The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica)

  THE SEX SLAVE’S FINAL PUNISHMENT

  (BOOK FOUR OF THE INITIATION 3 SERIES)

  By Aphrodite Hunt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 by Aphrodite Hunt

  Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

  Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords

  THE SEX SLAVE’S FINAL PUNISHMENT

  1

  We are caught trying to escape.

  The worst has happened. Our doom is written all over the Urskan stars as we are bodily hauled into state police trucks – black, opaque and forbidding. Max, Greg and I – the official sex slaves of Potchenko, the Urskan dictator – are put into one truck, and Mansk and his family into another.

  Before he vanishes, Mansk’s eyes hold mine. There’s a resignation in them, and a finality. They seem to say: We gambled . . . and lost.

  A painful pang scissors my chest.

  I feel really bad for Mansk and his family. I know we made a deal for their asylum in the States, but I’m terrified for them now. His boys are only children. Suri, his wife, is the warmest, kindest person I’ve ever known. What will Potchenko and Aimelie do to them?

  I picture the Guillotine blade falling upon the slender neck of Mansk’s sister, and I shudder in dread.

  This will be my probably fate too. And that of Max and Greg. What must I do to bargain for their lives, if not my own?

  Some part of me whispers: You’re an American. They can’t really touch you.

  And another part, a far larger one perching on the other side of my shoulder, says: They can do whatever they want to you, and no one will be the wiser.

  The dread pooling in the pit of my guts is like a whirlpool, sucking me down into some infinitesimal abyss.

  The covered interior of the truck is dark and musty. Two fixed benches line either side of the walls. Four burly guards clamber in with us. Max, Greg and I huddle on one side while they fill the other. The engine starts up. The sudden rocking of the truck suggests that we are off to goodness-knows-where and goodness-knows-what-they-will-do-to-us.

  I feel ill. It’s not only because of the rocking. The guards eye us with the intensity of wild dogs sizing up their prey. We are fresh meat to them now. In captivity, all conventions are thrown out of the window.

  Max reaches for my left hand. I give it to him, and he squeezes it hard. On my right, Greg does the same. These gestures are not lost on the guards.

  As the truck rumbles on, we vibrate. I have to strain every ounce of my muscles just to stay where I am. Thank goodness I am stuck between Max and Greg, whose warm bodies succor and prop me up. We do not speak to one another. I don’t want to be the brunt of some unwritten rule that political prisoners will be strung up and beaten if they so much as uttered a foreign word.

  I do not like the way the guards are looking at me, as if I’m a particularly juicy piece of steak. Max and Greg obviously feel the same from the way they are – with their tense body language and strained body frames – protecting me. Max has his hand gripped around my forearm in a possessive manner, while Greg has my fist clenched tightly in his. If any of the guards wanted to floor me and spread my legs, I don’t think either of them could have done anything.

  We travel for a long, long time like this. There are no windows in the back of the truck, and the only light is a solitary naked bulb that sways from the top. The back is covered with a tarp. A sliver of light from outside peeks through, and I realize it is morning.

  The truck jerks to a stop. Are we there yet? I don’t want to know where ‘there’ is. The Guillotine podium. The public execution stage, all prepped for the glorious spectacle. My chest is washed of all feeling and color, and my brain is as numb as if I had run it through an overdose of poppers.

  The trouble about worrying over something for as long as I have is when the event actually comes to pass, you end up feeling nothing. Just a big empty void. All the worrying and anticipatory grief has been wrung out of you already and there’s no sap left inside your casket of emotions to be squeezed out anymore.

  Can they do this to us? We are American citizens! My indignation raises its cobra head again. Indignation is good. It makes me proactive. Less like a victim.

  I wonder . . . I just wonder . . .

  The tarp at the back of the truck is lifted, and sunlight streams through. I narrow my eyes in the sudden glare. A couple of guards rasp something in Urskan. The four guards inside get up. They gesture at us to get out.

  We climb out, wincing in the bright daylight. We are parked by the side of a country road in the middle of a forest. The air is redolent with the scent of pine and freshness. I’m guessing this is a midway point to wherever we will be taken. Some of the guards disappear into the thickets of trees – probably to relieve themselves.

  I watch Mansk and his family being taken out of the other truck. Mansk catches my eye. His expression is like the gallows itself. His wife, Suri, is nowhere to be seen. Nor are his children. My heart roils at the thought of what has happened to them. I can only hope and pray that not much pain will be administered to the children.

  A guard beckons at me to follow him. I turn around to look at Max and Greg, but they are being similarly shepherded into the trees. Alarm shutters my stomach. What does the guard want with me?

  I follow him anyway. What am I but a slave to everyone’s whims? I am already a dead girl walking. Perhaps if I am obedient, he will be lenient with my friends.

  He leads me to a cluster of trees. Then he unzips his pants, whips out his slender cock, and proceeds to piss against the bark of a tree. He cranes his neck to look at me as he does this. I wonder if I can make a run for it through the trees. But no, I can’t bear to leave Max and Greg behind. And Mansk too, for the matter. I talked him into this, and now he will die like his sister because of me.

  The guard is looking at me again. He waggles his penis. Two final drops of urine drip from it, and he tucks his member back into his pants again.

  I quail as he turns his attention to me. He says something to me in Urskan. I shake my head fearfully, not understanding. He makes some hand gestures, indicating the tree.

  Oh. He wants me to pee.

  It is actually a good idea, seeing as we have a long journey ahead. My bladder is surprisingly not full, and my throat is parched. They gave me some water to drink in the truck, but I didn’t dare take too much. Nausea was the main occupant in my belly.

  The guard does not move away. He’s plain and nondescript. I wouldn’t have picked him out from a crowd, although he’s young enough to be fairly attractive. He wants to watch me. I know it is his job to literally watch me, but I am ill at ease, despite being naked for so many people in my sojourn here. Perhaps it’s the situation of impending doom that is getting to me.

  I make myself undo the drawstrings of my worn cotton pants. I am still in my peasant garb. I push the pants halfway down my thighs, and proceed to squat before the tree. I am not wearing any underwear. Suri did not give me any. It must have been an Urskan custom not to don underwear. They are after all quite medieval.

  The guard never takes his eyes off my shaven pussy. My stream begins to flow and flow copiously. My urine pools on the ground, stirring dirt, until it becomes a puddle. I inch my feet away so that my shoes would not get wet.

  When I have finished, the guard motions me to stand up. Some part of me challenges him to stop me as I pull my pants up and do the drawstrings tightly. He doesn’t say or do anything, and
my relief is palpable.

  We go back to the truck. Max and Greg are with their minders. They are waiting for me.

  I make to climb into the back of the truck, but my guard stays my arm. He says something to me. When I don’t move, he grabs my arm and jerks me to the direction of the truck’s cab.

  Max bridles and makes to come after us, but two guards grab hold of his arms.

  “Gina,” Max warns, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Do I have a choice?

  I say steadily, “I’ll be OK, Max.”

  He does not appear convinced, but all that is lost to me as I vanish with the guard around the side of the truck. The driver is already inside at the wheel.

  The guard grins as he gestures to me to climb into the passenger’s seat. The seat is high, and I have to clamber in. I am aware he is looking at my butt. The driver’s eyes burn holes into me. The guard behind me climbs in as well, and I am sandwiched in between the two leering men.

  The truck starts up and we are off again.

  It is an extremely uncomfortable trip for me. I keep my thighs closed. It is a tight fit for three people upfront. My hands are folded upon my lap. Heat radiates from the two men on either side of me, and I can hear their very audible breathing above the roar of the old engine. The window on the driver’s side is wound down, and a breeze wafts in to lift my tresses.

  The guard on my right takes a strand of my hair and twirls it around his finger and thumb. I dare not meet his eyes. He is the same guard who has inspected me so lasciviously when I was taking a piss. I know what I will see on his face – lust, opportunity, cruelty.

  God.

  I keep my eyes trained on the road and landscape in front of me, not daring to blink. The sun is very bright, and my eyes water. There are very few people on this road, but I can see them toiling in the fields a distance away, their wide-brimmed hats shielding them from the sun. Cows and sheep dot the countryside. The scent of animals and manure waft in.

  The guard’s hand strays to my lap. He starts to stroke my thigh – all the way down from my hip to my kneecap.

  I hold my breath. I’m afraid to release it – for fear that he would mistake it as desire. I am always ready to be fucked at the drop of a hat, of course. But right now, I’m antsy and sitting on thumbtacks and worried and numb – all at the same time.

  The guard is saying something to the driver, and from their tone and lewd looks – which I surreptitiously discern out of the corner of my eye – they are speaking about me. His stroking continues, as lazily as a cat’s tail, except that his groping and prodding are getting more restless. His fingers brush against the shoal of my pubis. He gets more adventurous, dipping further and kneading my mons and the top of my clit. The driver laughs.

  I am aroused despite myself, because his ministrations are very careful and enticing. My clit fills with blood. I can literally feel the wrinkled skin getting turgid and warm. He senses this, and accelerates his sly rubbing of my clit. I squirm in consternation. His other hand steadies my hip.

  A few minutes of this, and he progresses to the drawstring of my pants. I was expecting this, and so I brace myself. I put up no resistance as he tugs at the string to loosen my pants. I’m always afraid of repercussions to Max and Greg if I disobey. When my pants spills around my hips, he makes me raise my buttocks to slide them off my legs.

  I am now naked from the waist down. My peasant blouse is loose-fitting and not very long, but the hem of it still covers my groin. Naturally, he is not happy with this, and so he makes me lift my blouse up and tie the two sides of it into a knot at the middle of my waistline.

  This displays my pubic hair. My legs are tightly shut.

  The driver says something as he takes his eyes off the road for a minute to stare at my pussy. The guard answers back. I wish I could understand their infernal language. It makes me so frustrated to be subject to their whims and unable to do anything about it.

  I get an inkling of what they are talking about as the guard places his hand on my bare thigh. He lifts it and pulls my right leg onto his clothed lap, so that my pussy is displayed like an open anemone. The driver takes his hand off the wheel long enough to do the same to my left leg.

  I am now as open as an invitation card. Where they want me to be. I am extremely aware of how I must look, with my red pussy displayed to the windshield – zooming head on like a bull to the elements beyond. A trickle of juice leaks from my vagina to stain the seat. I flush. I wonder if they notice this.

  They will soon enough, because the guard begins to caress my pussy. His fingers and thumb are very clever, surprisingly, and he soon strokes and rubs my clit into what passes for an erection in my nubile, female body. My toes curl and I feel a paean of illicit sensation as he oozes his fingers into the folds between my labia and clit.

  Ohhhh.

  I long to close my legs. But his fingers dig in further. Rub, stroke, back, forth. I steal a look at his face, and he is not looking down at my pussy at all. Rather, he is eyeing my face. Gauging how I am reacting to his probing. I’m afraid my face and high color betray it all.

  He massages me until I am twitching and grinding my crotch against the cracked leather seat in ecstasy. I can’t help myself. My body has its own pleasure havens, and my mind can scant overrule their natural libidos.

  The men are laughing at my reaction. I can bet they are saying:

  “Filthy whore.”

  “Skanky American.”

  “Fucking cunt.”

  One finger dips into my creamy hole. And then deeper. He’s practically coring my vaginal tunnel. Another finger joins the first. He’s stretching me. Seeing how much my walls can and will resist. I tip my head back against the seat. My mouth is very dry. I feel the stirrings of an orgasm – the familiar clenching and unclenching of my pelvic floor muscles. I grip my blouse with my fists and try to stave it off. But his fingers are very insistent, and as he latches onto my G-spot, I come explosively.

  I cry out, a foreign sound in this humming cab. And immediately, I feel ashamed. Can Max and Greg hear me above the fierce rumbling of the engine? Would they think I’m a wanton hussy when there are other priorities in mind?

  There is practically a puddle of my juices on the seat beneath my pussy. I sink into it as the sweat drips off my brow. Suddenly, the compartment is too warm. I am panting and heaving, my large breasts moving up and down my covered chest. Somehow, I feel more naked this way than if I was totally nude.

  But the guard has not finished with me.

  He grabs my waist, and from his tugging, he wants me to get off my butt and straddle his lap. I comply. It is a most uncomfortable maneuver in the tight space. I manage to bump my head twice against the roof as I finally get into the position that he wants me. I am still facing the windscreen and the road. My back is to him, against his clothed chest. His garment feels scratchy against my bare buttocks, and his breath is wet against my neck.

  He undoes the fly of his bulging pants. His crotch has bulged since he started his hand job on me. And now his cock springs up like a lever to point straight at my open pussy. He pulls my hips down. I have to balance myself by holding on to the strip of window ledge. But instead of penetrating my ready and extremely wet pussy, his cock angles for my open anus, slicked by my outpouring creams from the hole above.

  He slams my buttocks onto his hard rod. It had seemed so slender in the woods, but when it impales me, I cry out once again – surprised at the sudden intrusion.

  The driver laughs.

  The guard’s cock is at its hilt within me. I can feel his balls rubbing against my buttocks. With a tap, he bids me to work my hips up and down. In this position, my head almost touches the roof. But I lean forward anyway and grasp the dashboard with both hands. It is an extremely difficult maneuver, having scant little to clutch upon.

  I begin to jerk my hips up and down upon the pivot of his cock. I feel it slide in and out of me, hot flesh rubbing against hot flesh. M
y ignored pussy and trembling clit throb in wanton abandon. How I wish he would caress me there.

  He chooses to settle his hands on my hips instead to guide me. And so I give his plunging cock the working it desires. I bounce upon his thighs. The valley between my covered breasts bead with sweat. The driver occasionally glances over at us, delighted.

  Resentment creeps into me. I feel like asking him: Is this how you get your kicks? Why don’t you just stay on the road and concentrate on driving before you get us all killed? But I don’t think he would understand me.

  I fuck the guard with my well-practiced ass until I feel his balls tightening. I can hear his grunting exacerbate behind me. His hands grip me harshly, and with a shout, he spurts his hot cum deep inside my rectum. It is like a geyser, jettisoning its sap up and up into the murky depths of my back passage.

  I stop moving against his softening cock. I did not come at all during this anal intercourse. I am too wrung out and filled with angst. Suddenly, all my worries come tumbling back in full force, like an avalanche of emotions.

  What am I worried about?

  Oh yes. We are all about to be executed.

  He moves me off his wet cock. I am still dripping. His sperm leaks out of my asshole as I sullenly take my place between them once again. The various fluids stain the seat, which is now slick with a layer of sticky resin.

  Try explaining that to your Colonel, I think in satisfaction.

  The guard and the driver exchange jovial banter as we continue our journey into wherever. They leave me as I am – half-naked and with my pussy and asshole drying in the air. Not satiated, the guard pays me no more attention. I am discarded handkerchief along the wayside.

  2

  We reach some sort of barracks. Or at least I think it is what passes for barracks in Ursk. The building is a big concrete oblong – grey and nondescript and resembling what I would expect in a Communist land. Only Ursk is not quite Communist, is it?