I groan as it slithers in with difficulty. But once the tip is through, the rest follows easily enough. The throttle lever is so huge as to be uncomfortable, and I squirm upon it as it wedges itself deep into my vagina. I let it go as deep as it can go, and then I stop there – stuck to the console.
“Very good,” Potchenko remarks.
He lets me stew there for a bit like a piece of erotic modern art. Truly, I don’t think anyone has ever been in my situation before. The throttle lever impales and fills me, letting every part of my vagina know that it’s omnipresent. The discomfort eases slightly as my juices pour out to slather the knob. But the throttle is still very, very huge, and my entire pelvis feels full to the brim. I know I won’t be able to move if he asks me to.
My breath is coming out in short, sharp bursts. Sweat gathers and trickles down my back and the crevice of my buttocks.
Potchenko gets up from his seat to study me. He walks around the narrow space, scrutinizing me from all angles.
“Take off your belt and whip her,” he says to the captain.
I freeze.
The captain is alarmed. He whispers something to Potchenko in Urskan, which Potchenko replies to with a harsh bark.
I’m terror-stricken. I’ve never liked being whipped or spanked and I have never been beaten with a belt before. The very thought of that curling leather snake fills me with a coldness so frigid that I’m unable to compose any other thought, other than the alphabet. And so I begin to recite it mentally like some dreadful countdown to my punishment. A. B. C. D.
My mind is screaming and screaming, trapped like a rat on an airplane.
The captain knows better than to disobey Potchenko. As do I. He unbuckles his belt. My guts contract with fear. Every instinct screams at me to flee, but I’m stuck firmly in the strangest way possible, rooted by my own barely maintained control.
The captain stands behind me. His belt arm trembles. I face forward, unable to keep the tears from running down my cheeks. I wince, anticipating the first blow.
It catches me around the shoulders. Whack! I cry out. It is every bit as harsh as I expect a belt to be. Although my long mahogany hair dampens the impact, the band of pain flares at my shoulder blades. I can imagine what Max and Greg must be thinking in the other room. Can they hear what is going on in here?
The belt descends again. Whack!
The captain seems to be avoiding my buttocks, which are quashed against the console with its flattened displays and jutting dials. My hips grind against the metal surface with its jutting protuberances and uncomfortable undulations.
Whack!
The belt catches me at the small of my back. I cry out with each lash, the hot tears stinging my eyes.
Whack!
Whack!
The captain aims for a different part of my back each time. I think I must have lost count. I am faint with pain and terror. My shoulders and back is a burning morass of ant bites. Each band crisscrosses to the next, and I am speckled with numbness. My throbbing vagina is sore from being rubbed from side to side, and from back to front, and every angle possible as I twist and writhe to minimize the impact of my blows. My eyes are blurred, and I can taste the salt of my tears upon my lips.
Potchenko says something, and the captain stops. I can hear him breathing hard and glimpse the snakelike trail of his belt. I slump against my punishing knob, bruised and fatigued beyond measure. My muscles are sore from being held in such a prolonged contracted state.
“Help her up,” Potchenko orders.
The captain’s hands are extra gentle as he circles them around my hips. Together, we raise my buttocks above the throttle lever, which is now smeared with a thick layer of my cream. I am very shaky as he helps me down.
“Go.” Potchenko motions me.
I stumble to the door as he follows me from behind.
5
In the first class cabin, the boys are decked out with food.
I mean literally that.
Max is on all fours. Sandwiches have been neatly laid out on his back, arranged in little triangles with wide spaces of his skin in between. Greg is standing straight up, immobile. His arms are spread out at his sides in the manner of a cross, and sandwiches have been placed on them as well as his broad, muscled shoulders.
The penises of both my boys are magnificently erect. Max’s impressive tool slams against his flat stomach in his crouching position. Greg’s pierced one rises above his pubic nest and firm, ripe balls. He wears his usual barbell piercing, though I’m sure Potchenko would decorate him with other things when we land.
Both boys look up in concern as I enter. Max’s handsome face is creased with worry. He mutely locks his beautiful blue eyes with mine.
Are you hurt? hurtles the question.
My face is wan. My footsteps are unsure, and I still wobble as I walk. I steal a look at my back. It is streaked with red crisscrossing bands.
Max sees them too and blanches. I mutely plead with him not to do anything, say anything. I can’t bear it if he’s punished with worse than the whiplash end of a leather belt.
Because of me.
Greg too is outraged. He struggles to mask his features as Potchenko’s eyes flit across their faces.
“Which of them is your lover?” he asks me.
“Master?” My heart begins to thud painfully. Is this some sort of trick question?
“Which of them do you fuck?”
I tremble.
“I-I have fucked both of them, Master.”
He nods. “Of course. As is your station. But which of them do you love?”
It is an unusual question from Potchenko. His features are impassive, and I cannot gauge where this is leading. My stomach clenches.
Would I doom one of them if I tell the truth? Would I doom both of them if I do not tell the truth?
Oh the choices. The choices.
I point to Max and say in a quavering voice, “He is my boyfriend, Master.” My heart roils in its cavity. Am I setting Max up for a special sort of torment?
Potchenko takes this in.
“Good.” He gestures with his thumb to his guards, all ten of them, and says something. They file out of the cabin, all except for two – Mansk and another man.
Potchenko’s fingers begin to unbutton his military jacket from the collar. His guards come up to assist him.
“Are you hungry, Gina Wesley?” he says.
So he knows my name. Well, he did buy me, but I would have thought that something as insignificant as my name would escape him.
“Yes, Master.”
He points at Max’s sandwich-decorated torso. “Then eat to your fill. Use only your mouth.”
Feeling helpless and ill at ease, knowing the boys are ravenous as well, I get down on my knees beside Max. He does not dare speak to me, but his expressive eyes shine.
It’s OK, they are saying. Don’t worry about me.
My hair is a curtain as I lower my mouth to one of the tiny triangular sandwiches and take it between my lips. My lips brush against Max’s warm skin in a surreptitious kiss. He keeps very, very still. No doubt both of them have been promised with severe punishment should they drop any of the food.
I chew and swallow the sandwich hungrily. My stomach growls with its churning acids. I take another sandwich between my teeth. Whatever it is, it’s delicious. It’s made from some sort of salami and cheese with a tomato thrown in.
To my right, Potchenko undresses fully. He has a barrel chest with a layer of dark scruff. He is lean and muscular. His cock is limp, and it does not show any signs of life even as he gazes upon me.
I quickly avert my head and resume my eating. My heavy tresses brush against Max’s side and a precariously perched sandwich falls off to land on the floor.
Oh oh oh oh.
I freeze, wondering if Potchenko would notice. I hold my breath, as does Max.
Mansk spies the fallen sandwich. At the same time, I arrest him with my silently pleading eyes. Pleas
e, let this go.
He shoots me a helpless look. I can’t.
Potchenko saves him the option of having to betray me by noticing it himself.
“Whip the boy,” he tells Mansk, as though he is casually instructing him to bring him a glass of wine.
My chest recoils.
“No!” I cry. “It isn’t his fault. Please. Whip me instead.”
Potchenko turns his full dreaded gaze upon me, and I wilt.
Oh, oh, what have I gotten us into?
“Insolent child. Speak only when spoken to. Go kneel there at the side.”
I’m crying as I scramble to obey him. My legs are deadweights.
Mansk removes the rest of the bread from Max’s immobile body. Max’s features are controlled, but I glimpse the rage and despair in them. I quail.
Oh Max. I’m so sorry.
Mansk fishes out a riding crop. I have seen their kind used for horses before, and I wince as Mansk positions himself behind Max. There’s resignation in the guard’s eyes as he ponderously brings down his arm.
The sharp k-r-a-a-c-k of the crop takes me unawares, and I leap in fright. A splotch of red appears on Max’s luscious white buttocks. He does not make a sound, but I can see him clenching his jaw.
Mansk brings down the crop again. I can’t bear to look, but I make myself do it anyway. Guilt courses through my veins. Greg is equally as strained as he struggles to maintain his arms in that position – no easy feat, I can tell you.
I envision the thoughts tumbling in Max’s head. Does he hate me for subjecting him to this? The half-digested sandwiches congeal in my belly, making me sick.
K-r-a-c-k. K-r-a-c-k. Each blow is like a blow upon my own buttocks. I withdraw into myself with each sickening crack, willing them to stop.
When Mansk has beaten Max soundly for a total of fifteen blows, he stops, panting. Max’s buttocks are a fiery red. Sweat glistens on his tight body. He does not raise his eyes to look at anyone, least of all me.
“That is enough,” Potchenko pronounces. “Let her finish her meal.”
I am in no position to eat anything. In fact, I think I’m going to throw up. But I dare not visit any further torture upon Max and Greg. Mansk puts down the crop and goes to the buffet table. With a silver tong, he picks up a slice of Parma ham. He holds it high in the air as if to tempt me, and then he saunters to Greg’s pierced cock – still at full mast – and drapes it casually over the erect shaft.
Meat upon meat. There’s an analogy here that I’m too frightened and frazzled to think about.
Potchenko says, “Eat it, Gina Wesley.”
I creep to Greg’s front. The veins in his temples bulge with the tension and his arms tremble slightly. He must be under great strain. How long has he been forced to stand like this? Kneeling before him, I delicately pick the slice of ham up with my teeth and take it gingerly away from Greg’s penis. I chew, my saliva running despite my thirst.
Oh, I’m such a bad, bad person – to be hungry when the boys are wretchedly starving and in pain.
Mansk stands above me with a silver tray. He replaces the ham with a slice of cheese upon Greg’s ramrod flesh, and I eat this also. Cheese is followed by a slice of steamed zucchini. And more ham. All this while, I am solicitous and careful, making sure not to nudge Greg in any way that would make him topple those precarious sandwiches from their muscled ledges. I have learned my lesson with Max.
Potchenko has seated himself in the corner of my vision, but I dare not swivel my head back to look.
Mansk now takes up a butter knife. I cringe, remembering what happened to my groom. No, no, he wouldn’t dare. We have just gotten here. No, please. But instead of doing anything drastic, he knifes some salad dressing out of a silver bowl and smears a large swath of it on Greg’s tubular head and shaft.
Greg’s chest shifts slightly, as though he needs to take a deeper breath, but doesn’t dare.
“Suck it, Gina,” comes Potchenko’s command from a seemingly dreamlike distance. “Take it in your mouth and suck it properly.”
He wants me to disarm Greg so that my friend will be forced to sink onto his knees and be beaten like a dog with the riding crop. God. This will be a test of both our resolves. Ready tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them furiously away.
I have to employ the utmost care as I take Greg’s pierced cock into my mouth. It is bent at an upward angle, as erect as a jutting piece of rock. To make it fit my mouth, I have to tilt it downwards. He shudders. I stop, my heart in my throat.
Has he dropped anything? Anytime now, I expect Mansk to take up the riding crop again.
Greg recovers the balance of his outstretched arms. I dare not meet his eyes, which are scorching two holes into the top of my head.
His pierced flesh slides in between my lips, the two metal barbells like cold buttons at either side of his crown. I suckle it slowly, reluctant to go vigorous in any way. I taste the sourish, tangy salad dressing, but I refuse to let my tongue roam around Greg’s cock as I usually do when I have someone’s penis in my mouth.
“Harder,” Potchenko snaps.
I attempt to suck harder, hollowing my cheeks to increase my pumping motions without compromising Greg. His breathing quickens, and a cold rush pours down my veins. I am so, so afraid of letting him get hurt because of me. What Potchenko is doing to us is cruel. He has made us masters of our own fate, and what a dire fate it is.
“Harder! Take more of it into your mouth!” My new master’s voice is a whip crack.
I swallow more of Greg’s flesh. He is starting to get restless. I will him not to move, not daring to lick his column in any way that would arouse him further. What a situation we are in! Such a reverse from everything we have always been party to.
Greg seems to have nerves and muscles of steel. As much as I suck him, he doesn’t drop his stance. Maybe it’s his training. Maybe it’s his sheer power of resolve. After all, not many men can withstand a cock piercing.
Or Alice.
“Enough. Stop,” says Potchenko.
In relief, I take Greg’s cock out of my mouth. I can hear his almost inaudible whoosh of tension release. His abdominal muscles unclench and he visibly relaxes.
“Come here, Gina Wesley.”
I turn. I see now that Potchenko is seated upon some kind of low boxlike seat. He is naked. His legs are splayed wide open before him, and his limp cock dangles before his balls. His buttocks sink into an oval-shaped hole. The seat is open at the anterior portion and there’s a leather cushion lining upon the top.
It is a very unusual seat for a dictator.
He gestures to me.
“Slide your head underneath, Gina Wesley.” He pronounces my name as though it’s my badge of honor.
I glance at Mansk, and he nods.
“I help you,” he offers.
I shake my head. No need. Pulse throbbing against my neck, I prostate myself in front of Potchenko. I know what he wants me to do. I flip over to lie down on my back, and then I worm and shuffle my body in – inch by apprehensive inch. The shadows of his thighs cross my face and I can see his piercing black eyes boring down upon me. I scoot in to escape them and the darkness of the box’s top descends upon my forehead, and then my eyes . . . and I’m safe.
Almost.
Potchenko’s buttocks are two shapely moons above my face. As soon as I’m firmly in place, he sinks in further, burying the cleft of his buttocks into my face. He smells earthy – of flesh and life and clean soap.
“Rim me,” he orders.
I raise my chin and protrude my tongue – the little wet tongue which I daren’t use on Greg to full effect. I lick the circumference of his anus. It tastes simultaneously sour and sweet. The rugged texture of his heavy balls weighs and grinds upon my jaw. I thrust my tongue into his asshole further, licking and licking anything I can get the tip of it around.
“Come here, Max Devlin,” I hear Potchenko say.
My pulse butterflies. Please, please don’t hurt Ma
x. I redouble my rimming efforts in a desperate attempt to please Potchenko so that he will be easy on Max. In the narrow aperture of light afforded to me, I can see Max’s hesitant shadow over my prone body.
“Suck my cock.”
So Potchenko isn’t averse to men. Why else would he purchase Max and Greg?
Max climbs over my body, taking care not to tread on me. He places his legs on either side of my arms. I make it easy for him by bunching my shoulders, which are just outside the box, and wrapping my arms around my torso. I glimpse Max’s beautiful thighs and erect cock over my body. It is an uncomfortable position for him as he angles his body downward so that his head comes between Potchenko’s thighs.
The tips of my nipples graze his chest. His cock head has no choice but to stab my smooth abdomen.
I hear moist sounds of sucking above me, filtering through the box. I wonder if Potchenko’s cock is erect by now. Max is not gay, but what choice does he have as a sex slave? What choice do any of us have?
We are a peculiar pair, both licking and sucking in concert with every volt of energy we have left in our tongues.
“Fuck her,” Potchenko commands.
I tense as Max – probably still with his mouth around the dictator’s cock – slides his body down. I part my legs to help him. His weight bears upon me as he arcs his body so that his penis – his wonderful dick that I have not gotten enough of recently because we were not allowed to touch each other – is poised at my entrance.
I lift my hips up to meet him. So much of me is still nervous about this simple act of fucking, because I expect Potchenko to complicate everything and turn it into a psychological torture/physical clash of wills. Max’s cock pushes easily into my wet vagina, which is always eager to receive him. His chest blocks out most of the light afforded to me, but I still can see how well defined his pectorals are.
Max’s hips – always swimmer powerful and possessed of an eclectic driving energy – begin to move. We are both practiced with each other. He knows exactly which angle to aim his cock into me, which portions of my cozy little passage my erotic spots reside. (My whole vagina is an erotic spot, but there are some that are more acclimatized to receive pleasure than others.)
Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) Page 3
