’t provoke me into using her body to its utmost opportunity for my cock’s enjoyment through any intention of her own. To call it that… to punish her, for example, simply for the way her loveliness made me hard as iron every time I made her remove her clothing… it was monstrous, my reason told me.
Or… it would have been monstrous if I couldn’t tell how much she needed it, too. I had hardly required the help of the good-girl wand’s effect to tell me that, even at the beginning. Four months into my bed girl’s servitude, with my manhood plunging into her night after night and her backside sternly birched or spanked or strapped over and over on the slightest pretext of misbehavior, I knew Heather Foster harbored—to her embarrassment—desires that mirrored mine.
She might well have wished to cease being the kind of girl who provoked degrading use and strict discipline, but she couldn’t change that part of herself any more than I could change the hardness of my cock whenever the time came to take her again.
Or the troubling need I had to do the opposite, as well: to take care of the marvelous Heather Foster. To find a way to have her not merely as a lovely possession, a fuck toy to use and to share so that others could use her too as a coveted favor from the warlord who had earned their loyalty with such lavish generosity.
To have her as my own.
To love her, and to win her love for me, the man who had four months ago spanked her and then brutally deflowered her along every path her sweet young body afforded… who had sent her for fucking all around the city… who suddenly needed to make certain she remembered what I wanted her to remember about the first time I had taken her anally.
“Do you?” I demanded.
“Yes, Master,” Heather whispered. Her cheeks had gone very red, as if at the humiliation in the memory.
“What do you remember?” I asked, feeling my eyes narrow as I scanned her face, affection vying inside me with the sheer desire to subject her to my dominant will.
Her forehead furrowed deeply. Even before she spoke, I knew she would say exactly what I had hoped.
“You were gentle, at first, Master,” she whispered. “You wanted to see my face.”
A wave of tenderness swept through me, which my reason angrily rejected.
Don’t fool yourself, my better judgment said. This ‘love’ you think you’re feeling is a weakness. You need to get rid of her.
Ivan had been gentle, at the start. He had told me to stand in front of the fire, with my hands behind my head, my face to the roaring hearth. I had trembled despite the heat from the burning logs as he had come up behind me, his hands and his hard cock seeming to touch my skin all at the same time, so that I felt like the entire outer surface of my body had become a newly, overwhelmingly erogenous zone.
Ivan’s right hand in front, taking an easy, possessive hold of my left breast, pinching my tiny pink nipple to aching stiffness between thumb and middle finger.
Ivan’s rigid penis pressed against my hip, making me bite my lip at the sheer naughty idea of a naked man simply touching me that way, his lewdest part exposed—jutting so arrogantly out from his lap that it brushed almost casually across my flank… so naturally and yet obscenely that it made terribly clear my subjection to my master’s every degrading wish and cruel whim.
Worst of all, because it felt much too good, at first, Ivan’s left hand. Behind me, two fingers abruptly pressed between my spanked cheeks where only a little soreness lingered now from my punishment over his knee.
I heard a tiny whimper come out of my throat. My hands, their fingers intertwined behind my head, shook with the tremors that traveled up and down all the muscles in my back and my arms. My knees moved, too, bouncing up and down so that, to my mortification, it seemed like I meant to rub that forbidden place between the little apples of my backside against the probing fingers.
My master’s fingers, slick with a substance I knew about but had never before experienced. Lube… cool despite the warmth of Ivan’s hands… slippery… useful for making a girl’s tightest hole easier to enjoy…
The whimper became a sob, which seemed to reach my ears from a long way away.
Ivan brought another part of his body against mine: his mouth, soft against the back of my right ear. I could feel his golden hair brush my arm on that side.
“You are going to lie on the ottoman on your back,” he told me. “You will raise your knees and hold them open for me. I want to see your face when I enter your bottom for the first time.”
I looked up into his face, kneeling before him now, with the knowledge that I would have to proceed with my mission very soon but overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands on my head, tilting my gaze up to his, stealing all my thoughts and turning them backward, to that first night.
Our first night together.
The idea—the way my brain put it, then, as if Ivan Antonov and I represented some conventional romantic couple, of the sort who could remember a first night together—brought a little sighing moan from my throat. His ice-blue eyes, slightly narrowed the way Ivan always did when he wanted to evaluate and assess, seemed to reinforce that strange connection despite the memory’s utter lack of any ordinary romance.
My first night with Ivan… the leather top of the ottoman against my back… my knees held wide and high so that I felt utterly exposed, utterly available to my master.
My hands hung at my sides, because Ivan allowed me to use them to pleasure him only with express instructions to do so. They began, to my dismay, to creep backwards, fingertips moving across my whipped bottom-cheeks, each welt from Devushkin’s birch bringing a terrible, thrilling little stab of soreness that faded immediately into the humiliating arousal I knew so well.
I had the little globes in my grasp now. Without any order from Ivan, without a command except the shameful urging of my wanton nature, the awful need to show my master how thoroughly I belonged to him, I spread my bottom-cheeks. I touched my little anus, so sore from my degrading trip to the mansion of my owner’s friend.
So thoroughly used, and yet still small, tight, and suited to the pleasure of a dominant man who knew how to use me properly.
I watched Ivan’s eyes flick slightly downward, and I knew he had noticed my mortifying display.
“Yes, Heather,” he said softly. “Right there. I fucked my little slut right there, did I not?”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered, my lips closing over the r of master for the first time since my mouth had engulfed Ivan’s enormous cock, and he had used his strong fingers to hold my face in place as he thrust the rock-hard shaft of his penis in and out so deeply. As always, my lips felt strange—different from the way they felt when my mouth belonged to me… when I could use my body to do what I chose, instead of putting it completely at my master’s service.
“Put your finger inside, girl. All the way to the second knuckle.”
I felt my face crumple, my cheeks blazing with heat even as the helpless arousal took hold anew between my thighs. A sob tore itself from my throat, and I obeyed the degrading command. My hips jerked with need at the forbidden feeling, the wicked finger going where it mustn’t, inside the naughtiest place of all.
“Fuck yourself with that finger,” my master instructed, “and tell me how it felt to have your bottom opened on my cock for the first time.”
His fingers, twined in my hair, gripped my skull tighter and I realized that I had started to try to shake my head in a futile refusal of the dreadful, delicious command. My forehead had begun to ache from the depth of the furrow my need and shame had made there. I breathed raggedly through my nostrils for a moment.
“If I have to get the wand,” Ivan said, his eyes narrowing again, “I’m going to whip you, too, Heather. Do as you’re told.”
I sobbed, and started to move my middle finger in and out of the little hole. The memory came flooding back: Ivan’s ice-blue eyes, somehow warm despite the glacier they evoked, gazing down at me from what seemed impossibly high up, as he pushed the enormous bulk of his manhood into my virgin bottom.
Breathing through my mouth in desperate little pants, trying to relax the tightness, ease the painful, thrilling sensation of stretching far past what I ever thought I might have to bear.
“You…” I breathed. I bit my lip as I moved the naughty finger in and out, my hips thrusting of their own accord against it, as if I needed more in that forbidden place no matter how sore my owner’s friends had made me there. “You… you made me… you made me take it all.”
“You needed it all, girl,” Ivan said, his voice rough with passion and his huge manhood jutting menacingly between us. “Lick.”
I whimpered and obeyed, humiliatingly grateful for his sparing me more words for the moment. I licked Ivan’s cock the way he liked, from the base—the so-sensitive spot, where the shaft met the tightly wrinkled sack that held his balls—to the head, with the reverent kiss at the end that always made his manhood give a tiny leap, as if in appreciation of his bed girl’s talent. My eyes stayed locked on his, the shame of having to see him watch me pleasure him that way bringing more heat to my cheeks.
“I put it in gently, didn’t I?” he asked softly.
I let out another whimpering moan, a sound so submissive it brought a new clench between my legs.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered. He had gone slowly, all the way in, until his lap had come up against my spanked bottom. I had sobbed with need and discomfort as I looked up into the face of the man who had claimed me completely.
“And then?” Ivan inquired, a slight, arrogant smile curling his lips.
I moved my finger in and out faster. My pussy ached with my need. For the first time since I had arrived back at Ivan’s palace I wondered if my master would let me come, as he always had before after my return to him following a night of being shared with other men.
“Then you fucked my bottom very, very hard, Master.”
For a moment, I thought I saw Ivan’s eyes change, a look of concern coming into them, as if a wayward thought had interfered with the purity of his dominant lust.