Blaire's World: Volume One

by Box Set

  A tray drops at my feet. Scrambled eggs bounce, some spills onto the floor beside the tray. An apple rolls to the edge of the tray and off.

  “Breakfast,” he sneers in his thick accent. “Your ass is redder than the apple.” He laughs, stepping closer. His hands on me, I clench my ass and try to twist away, but he’s gripping me hard and I can’t get free.

  “Stop,” I demand, but he only laughs.

  “Did Kristoff fuck this ass last night?” He pries my cheeks apart and I arch my back, trying to press my pelvis into the bars, away from him.

  “Let me go, you asshole.” I grind my teeth together. So much for my new plan of playing nice.

  His laugh sounds dirty. I cringe when he moves closer to me, his hands moving up my back and around to my front. I kick out at him, but he’s already grabbed my breasts.

  “These tits.” He groans and pinches my nipples.

  I throw my hips back at him, trying to knock him away, but he only grabs my nipples harder.

  “Fucking bitch,” he says in English - probably because he wants me to understand him. “Try that again and I won’t even spit on my cock before I shove it in your ass.”

  I freeze. His right hand has left my breast and his zipper is worked down. His dick presses against my ass and he needs both hands to pull my cheeks apart.

  Fuck. No.

  I fight back, wiggling and kicking back and throwing my head back trying to hit him or get away. Anything to keep that prick of his from touching me.

  “Chto za chert!” Kristoff barks. I don’t stop fighting my attacker, because I have no idea if Kristoff is here to help me or him.

  “Get away from her!” he yells, and the man is thrown off me. My foot slips in the splattered eggs and I hit my chin on the bar but recover in time to see Kristoff throw the man to the ground and press his boot to the naked cock lying limply against the man’s thigh. “Ty ne trogavesh’ menya.” You don’t touch what’s mine Kristoff says in a voice so low, so dangerous even I freeze at the sound.

  The man glares up at Kristoff but doesn’t try to move. He fires off a protest in Russian, too fast for me to catch every word, but I understand enough to know he’s insulting me and members of my patronage. Kristoff doesn’t defend my honor, simply restates that I’m not to be touched. Because I belong to him.

  “She’s mine,” Kristoff spits, sounding angry. He shoves his boot into my attacker’s midsection before stepping away. “Get out.”

  I turn away, not wanting to see the fury in Kristoff’s eyes when he faces me.

  He kicks the tray away and uncuffs my hands. My shoulder muscles burn when I drop my hands to my sides. They weren’t stretched too far out, but enough that the muscles have tightened overnight. The cuffs aren’t removed from my wrists, just from the bars.

  “Put your hands behind you,” he orders, shifting my position.

  “My shoulder hurts.” I roll my arm, trying to work out the tension. Any help I thought he might give is just a dream. He pulls my hands behind me and clicks the cuffs together.

  “And whose fault is that?” he growls.

  “Well, I didn’t stab myself,” I retort, instantly regretting the comment as he grabs my ass cheek.

  “If you try to run, or escape me while I transport you, the little belting you had last night will seem like a vacation.”

  I nod, positive he means what he says, and not wanting any part of what he gave the night before.

  “Walk.” He turns me to face the open door and pushes me with a single finger in the middle of my back. I’m so easily controlled now.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask once I’m outside the room and in a dimly lit hallway. The air is stale, musty.

  Kristoff doesn’t answer me, just keeps needling my back with his finger. I walk faster, trying to get away from the annoying sensation, but he only quickens his step along with me.

  The doors along the hallway are all closed. No windows on any of them. I try to listen for sounds. Are there other women being held captive down here? Is this where they keep the girls before they sell them?

  “Shit.” I stop walking and shake my right foot. I must have stepped on a rock. Kristoff grabs my arm to keep me steady. Did he think I’d run off, naked and bound? I’m not as dumb as he and everyone else thinks.

  “Let me see,” he orders, snapping his fingers and pointing at my foot.

  “Why?”

  He sighs, heavy like he’s had enough of me already. He points again.

  Bending my knee, I show him the underside of my foot. There’s a cut, blood is already trickling down my heel.

  Brushing away the dirt as best he can with his fingers, he bends lower to see better. If I was more trained, better skilled, I could use his positioning against him and try to get away.

  He pulls the skin of my heel and I see the wound open up and more blood rises to the surface. I hiss and try to pull away.

  Keeping his grip on my arm to keep me steady he bends down to the ground and picks up what looks like a shard of glass. It’s long and jagged. He pockets it and in a swift movement, he lifts me from the ground and deposits me over his shoulder.

  I grunt, as much about his shoulder digging into my stomach as the indecency of the position he’s put me in. My hair falls around my face, shielding me from sight. How can I map out the place if I can’t even see it?

  “I can walk,” I say, trying to buck up and back over his shoulder.

  He smacks my ass. Hard. Not a little pat to remind me he’s in charge, but a sharp stinging smack that reminds me of how much harder he can go with me.

  With my hands bound behind me, it’s hard to do anything other than lay like a limp bag of potatoes. Annoying and uncomfortable, but still the bigger problem, the more concerning issue is I can’t see where he’s taking me. And I have no idea why.

  The cement flooring turns to wood stairs then to carpeting. He’s taking me through a building. A house maybe?

  Men are talking somewhere off in the distance, but no one interrupts our movements. I splay my hands across my bare ass as best I can just in case. Kristoff’s chuckle tells me he finds the action pathetic.

  Well, fuck him.

  I make sure my legs stay clamped closed as he takes me up another flight of stairs. And another.

  Where the hell is he putting me? Is he moving me from a dungeon to a tower?

  “I don’t want anyone inside; do you understand me? I am not to be interrupted for any reason,” Kristoff says in Russian.

  “Of course,” a deep voice responds. I try to look up again and growl, frustrated I can’t see anything and have no control over my own damn movements.

  A door opens, and we enter a room, an apartment? We could be entering the third ring of hell for all I know. Considering the treatment I’ve received so far, the idea isn’t too far away from reality.

  Kristoff flips lights on as he walks farther into a room. We pass a couch. The rug changes from blue to gray. Another door opens. And another.

  I’m dumped on to the middle of a bed, and immediately I scramble to my knees, shaking my head to get the hair out of my eyes. It’s not long, only shoulder length and thin, so it’s not usually a problem. But hanging upside down makes it more so.

  “Stay.” He points a finger at me then walks back to the door, slamming it shut and bolting it. Who would he need to keep out of the room?

  Shuffling on my knees, I move as far away on the bed as I can get from him without falling to the floor. My chest aches from my heart beating too damn fast, and I can’t seem to get enough air. I’m locked in a room with the massive man who already has shown me nothing but pain.

  He barely glances my way as he moves around the room, opening drawers and digging through them. He slams the last one shut and curses under his breath.

  “Don’t move from that spot.” He jerks his finger at me, like it’s my fault he can’t find whatever the hell he’s looking for. I give him a nod since he seems to require acknowledgment before h
e gets moving again, and he unbolts the door.

  While he’s gone, I sweep my gaze around the room. It’s just a bedroom. A fucking huge, luxurious bedroom, but just a room. No torture devices, no weapons hanging from the walls. If I’m not mistaken, there’s even a walkout patio through the French doors. He took me up two flights of stairs, but were we underground for the first set? How far up are we really?

  As I’m trying to figure out how high up of a jump I can survive, the door opens again and he’s back.

  He ignores me and walks past the dresser through another door that I assume is a bathroom when water starts running. Then a shower turns on. He’s taking a damn shower? Now?

  I move from my knees to a sitting position in the bed, wincing at the tenderness still covering my entire backside. Even the plushness of the bedding isn’t enough to make me comfortable.

  I’m just starting to ease off the bed when the bathroom door pulls open again and he calls me.

  “What?” I ask, not having heard the last of what he said.

  “Come here,” he says and crooks that fucking finger of his again. I’m going to break that finger.

  “Why?” I tense, knowing if I piss him off, he’ll hurt me again, and I don’t want to be hurt. But I don’t really want to walk into a room that for all I know has been prepped to drown me.

  He squares off with me, his dark eyes focused on mine, his jaw clenched. “When I call you, you come. You don’t ask questions. You do what you’re told.” He crooks his finger again. “Here.” And points to a spot on the carpet just in front of him.

  I roll my eyes. Yeah, I’m not playing this game. Not with him.

  “Magdalena, I saw the bruises on your ass and your thighs. They will hurt much more today if I have to take my belt to you again. And I won’t go easy on you just because of some bruises - it will be worse because you’ve earned a second punishment in such a short time.”

  The way he talks reminds me of a Dom I used to play with back in New York. He was a stickler for obedience. It was fucking hot, I won’t lie. But this is different. This isn’t just being a good girl to get the orgasm at the end of the night. This is survival.

  And I’d prefer to survive.

  I slip off the bed and walk across the softest carpeting I’ve ever felt and stop just short of where he pointed. Some habits are hard to kill, even with his stern glare fixed on me.

  “Don’t think to win. You’ll never win.” A clear warning to not push him. “Now, get to your knees.”

  There isn’t a part of my body that isn’t aching and moving down to my knees still bound isn’t going to be easy - or graceful. The air swirls thick between us, his irritation becoming palpable.

  With a heavy sigh, I sink down to my knees. Flicking my head to the side, I throw my hair out of my face so I can look up at him. His jeans are tight around his thighs, and his black t-shirt is snug around his chest. The man is more muscle than flesh.

  “I’m going to uncuff you for a shower. Everything you need is already in there. Don’t do anything stupid and when you come out, we’ll talk.”

  “I had to get on my knees for you to tell me that?” I can’t seem to stop myself.

  “You had to get on your knees, Magdalena, because that’s where slaves belong.” He says it so gruffly, it’s almost hard to understand with his accent, but my body reacts to it easily enough. It comprehends him.

  “I’m no one’s slave.” I thrust my chin up.

  He responds with a slow, easy grin. And for a moment, he almost looks pleased. “We’ll see about that.” He pats my cheek. “Shower.”

  I’m hauled up to my feet and spun around. The man handles me like I’m a damn rag doll and not a woman. After my cuffs are removed, I rub my wrists. They hadn’t been too tight, but it’s nice to have my body back under my control again.

  He steps to the side and gestures for the shower. It’s a walk-in with a glass door that’s steamed up. With a quick glance back at him, I open the door and step inside.

  The warm water runs over my body, soothing some of the ache from my muscles. I’m deeply aware of the monster lurking on the other side of the door, but I push him from my mind as best I can. This may be the best feeling I have all day and I’m going to enjoy it.

  Remembering the breathing techniques I was taught, I take deep steady breaths and let the warm water run over my head. Water runs down my face, over my shoulders. I wonder briefly about the stitches, but shove that thought away and concentrate on my breathing.

  No matter what happens next, I will survive. I will find a way out of this fucking stronghold and get free.

  “Time’s up.” A hard knock on the door ruins what tranquility I was able to find.

  I quickly wash and turn the water off.

  The door opens and he’s there again, hovering with a towel. I try to take it from him, but he shakes his head.

  “No, I’ll dry you.” He looks down at the bath mat where I assume he wants me to stand. Fine, if he wants to dry me - go ahead. I have more important things to worry about. Like what he is going to do to me in the bedroom.

  The plush towel runs over my body and he makes quick work of the task, only slowing down his movements when he’s drying my breasts. When he reaches my sex, he squats down before me.

  “Open your legs,” he commands.

  “I’m fine there,” I say, but he slaps my thigh hard. “Fuck. Fine.” I move my right leg out and stand with my feet shoulder length apart.

  The towel runs up my inner thighs to my sex. I think back to the last time I shaved, not that I should care, but find myself relieved to remember I had taken care of it just the other day.

  “You’re wet,” he accuses with some levity in his tone.

  “Yeah. That’s what happens when you take a shower.” I remark with more snark than I intend. My nerves are running wild and controlling my tongue is becoming harder and harder to do. And it’s not helping that my body keeps reacting to him. My pussy is wet; I can feel it and it’s not the water from the shower.

  “Hmm.” He doesn’t reprimand me for my remark.

  The towel falls to the floor, and he holds my hips. I try to pull back, but he’s too strong and his mouth is on me next. His tongue swipes through my folds and swirls around my clit.

  I fight back the moan and try to step away from him, but he’s just too damn determined. Suckling my clit into his mouth, I let the moan escape. It’s been too long since I’ve been touched like this - have I ever been touched like this?

  His tongue is as stern as the rest of him, and he continues to lick and suck my sex until I’m a heaving statue. I want to grip his hair, drag him up and down my pussy, but I manage to control myself enough not to.

  “You will come for me,” he says and thrusts two fingers into my passage.

  “No.” I shake my head, but arch toward him wanting more than just his fingers.

  “Yes, you will. And only when I give permission. Come hard for me, right here.” He fucks me with his fingers, curling them slightly and hitting the exact right spot. I should pull away now that he’s only got one hand on me, but instead, my body leans into him.

  He’s biting me, sucking, licking, fucking, all the right movements, all the right sensations.

  “Come,” he orders in that stern tone of his. The one that should send fear through me, but not in this instant. Not when he moans and flicks his tongue over my clit faster and faster while his fingers are pumping in and out of me.

  I can’t. I can’t come just because he said or because he’s touching me. I need to get away.

  “Come, Magdalena, be a good girl for me.”

  Oh fuck.

  “Your pussy is so tight, so good, now be good too, come for me,” he says, and the tip of his tongue touches my clit spiraling me out of control. The waves ripple through my body, from my head to my clit and back. Screams fill the bathroom. Mine. My screams. My hands grab for the wall behind me to keep from falling over.

  He doesn’t stop,
he keeps fingering me until the very last pulse falls away and then he places a soft kiss to my clit and sits back. My chest heaves and I suck in air as I watch him lick his fingers clean of my juices.

  I caved.

  I lost.

  Just like he said I would.

  “That’s a good slave,” he says with a cocky grin and stands up. I think of a retort but find myself swooped up in his arms and carried back into the bedroom.

  I’m tired, sore, and hazy from the mind-blowing orgasm he gave me.

  After I’m dumped back on the bed, he stands over me with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Now. You’ll answer my questions. First - how did you learn Russian?” he asks me and then I realize my mistake.

  He’s been speaking to me in Russian since he put his tongue on my clit.

  5

  She’s cute. Realization hits her features and she blanches. She thought I hadn’t noticed her reactions when she wasn’t supposed to be understanding. She’d learn.

  Finding that fucking asshole getting ready to rape her had set my nerves on fire. No one but me will touch her. No one.

  I could sit and evaluate why I feel so protective over her, but I won’t. It would only end badly - for us both. No matter what I feel, she’s to be trained and sold. End of story.

  “Answer me,” I bark at her when she remains quiet. Her mind is reeling, looking for a plausible lie. But I’ve already figured out one thing about my Magdalena - she’s no good at lying.

  “I took it in high school,” she blurts out and I laugh.

  “You took Russian in high school? In America?”

  “College?” She tries again, but her voice is weak.

  I take a deep breath. “Your sister, did she teach you?”

  “Danuta? No. She—” She looks away from me, like it’s embarrassing to speak. “She never taught me.”

  “You taught yourself then,” I say, keeping my voice hard. I have my suspicions, but I’m not giving them away yet. If I’m right, she has no idea.

  “Yes.” She nods and pulls her knees up to her chest, covering her naked body from me. I sense it’s not her body she’s trying to hide though, and the part of her she’s wanting to shield won’t be kept from me.