The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica) Page 2

  The barracks are teeming with guards. Soldiers. I don’t quite know where one begins and the other ends. Maybe every first son in the family is a soldier here. So they have an infinity of men in uniform. Once upon a time, I would have found that hot.

  But not now. There are just too many of them.

  We are loaded off the trucks like damaged goods. I am still naked from the waist down. Every man suddenly stops in the tracks of whatever he is doing to stare at me. I blush, wanting to shrink back into the truck.

  It’s not that I’m terribly shy, but the lewdness of their expressions suggests an animalistic hunger than I have not seen in American men – the hundreds of men I have fucked. This is something more primal and intimidating. It is the collective and palpable hunger of a mob which has been denied. Taken away from their families in the call of duty.

  And I’m a young woman in the midst of all this pack starvation. I feel like a lamb being thrown to the wolves.

  Max and Greg come out of the truck and eye my condition. They note, without speaking, the dried stains on my inner thighs, and the way I am – all ragged and disheveled and mussed up. Max’s eyes hold a plethora of emotions, and Greg simply looks pained.

  The other truck arrives, but we are whisked into the building before I can see Mansk and his family being loaded out.

  The front doors open into a large common area of sorts. Uniformed men drink ale or whatever it is stirring in those tin flagons. They smoke cigarettes and play some sort of game with rocks and dice. They talk and laugh congenially.

  But all that stops as soon as we enter. The silence is suddenly and instantly palpable.

  I’m Cinderella come to the ball.

  My heart plunges to my feet as I realize what we are about to be subjected to. But of course, I tell myself logically, you signed up just for this very thing. You wanted to be fucked and sucked and caressed in every hole imaginable.

  So why am I now afraid? Is it the impending cloud of doom hanging above our fates? It’s like someone telling us: This is the script of your life. Game over. You’ve come home to play with the big boys.

  The guard beside me – the one who has so ceremoniously fucked my ass – turns to me and starts to unbutton my blouse. He wants me totally naked. I help him shrug my upper body out of the peasant shirt. My large breasts spring free, and every eye is immediately riveted to my red nipples.

  The other guards gesture to Max and Greg to do the same. Soon, all three of us are naked in the company of clothed and armed men. Very dangerous men.

  Someone bolts the double doors behind us.

  It’s clear what is about to happen.

  Men advance towards us from all directions. It becomes a rush. My arms and waist are seized by purposeful, groping hands. My ankles are grabbed. I am hauled upwards, and I lose sight of what they are doing to Max and Greg as my hair whips around my head and the heated faces of men surround me. I can only see a sea of dirty green uniforms and pale smiling flesh. The color of puke, I remind myself.

  I surrender myself to whatever will happen. It’s no use fighting.

  I am pushed down onto a table with my legs spread wide apart. My buttocks are almost dangling off the edge, but my knees are supported by grasping hands and arms. Belts are unbuckled. Zippers are pulled down. Cocks hang out – their heads purple and red.

  Someone’s dick pushes into my pussy hole. But I am unable to see who, because someone else clambers over me. Someone with big ass cheeks slithers over my face and thrusts his thick cock into my mouth. I take it in and suck it, but he’s not content with that. He begins to fuck my face, cramming his thick thatch of pubic hair into my nose. He smells of sex.

  Someone gropes my tits. Hands snake across my belly, my sides, my hair, my legs. Is there no part of me that is not caressed and prodded and pinched and tweaked? The overwhelming smorgasbord of sensations drives me to almost delirium. I should lose myself. I should give it to whatever I’m trying not to feel.

  There are endless moans around me, like a chorus of ghosts. The fucking in my pussy and mouth is frenetic. The cock inside my pussy spurts, and I feel the trickle of semen once again watering my vagina. The cock withdraws, and another cock swiftly takes its place. My fuckers are faceless.

  The cock in my mouth discharges itself – its wielder crying out into the ceiling above me. The ass cheeks take themselves off, and I gulp great lungfuls of oxygen. This is immediately replaced by someone else’s cock. How systematic they are. How organized, like the strict military regimen they profess to be.

  In, out. Back, forth. Genitals rubbing against one another. Orgasms exploding and subsiding. My vagina and mouth are filled with different flavors of semen. I’m overflowing. I’m an empty vessel for other people’s collective seed.

  Then I am pulled off the table. I go flying, buoyed by many hands. I am on the ground. Someone flips me around, and I’m straddling someone else who is completely naked. I am pushed down onto his penis, my pussy hole a velvet purse around his girth. Flesh tightening around tight flesh. My breasts quash against his chest, and someone’s pincer grip is around my right nipple – scissoring the tender flesh, squeezing it.

  Someone’s dick enters my asshole. My neck is craned upward and my chin is roughly raised. A cock smashes into my mouth, worming itself in without mercy. I am triply penetrated. Three cocks are pistoning in and out of me, almost in unison. I am nothing but a vessel in triplicate. My own climax builds despite me not wanting it to.

  Sperm gushes. My climax spurts magma piles all over. I have no time to think about what is happening to Max and Greg, but I think they are been fucked in all orifices too. What they are doing to us is immensely dirty. And gratifying. They have reduced us to our basest selves.

  I am picked off again. Pressed down on the back against the floor. Another cock replaces the one which has left. And more. And more. And more.

  Somewhere between the nineteenth and twentieth round of fucking, I pass out from the pleasure and pain and enormity of it all, or maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain caused by overcrowding bodies.

  I will never know.

  3

  When I come to, we are naked in a dungeon cell. It’s cold and the walls drip with moisture. Moss covers the stones in patches, resembling bloodstains which have spread. I would not be surprised if someone told me those really were bloodstains, and the moss has decided to seek nutrition from this dark, barren place from where it is most concentrated. And nothing is more nutritious that the drip of our blood into these ancient stones.

  A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. There is practically no draft in here, and the door is iron-bound wood and opaque. Nothing indicates what time of the day or night it is, or how long we have been in here.

  All three of us are bound in a precarious manner.

  Greg is strung upon a rack which consists of two horizontal boards and two vertical iron beams. His body is threaded in between these boards. His wrists and ankles are bound to the beams. He looks twisted and stretched upon this seemingly medieval torture device. A rusted iron rod has been placed in his anus, and it juts out like a stiff tail.

  Max is beside him. He is mounted on another rack, but in a different bondage position. He is tied to a horizontal beam, but his legs are split at the crotch and stretched almost impossibly wide to be tethered to either end. I’m not sure this is a position he relishes. He is upright, and his balls grind against the rough wood of the beam. His wrists are manacled to the beam’s underside.

  As for me, I am in a seated position, but in a torture device of some sort. It surrounds me like an iron cage. Leather straps are wound around my body, leaving my breasts and private parts unencumbered. My wrists are locked within the cage. My knees are bent, and my pussy envelops a synthetic dildo that is attached to a machine.

  A fucking machine.

  In essence, I am not really seated, but attached instead to this uncomfortable machine with its huge appendage buoying my ass, fixing me in place. I can o
nly thank my lucky stars that it isn’t switched on.

  None of us feel like speaking. A collective dread pools in our chests, and our bodies are as heavy as anchors. There is simply no use to hope. No platitudes about getting out of here are going to cut it. Because we are not getting out of here. There’s no ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card in this board game of our reality.

  In essence, I got the boys into this. The two people I love best in this world.

  Yes, I do love Greg. I also love Max. But differently.

  It’s all extremely complicated.

  Footsteps sound outside. I jerk my head up, feeling the strain in my thighs. My vaginal walls are sore. Well used. The dildo fills me like a warm presence in this horribly chilly room.

  Latches outside are undone. Bolts shot from home. The door creaks open.

  A couple of guards step inside first. One of them catches my eye. It’s the very same one who has fucked my ass so thoroughly in the truck. He’s very officious today, and his face does not betray a muscle.

  They line both sides of the door to make way for Potchenko.

  The dictator steps into the cell. I haven’t seen him in such a long time that I’m taken aback by how handsome he is. How commanding. He immediately infects the atmosphere with his palpable charisma and aura. Our backs straighten despite our cruel positions and our necks force our heads up.

  He is naturally followed by Aimelie, his daughter. She is dressed in one of her little girl frocks, but this time, she doesn’t sail in like a puffy pink cloud, the way she normally does. Her face is scrunched up in some sort of expression that suggests irritation.

  But Aimelie is different and ‘special’, so what passes off as irritation for someone else might probably be murder in her case.

  My heart sinks. I believe I know what this is.

  They have come to judge us.

  Potchenko eyes the three of us in our state – bound, humiliated, subjugated . . . and guilty as sin. We are guilty of trying to flee our contract. Guilty of misdemeanors far outweighing offenses punishable by death.

  He says something to Aimelie, and she says something back in that singsong voice of hers. Her face is unreadable, as is his.

  I have an awful, awful feeling about this.

  Potchenko faces the three of us.

  He says, “My daughter and I have discussed this. We have decided that all three of you must be executed to serve as an example to my citizens and guests. We cannot allow you to demonstrate such behavior even though you are American citizens. On our land, your lives are our jurisdiction and it is for us to dispense punishment as we see fit.”

  Even though I expected this, I feel faint. The only reason I’m still sitting up is because I am held by the iron grip of my confines. My vision blurs and my head lolls upon the suddenly limp stick of my neck. There is a bubbling in my stomach that cannot be solely attributed to acid.

  I can’t see how Max and Greg must be feeling because of my watery vision, but I assume they are every bit as stunned. And upset.

  This is confirmed as I hear Max’s voice through the roaring in my ears.

  “But you can’t kill us,” he is saying. There is an outraged tone to his voice. “Even if our lives mean nothing to you, it will certainly mean a lot more to my father, who will move heaven and hell to get us out of here, including going to the President of the United States.”

  “We are well aware of that,” Potchenko says, “and we are willing to go through with it. But your disobedience requires the same punishment as my subjects. To let you remain alive would cause unrest amongst my people, who must be ruled with an iron fist.”

  Yes. I know this. That’s why I’m so frightened. But I made a choice, and I dragged my friends into it. Now we must all pay the price. Could it have been better to let Max remain Aimelie’s slave forever? It was not so much that Potchenko despises us or is extraordinarily cruel to us. But he must uphold his own laws, or his people will revolt.

  He has no choice.

  Or does he?

  Potchenko says, “But Aimelie has requested a slight change in procedure.”

  Oh? I raise my head warily.

  Aimelie’s expression turns cunning. The madness shines in her eyes.

  She says, “Since she is in love with two men, let her choose between them. The one she chooses will die with her a speedy death at the Guillotine. The other shall be burned alive at the stake.”

  4

  I am paralyzed with terror. I cannot choose. They have removed me from the cell – from my two boys.

  “You’ve had all your time with them,” Aimelie says cruelly. “Now it’s time you choose.”

  We are all dead people walking. It’s only a matter of time.

  I can’t make the choice. I can’t.

  I am alone in a cell. They have removed my restraints, and I am in total darkness. I think they are keeping me in darkness because they want me to think. This isn’t an Edgar Allan Poe short story situation. There are no physical pits waiting for me to trip and fall into, even though there is a very physical pendulum at the end.

  My demons are entirely psychological. Monstrously so.

  I am ceaselessly thinking, just as they desire me to. My mind spins with the painful turntable of possibilities, every one of them as awful as the other. I picture Max at the Guillotine and Greg in flames, writhing and screaming like in the ninth pit of hell itself.

  And I find myself really screaming. Screaming into the darkness, my cries echoing off the uncaring walls. If anyone hears me, they choose to ignore me. Maybe they want me to undergo this catharsis.

  I don’t know how long I have been incarcerated here, but I have to stave off my own madness. I have to maintain all my faculties for Max and Greg. I got them into this, and I have to get them out of it. If not totally, then as peaceably and painlessly as I am able to.

  I sleep between starts and fits. My nightmares are filled with terrifying images – possible paths down our terminable future. I see Max in my visions – golden and handsome and commanding, as I have known him. I see Greg – warm and sensitive and caring. I love them both. God help me, but I do.

  How can I allow either of them to befall this fate Aimelie has chosen for them? I curse that woman with a thousand oaths. I hope all her teeth fall out and that she rots in hell. I curse Russell Devlin for allowing his son to be ensnared in this. I curse and curse the fates until I’m trembling and shivering and crying and all wrung out with sorrow.

  Then I lay my head against the cold, unyielding wall and sob my eyes and heart out. Until I have no tears or sorrow left.

  When they come for me after an indeterminate amount of time, I am ready with my decision. My tears have dried upon my cheeks. My skin is sticky and sweat-streaked.

  My erstwhile guard comes for me. He regards me warily, and I have no doubt that he heard my screams through the night, and he thinks I’m a wildcat about to spring on him. Maybe even claw him to bits.

  “Do you have answer?” he asks me in broken English.

  “Yes,” I say calmly. “Tell Aimelie I want to speak to her.”

  He complies with my request, leading me up the dungeon stairs to the draughty rooms above. I remember this pathway well – up, up, up the stairs to Aimelie’s bedroom, filled with bright and idealistic Ikea furniture.

  Two guards are waiting by the door. I enter the tower room, holding my head up high, even though I am naked and dirty and I smell like rats’ droppings. Aimelie is in bed – alone. She is in a flouncy powder blue ballerina dress, and her legs are open and splayed. Her crotch is bare.

  She is caressing herself with a vibrator, touching her clit with it in a slow downward stroke – from the top of her wrinkled hood to the bottom, where it meets her vulva. She does not stop this repetitive maneuver as we march in. Instead, she smiles at me enticingly.

  “I have made my decision,” I tell her. I meet her eyes head on. “If there is only one person to be burned at the stake, I want it to be me.”


  5

  The hour of our public execution is scheduled the very next day. I think they want to get it over as soon as possible before Uncle Sam can get wind of it and strike. That is, if anyone outside Ursk even knows of our predicament. It’s probably wishful thinking. I have read of people being murdered in Middle Eastern countries, and no one knows what is happening until a relative raises a stink weeks later.

  But the deed is already done. No one went to war over it. The dead Americans were swept under the rug and ultimately forgotten under the umbrella of secrecy and investigation. Maybe indie movies were made about one or two, especially if they were journalists, but no one went to watch them. Thereafter, their memories became a footnote.

  Will someone make movies about us one day? Maybe a National Geographic episode? Or something like ‘Midnight Express’?

  They shepherd me into the back of a truck. Max and Greg are waiting inside with a cluster of guards. Unlike the one we were previously in, this truck has two darkened windows fitted into its sides so that we can observe the proceedings outside.

  If we wish to.

  Our hands are cuffed behind our backs and we are completely naked, as before.

  “Gina!” Max cries as soon as he sees me. He tries to surge ahead, but a guard catches his arm to stop him.

  “Gina!” Greg’s voice is equally anguished.

  The windows offer scant light, but at least I can see the faces of my two beloved boys. They are weary and care-lined and angst-ridden. I am aware that this is the last time I will ever be seeing them again. The tears are openly running down my cheeks. If I had thought I was all cried out earlier, I was wrong. There is so much more sorrow and tragedy still to be wrung from me. My heart is a fluttering piece of leather – altercating between spasms of pain and numbness.

  “Max,” I cry out as I weep, “Greg. Please forgive me. I brought you into this.”