by Loki Renard
I run my hand over Sophie’s belly, knowing I will never rid my mind of all the darkness of the past, or even the recent present. This baby lives because dozens have died. But it will never be told that. It will know nursery rhymes and cartoons. It will grow up believing that the world is a safe place. It will never, even for a moment, guess at the legacy behind it. We will live a normal life and that means we will leave this fortress, if I have to drag Sophie from it.
“You’re so quiet,” she says. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we will live in the city.”
“Oh, we will?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just going to decide that, are you?” Her tone is pointed, unacceptably so. I can hear her gearing up for a rant, which is not going to be tolerated.
“Yes.”
She lets out a breath. “Vadim, I’m...”
I don’t want to hear her lecture, the one she gives because pride demands it. I pull her into another kiss, sliding my hand down her back to cup her bottom.
“Sophie,” I say softly. “You are mine. I will make decisions for our family. You will do as I tell you.”
I can feel her vibrating with rebellion. She doesn’t want to hear that. She wants to be allowed the illusion of control she’s always had. She wants to fight me, because that’s all she knows how to do. But that ends now. I will teach her new ways of being. I will make sure she behaves for me.
I take her by the hand and draw her up from the bed, taking her to the divan where she once ordered me to sleep. It is not a good place for a man to lie, but it is the perfect spot for a naked woman to be bent lengthwise, her legs spread and straddling either side of it, exposing her soft, puffy sex and her tight winking bottom hole.
She follows my silent orders without argument. Perhaps she knows what is coming. Perhaps not. Once she is in place, I hold her down with a fisted hand in her hair, noticing that she does not fight me in matters of physical discipline. I have trained her better than to resist me. She lies there, her ass raised naturally in the position with her legs drawn up on either side of her, as if she is riding the bench.
I reach down and run my hand over each of her cheeks, enjoying the softness, feeling the little welted places where the belt already bit. “I am back, my little love,” I growl down at her, tenderly stroking that soft flesh. “And some things are the same, but many have changed. I am your master. You will obey me. And if you do not, you will be punished. Hard.”
I emphasize that word with a swift slap, my palm sweeping through the air to land against her ass with a hard blow, a pink handprint appearing brightly in its place as it leaves her skin.
“Ow! Vadim!” she gasps and whimpers in a shocked tone, her eyes widening at me.
Did she think I was going to be gentle with her? No. I will never be gentle with her. I will not be soft. I will be as hard as she needs me to be. I will play the unyielding disciplinarian she fears disobeying, because if I am not, then her pride and her American arrogance will rise again and that is when the danger will once more threaten our family.
“Vadim, why... ow!” she cries out as I match the first print with another, delivering one more wickedly hard slap to her ass. I love the way it jiggles, how I can see her wet pussy grinding against the material of the divan, knowing that in spite of how much it hurts she is getting some satisfaction from her position.
* * *
Sophie
He is humiliating me. He is hurting me. He is punishing me, and I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong. I barely argued with him. I told him that he might have a daughter, and I asked if he was the one who would decide where we lived. The answer to that is clearly yes. His hand holds my hair so tight I can feel the roots of my hair stinging, but not as much as the skin of my ass, already tender and now flaming with discipline.
“You already used your belt on me!”
“That is why I use my hand. Be quiet,” he growls, landing another two slaps, one to each cheek, both hard, both jolting me against the divan, my clit sliding over the soft fabric, giving me just a hint of pleasure before the pain flares again.
He is telling me so much without speaking. It is clear that Vadim has not come back to me to be my owned boy. He has returned a man fully in command of himself, and determined to take full control of me. He might want to live somewhere more conventional, but behind closed doors he will rule me. I will never be free while he is alive. And that fact makes my spirit soar even as it makes my pride burn.
“Tell me you are mine,” he prompts me.
“I’m yours!” I don’t hesitate, not even for a moment. I feel as though I was born for Vadim, made specifically to belong to this man. Every battle I fought on my own, every taunting attempt to foil the Vristok, each event in my lonely, miserable, loss-filled life has been leading to this. To being his. Fully. Completely.
I cry my submission, my voice plaintive, broken, and soft now in between the harsh slaps that rain down on my poor exposed bottom.
I know in my heart that if he did not do this, I would not listen to him. I would not obey. I am a woman who has spent her life buying and selling men to suit my needs. I have paid them to die, while barely providing them enough to live. I deserve what Vadim is doing to me. He knows me well enough to know that it is not his darkness that most threatens us. It is mine. I have the furious spirit of a woman who has borne too much pain, and if he ever relents, even for a moment, I will rise up again.
I don’t have to say that. He knows that. We both do. We are more than lovers. We are two people who can only be in balance when he takes charge. I will cry for him. I will scream for him. I will come for him. I will bear his babies... and together, we will find the peace that eluded so many generations before us.
The heat in my bottom burns through my flesh and finds its home in my heart as I cry my lust, my love, and my surrender to the man who has broken me—and in doing so, saved me.
* * *
Vadim
Her orgasms. Her tears. They are both gifts and signs of true surrender. In the coming years I will give her many of the former, and she will shed many of the latter. This is not going to be over in a single night. I cannot whip and spank every bit of rebellion from her in one session. This is a process that started the moment we met, and will continue as long as we both shall live.
I crouch down in front of her, keeping her in my grasp, holding her head up so she is forced to meet my gaze. I want to see what this is doing to her. I want to watch the hard walls of her proud exterior crumble.
“I will not be kind, my love.”
She nods, her eyes rimmed red and wet. She is crying tears of pain and joy, experiencing both physical and emotional states because of me. What a good girl she can be when she wants to be. I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy seeing her this way. From the moment I first met her, this is how I wanted to see her, wet and dripping cum, with tears in her eyes and humility written on her face.
“Tell me you are mine.”
Sophie hesitates just a moment too long. Long enough for my fingers to tap her cheek warningly. She will try to push me in small ways, which I cannot allow.
“I’m yours,” she says in a soft whisper, the corners of her lips turning up in a secret little smile.
“You like this. Don’t you. You love your cruel Russian tormentor.”
* * *
Sophie
“Yes,” I hiss softly.
This is the Vadim I have craved. The man who doesn’t care how the world says I should be treated. He is ruthless, and just as he says, probably cruel. But it is the necessary cruelty of a man who does not pretend that all problems can be solved with kindness.
His fingers meet my face in a light slap. I am grinding my pussy against the divan, my cum-soaked pussy probably staining the delicate fabric. I am being taken to a level of submission I didn’t know existed, where outrage gives way to shame and shame leads directly to perfect release.
“Mine,” he says, swatt
ing my other cheek a little more firmly, not hard enough to truly hurt, but more than enough to send the hot flush of humiliation rushing through my body. He can do as he pleases to me, because every breath I draw is one I get to take only because of who he is and what he has done.
“Yours,” I say, lapping at his fingers as he pushes them into my mouth, suckling on his digits as we lock eyes. Then the devil takes me, the little part of me that can never quite obey, and my teeth tighten on his ring and middle finger.
“Let go,” he commands roughly.
But I don’t. I bite down harder. Not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to remind him that I am still me, and no matter how broken I may seem to be, my spirit will always persevere. A moment ago I was his beautifully broken submissive. A second later, I am the rebellious woman he still must master.
“Now!” He thunders the word, sending a bolt of excitement through my belly. I release his fingers and he sweeps me up from the bed in one arm and goes for his belt, a little bubbling giggle rising inside me as I present my bottom for another round of his discipline. This is going to hurt.
“Naughty girl,” he growls, wrapping the buckle end around his hand. “Naughty, wicked, disobedient, little brat girl.”
Each of the words is accompanied by a swat of the tongue of the end of the belt, catching across my bottom and lower thighs. He lets me squirm around, attempt to escape, only to pull me back and pin me down again. We are both enjoying this war, these sexual skirmishes in which he conquers me and I submit, only to rise again.
“Enough,” he says, finally laying down the belt when my bottom is so sore that my cries sound more like squawks every time the lash lands, and I am not sure my flesh can tolerate the consequences of my misbehavior anymore. There is something wicked inside me, something he will have to wrestle with every day of our lives.
“Behave yourself, will you?” He growls the words against my lips, cupping my poor bottom in his big hand.
“Yessir,” I whimper, once again suitably subdued.
Vadim pulls me down onto the bed with him, cradles me in his arms, and holds me close. I can feel his heart beating through his chest, a safe sound, one that settles me and allows me to close my eyes as his big hand sweeps back and forth over the skin where I deserved punishment.
I need to hurt. It is the only way to heal. And it is the only way I will ever be able to feel as I do right now—entirely at home in the arms of the man raised to end my life, the same man who is now the only reason I have a life worth living. This is my new beginning.
The End
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