Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) Page 2

  “You will address the Great Leader as Master. And yes, these are prisoners of politics,” Mansk replies. “They deserve to die.”

  I wince. These unfortunate souls have probably done nothing more than to print dissent leaflets and distribute them.

  Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I study the floorboards with intensity. Behind me, my tethered fists are clenched. The whorls and grooves of the wood swarm into one another, making faces reminiscent of that haunted German painting I have once seen on some documentary – The Scream.

  Three simultaneous whooshes – like knives slicing through crisp air – jolt me out of my reverie. I flinch, refusing to allow my chin to rise above the level of my thyroid cartilage.

  “Gina, don’t look,” Greg says from behind me.

  “I’m not,” I squeak.

  “It’s not pretty,” Max agrees. From the strain in his tone, he is clearly looking.

  The crowd begins to cheer. Forced cheers, I would like to think. Or maybe they’ve been forcing it so long that it becomes natural now. Cheering without really meaning it.

  “Is it over?” I whimper. I’m still not looking up.

  “Yes,” Max says.

  I don’t want to see the cleanup. This is like a hundred and eighty degrees from how I’ve been brought up. More than ever, I treasure the safety and comfort of my home, which I have always taken for granted. I will never take anything for granted again.

  Mansk stays silent throughout the aftermath. I’d pegged him for a cynical quip, or maybe he doesn’t feel like doing cynicism in English.

  When the cart starts moving again, we visibly relax. Or at least, as relaxed as one can be after witnessing an execution in a foreign land where we have no rights. After, you never know if the crowd will chant for an encore.

  I steal a look at Mansk. His head rotates to follow the podium, as if he can’t bear to let it out of sight. Is he that bloodthirsty? The expression on his face is not one of patriotic righteousness, however. It is one of regret.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask him in a low voice.

  His eyes turn to me. There is a flash of absolute pain in them – so stark that I am taken aback.

  He says as a matter-of-factly, “That was my sister, Anushya.”

  “Anushya?”

  “Yes. At the Guillotine.”

  Understanding dawns within me. “Y-you mean . . . ?”

  “Yes.”

  I am speechless for a moment. Then –

  “I-I’m sorry.”

  What else can I say? I have never been in such a situation before. It’s absolutely chilling.

  Mansk says, “She deserved it. She betrayed the Great Leader.”

  “But she’s still your sister.”

  Mansk turns away from me. His shoulders are rigid. But an unspeakable sadness permeates his entire frame. It’s not something he needs to tell me . . . I just know it. As morbid and calculating as it sounds, I file this little piece of information away in my memory. I have a feeling it’s going to come in useful someday.

  That day may be very soon.

  3

  The cart winds its way up to a stone castle. That’s literally where Potchenko . . . oh, sorry, the Great Leader . . . lives. It’s suitably forbidding and Gothic and medieval, and I feel like I’m approaching Dracula’s lair.

  The landscape of Ursk basks behind the castle – cultivated fields of produce dotted by silos and granaries and black-and-white milk cows. Ursk is mostly agricultural, so I’ve been told. Self-sustained. They don’t need help from the world and the world doesn’t need them. They don’t have oil, minerals, precious metals or anything the world doesn’t already have surplus of. I guess that’s why America hasn’t taken a greater interest in Ursk.

  As we reach the castle grounds, Potchenko and his motorcade rev to the front while our little donkey cart is taken to the back of the castle. Of course. We are only lowly slaves who should be stomped beneath the feet of the hired help – why should we be accorded front door treatment, right? The guards troop us out of the cart and we are left feeling self-conscious and shivering in the suddenly chilly breeze that whips all the way around the structure.

  Mansk points to me. “You, come with me.”

  What? I am to be separated from Max and Greg?

  I stand there helplessly as Mansk removes my nipple clamps and unwinds the chains from my chafed and sore pussy folds. There – I am now free from Max and Greg. It feels strange to be walking unencumbered again, but I don’t like to be parted from Max and Greg in this place. You know . . . where anything awful can and will happen.

  I look longingly back at Max and Greg – who are equally as anxious. Who can blame them? I wonder if I will ever see them again. I’ve been in DEFCON One state since the execution. I follow Mansk into the castle. The back door immediately leads to a humungous kitchen where several cooks are stirring something spicy and aromatic in pots as big as my torso.

  My mouth waters. I realize I haven’t eaten since the plane.

  Mansk does not heed the growling of my stomach juices. He steers me out of the kitchen and into a chamber with a brick fireplace. It’s a cozy room. Despite it being summer, a fire crackles upon the heath. The room is as warm as my stomach acids.

  A large woman with three chins and arms as large as hams is pouring boiling water out of a kettle into a large wooden bathtub. Steam puffs and eddies everywhere, penetrating the atmosphere with fog. The whole chamber smells of fresh vapor.

  Mansk says something to her in Urskan, and she replies with an expression that can curdle milk. I stand there, feeling naked and foolish.

  Mansk shoots me a knowing glance and leaves.

  “What you waiting for?” the woman barks at me. She points at the tub. “Get in.”

  I stare at the steaming surface of the water.

  “But it’s hot,” I protest. Like in really hot.

  “Get in,” the woman repeats. She slams down the kettle onto the stone floor. It hits the ground with a clank that sends goose bumps down my back.

  Is she planning to scald me?

  When I don’t move, she takes three strides towards me and seizes my right ear. Her pincer grip hurts something fierce.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” I shriek.

  “When I tell you get in, you get in!”

  She pulls me by my ear to the tub, which frankly looks like a soup tureen. She drags me into the water and pushes me in headlong. Upon contact, my skin lights up. I’m swarmed all over with fire ants. I’m dunked into a cauldron of water so hot that I can think of nothing else but fire, fire, fire. I scream and water gurgles into my mouth.

  A hand pulls my head upward by my hair.

  “Shut up, you stupid girl. It is not hot.”

  I sit there in the steaming water, my pulse drumming a scatter upon every sluice in which you can feel a pulse. My skin has reddened and my wet hair plasters upon my neck in scraggly strands. I don’t know what her definition of ‘hot’ is, but if this isn’t hot, I don’t want to know her version.

  “You call me Gerta,” the woman booms. She takes up a brown brush and starts to scrub me in earnest – the way you would scrub grime off an ancient wall.

  Tears spring into my eyes. Is everyone in this place going to be cruel to me?

  Gerta starts to scour my breasts and my tender nipples. She pinches my protuberant tips until they are plucked and raw. The red of my nipple flesh merges into the crimson hue of my heat-ravished skin. My mounds start to chafe with the intense scraping.

  Then she dives down.

  “No,” I whimper, closing my legs tightly.

  “Open them.”

  “No. You’re going to hurt me.”

  “I say open them or I open them for you.”

  My penitence has been honed by months of sexual slavery. I tentatively part my thighs, and her giant arms push them open as though they are fragile sticks. My pussy is exposed in the water. Gerta brings the brush down onto my tender nether lips, and upon the first tou
ch of the bristles, I scream.

  “Stupid girl!” She slaps my face, and I begin to sob. “Raise your butt on top of water. Do it!”

  I’m not sure what she wants me to do, but I raise my hips so that my pussy is above surface level, all the while keeping my legs apart. My slippery hands grip the sides of the tub.

  I tense as she brings the brush down onto my swollen red flesh again. I whimper as she scrubs my outer labia. As the soft bristles poke into the hood of my clit, I grit my teeth and try to bear the pain. It’s a prickly sort of pain, but Gerta is going easy on my clit, perhaps sensing that I must not be too sore for Potchenko. The muscles of my thighs contract with my prolonged carriage and I feel like flopping back into the water with a splash.

  “Hold still,” Gerta commands.

  She harshly worms two of her sausage-like fingers into my open pussy hole. She pushes my walls apart and zooms straight for my cervical mouth. She’s probing and digging in there as if she’s trying to find something.

  She makes several clean sweeps of my vaginal circumference and pulls her fingers out, which are now covered with a sticky layer of my creams. She then dips her hand into the water to wash them off.

  I hope I passed her test, whatever it is. I hope I’m deep enough . . . tight enough for the Great Leader. I make to sink back into the water.

  “Wait,” Gerta rasps.

  I hold my hips up again. I grimace as she shoves those two fingers up my ass this time. This time she’s rubbing my rectal walls, expanding and massaging them. I close my eyes against her harsh ministrations. I hope I’m tight enough in that passage too.

  When she has finished exploring/inspecting/feeling me up in my two most intimate of tunnels, she pushes me down into the water. My body displaces the water, which sloshes the sides of the tub. She resumes scrubbing me down as though I am a horse.

  My skin glows and tingles all over.

  Strangely enough, since the execution, I have never felt more alive.

  I emerge from the tub, pink and clean and shining. My skin bears the marks of the bristles. I suppose this is the Urskan version of a body scrub at the spa.

  Gerta points to a wooden table.

  “Get there on your hands and knees.”

  I am apprehensive, but I obey. To not obey in this place is possibly tantamount to a public flogging. I climb onto the table and get down on all fours, just as she asked. My buttocks jut into the air. I bow my head, but my eyes are surreptitiously following her from beneath the outlines of my torso. I watch her fretfully as she picks up a long wooden spoon.

  “You hungry?” she says gruffly.

  “Yes.”

  She goes to another kettle and scoops up several helpings of something into a bowl. Then she strides to me and places the bowl in front of me on the table. It is some sort of European broth. It smells positively delicious.

  My mouth waters again.

  “Eat,” she says.

  I get up to sit upon my haunches, meaning to take the bowl in my hands to slurp from it, Japanese style. But she hits my rump with the spoon, which is still dripping with broth. Hot drops spatter upon my flesh. I am so desensitized to heat by now that I scarcely feel it.

  “Put it down, stupid girl. Eat like dog. No use your hands.”

  Oh, so she wants to demean me. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried that. It also seems that I have a new appellation: ‘stupid girl’. I wonder if those are the few words of English that Gerta knows, and that’s why Mansk sicced her on me.

  I put the steaming bowl down. My long mahogany hair falls over my shoulders. I’m sure Gerta will plunk the spoon on me if I so much as get my newly cleaned locks into the broth, and so I twist my hair carefully into a mock ponytail and wind it behind my back. Then I bend my head to the bowl, put my lips upon the hot, hot surface, and slurp the broth ungracefully.

  “Eat faster,” Gerta commands, smacking my buttocks with the spoon.

  Ow! The wooden implement stings like a flat paddle. I hastily swallow more of the broth. My hair begins to creep over my angled shoulders once again, and I fearfully contract the muscles around my scapula to keep it back.

  It’s a most uncomfortable position.

  As I struggle to finish the rest of my broth – which tastes mostly of corn flour with very little specks of meat, to be honest – the blunt end of the spoon’s handle nudges my vulva. Gerta has plans for it, no doubt. I gasp as the spoon roughly invades my pussy. I can feel the fibrous texture of the wood as it worms its way further in . . . and in . . . until its very tip scrapes against my cervix.

  “Eat faster,” Gerta repeats.

  As I slurp and lick the rest of the tasteless broth, she wriggles the spoon within my passage, inching my walls apart. My juices start to flow copiously. Since I have become a sex slave, I’m practically a water tap. All you have to do is touch me and I will spontaneously cream.

  “Lick clean,” comes the further command.

  I lick the insides of the bowl, wishing I had some black bread to chase it down. I’m thirsty as well. Gerta slips the spoon out of my pussy and transfers it to my asshole. Once again, she burrows it past my still tight sphincter and pushes it all the way in. My anus closes around the handle like an anemone. The rod is hard within my rectum, which molds itself firmly around it.

  She shoves it in deeper, so deep that the handle is completely swallowed whole by my back tunnel. She impales me with it right up till the curve of the spoon. I’m afraid she would thrust it deeper in, but she seems to know her limits . . . and mine.

  As I wipe the bowl clean with my tongue, she twists the handle inside me. The wood grates against the coarser undulations of my walls. My pussy continues to drip and my nipples are swollen and tense. I find myself pushing back against the spoon, trying to take it deeper into me, trying to make it fuck me in the ass.

  I realize I badly need to be fucked. How long has it been since a cock has taken me? A few days?

  As soon as I have finished supping, she takes the spoon out.

  “Get down,” she says. “Now sleep.”

  She points at the floor before the fireplace. A bowl of water is placed to the side. So I am to curl up there, naked, in front of the fire? On the cold hard floor? I guess I don’t have a choice. It could have been worse. But what about Max and Greg? What has happened to them?

  I say timidly, “Excuse me, but what about my friends? The two men I was brought in with?”

  I picture all kinds of things happening to Max and Greg. I mean, anything can happen here. Executions . . . and even if they weren’t going to kill you, they could sure as hell chop something else off. Maybe my boys are getting raped even as I speak.

  “Your friends with Great Leader.” Gerta grins, baring coffee-stained teeth. “Now their turn. Tomorrow . . . yours.”

  So they are being fucked by the Great Leader? I pray it’s only a fuck . . . I would be so relieved. Even if it’s a gangbang, I’m going to be eternally thankful. It’s the things I don’t know and can’t imagine that I can’t abide.

  As I curl on the stone slabs beside the flickering fire, I can’t help but wonder what would happen to me tomorrow.

  Little did I know then that they were going to be worse as I envisioned.

  And I don’t mean sexually.

  4

  Sometime during the next night, when I’m worried out of my skull about Max and Greg, Mansk makes an appearance in my little kitchen chamber. He carries a little black bag with him.

  “Spread your legs,” he says, just like a doctor.

  I study his face. His brow is lined and there are greyish bags under his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I say. The vivid specter of his sister standing before the Guillotine still haunts me, in spite of the fact that I cannot see her face. But I remember the fall of her dark hair clearly and the defeated slouch of her shoulders.

  Anushya, he called her.

  He pauses. His eyes rake mine, studying my face as intensely as I study his.
Mansk is actually not bad-looking. He has a certain swarthy, masculine charm. I’m more into pretty boys myself – Max being the perfect case example – but I’m not averse to rugged men.

  Mansk sighs. “We have to go on. That is what the Great Leader would say.”

  Tentatively, I reach out with my hand to take his. I grasp it firmly. He raises his eyebrows in mild shock. OK, I know it’s presumptuous of me to touch him without being asked to, but I thought he needed a bit of touching – and not in a sexual way.

  I say, “But surely family comes first. Were you and your sister close?”

  That faraway look comes into his eyes again. “The earliest memory I had of her is . . . was . . . at our village in Praske. We play in the river. Tasha fall . . . trip over a rock. I reach out with my hand in time and grab her. Stop her from being carried away by the river.”

  He looks away.

  He adds, “I can’t stop her this time.”

  I say, “I’m sorry.”

  I tighten my grip.

  He doesn’t say anything for a long while. Then he clears his throat. “I prepare you. For the Great Leader.”

  Of course. It’s my night. The boys have probably been whipped and tied and fucked into submission already. A deep shudder courses down my legs. Please . . . don’t let him be too rough on me. I’ve been fragile lately. Emotionally more than anything else.

  I go to the table and hike my hips up to sit on the edge. I open my thighs to show him my pussy. He takes out a rouge pot from his bag and starts to apply the red compressed powder onto my intimate lips.

  “I thought you were a soldier, not a groom,” I remark.

  “We do what we must when the times arise.”

  The little brush which he applies onto my tender flesh tickles me and sends an exquisite spasm shooting across my loins. My womb and buttocks contract.

  “Why do you stay here?” I say softly.

  “What?”

  “You know what I mean. If they . . . he . . . keeps on doing this to you and your family . . . then why do you stay here? Why don’t you seek asylum somewhere else?”