Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3)

by Aphrodite Hunt

  It’s a strange ménage – me with my tongue inside Potchenko’s asshole, Max’s mouth around his cock, and Max’s penis fucking me. We form a triangular wedge, and for some reason, I think of geometry lessons – axles and trajectories and stuff. Max establishes a firm back-forth rhythm – a ‘grunt with every fuck’ slam-slam-slam into my groin that rubs my walls just oh-so-right.

  I feel myself responding to him, raising my hips to meet his so that he can caress my G-spot even more. My vagina is still sore from the protracted stretching I received from the wide throttle lever, but it’s a good kind of sore. A soreness that is meant to be for my perpetually dominated state. I have always loved the way Max fucks me – earnestly and skillfully.

  The pleasure begins to build in my loins, and I find myself getting more feverish and frantic – as though I am racing towards a climax.

  “Take those things off him,” Potchenko says.

  My heart skips several beats. Who is he talking to?

  “Come here, Greg Kingsley. Fuck him in the ass.”

  Oh.

  He wants Greg to fuck Max in the ass. I cannot see anything but I imagine Mansk dusting the sandwiches off Greg’s poor, fatigued arms and Greg lowering them in a rush, relieved to be spared the agony. Then Greg coming over, his silent feet padding on the carpet. Greg looking at the view Max and I must present, and kneeling behind Max.

  I feel Greg’s ankles brushing my legs. Max is still rigorously fellating Potchenko. There are moist, fleshy sounds – tongue around cock, lips smacking the shaft. Max is doing his duty, but the skin of his body is electrified. Tense.

  I hear Max’s soft hiss as Greg impales him in the ass.

  Ohhhhh, how that must feel. Especially as Greg’s cock is pierced. Can Max discern the cold metal bulbs on either side of Greg’s penile head? I know I could when Greg fucked me in the vagina.

  We are now a four way with Max as a nucleus – his cock in my pussy and a cock each in his mouth and anus. With Greg’s added force, Max’s hips seem to augment in speed and sheer blunt pressure. Every part of my vagina is probed and hammered, as though his cock is a questing instrument. His tool scrapes and pounds my nerve bundles into incoherence.

  I build and build, the rivers of ecstasy flowing and ebbing, and flowing and ebbing. My tongue loses precision, and I stab at Potchenko’s anus in blurry, heated movements as my throat grunts helplessly. The rivers delta into every part of my body, and as it crests along my spine, it hits a pleasure trigger in my brain.

  I let myself scale that peak.

  After all, he didn’t say I couldn’t come.

  I moan against his asshole as the electrified spasms seize me. I jerk and writhe and let all my muscles contract – sweetly shuddering movements that twist my spine and send spools of pleasure into the gaping mouth of my brain.

  Oh, I relish this. Made to cum by the love of my life, Max – and in such bizarre circumstances.

  It’s as though we are grabbing whatever happiness we have. As though we know – by premonition or some deep-seated soul knowledge – that something bad will happen to us in Ursk, no matter how rich we are and where we come from and how protected Max assures us we are.

  Max, I love you!

  I want to shout it out to the world from forty thousand feet above.

  Max continues to fuck me. Fuck fuck fuck. The slap of his hips against my wet inner thighs. The slap of his flesh against my buttocks. I let my orgasm roll over me, evaporate into every part of my sore and misused body.

  I feel Max’s semen gush into me.

  Oh, oh, oh, will he be punished for that?

  He shudders and stops, panting against the cock in his mouth. Greg hasn’t stopped fucking him in the ass. I can still hear the slap slap slap of his groin against Max’s buttocks.

  Someway along the line when I’m sweating and still rimming the asshole above me, Greg achieves orgasm as well, judging by the soft cry issuing from his throat.

  If Potchenko has climaxed, then Max is the recipient of his sperm. I visualize Potchenko’s fluids pouring into Max’s reluctant throat. And Max will lap and swallow every drop of it. Max the alpha. Max who proudly struts around campus like he owns the place because he knows he’s rich, powerful and beautiful. Max who is mercurial and complicated and so multifaceted that I will never learn all his secrets.

  Max, the dom I fell in love with, and who loves me in return. Max, the victim of consensual incest. Max – reduced to being the filling in our bizarre human sandwich, courtesy of his parents.

  Oh Max. Why are we so fucked up?

  Potchenko allows us to regain our collective breaths and for all the shared juices in our bodies to swill around and take seed.

  Then we pluck ourselves from the tangled web we have woven and rest our aching bodies. This time, he allows both boys to eat, and they fall upon the food in ravenous hunger.

  The plane autopilots its way towards Ursk as we are thrown into our cell again. (Yes, make no mistake about it, it’s a cell.) And my premonition about us being in danger – real danger – seeps back into my bones as the sky darkens into European night.

  EROTICA BY APHRODITE HUNT

  The ‘Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire’ series

  His Indecent Proposition

  His Indecent Demands

  The ‘Initiation’ series

  Open Your Legs for Me

  Blindfolded and Spread-eagled

  Thighs Wide Apart

  Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy

  The Final Initiation

  The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories

  The ‘Initiation 2’ series

  Open Your Legs for my Family

  Bend Over for my Family

  Publicly Display Yourself for Me

  Sex Slave at Sea

  Paraded before the Billionaires

  Sex Slave at the Auction

  The ‘Initiation 3’ series

  Sex Slave to the Dictator

  ‘The Royal Captive’ series

  Prince Miro’s Capture

  Prince Miro’s Submission

  Prince Miro’s Enslavement

  Prince Miro’s Punishment

  Prince Miro’s Escape

  Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation

  The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3

  The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6

  The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series

  I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac

  Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me

  Gang Banged by the Chain Gang

  Tempting the Hot Navy SEAL

  The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series

  Her First Clit Ring

  Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage

  Her First Clit Ring 3: Desensitization

  The ‘Undercover’ series

  Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor

  Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO

  The ‘Alien’ series

  Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens

  Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2

  Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)

  When He’s Inside You

  My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper

  The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)

  WORKS BY ARTEMIS HUNT

  EROTIC ROMANCES

  The ‘Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male’ series

  A Virgin Enslaved

  The ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’ series

  Mysterious Desire

  Forbidden Desire

  Infamous Desire

  ROMANCES

  The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

  Snow White and the Alien

  Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://artemishunt.blogspot.com/ and http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates. I write as Artemis Hunt for erotic romances with a more romance feel and Aphrodite Hunt for pure erotica and erotic romances w
hich are slightly kinkier. So please be aware of what you’re getting into, dear reader, when you read one of my stories. Thank you so much for your support.

  READ THE FIRST CHAPTER OF ‘HIS INDECENT PROPOSITION’, a Top 120 Barnes and Nobles bestseller

  1

  Susan Chalmers looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and takes a deep breath.

  “OK, don’t panic. You can do it. He’s not as scary as everyone makes him to be,” she mutters to herself.

  Then she freezes. She turns around to check if anyone is in the stalls of the fourteenth floor ladies’ restroom. Wouldn’t do to have any spies in the vicinity. None of the stall doors are closed, but you never know. So she does a cursory examination, her high heels going clack-clack-clack on the black and white tiles.

  I’m getting paranoid, she scolds herself. It’s this intense competition that is getting to her, not to mention that slimy bastard, Leonard Drake. Leonard is aiming to be the youngest VP in the company, and yes, she has to admit she is older by a full year than that sneaky twenty-eight-year old who is always telling everyone he graduated from Stanford at age nineteen because he is some sort of accelerated home-schooled genius.

  (Well, she’s older by exactly nine months, if you want to be picky about it.)

  But VP!

  Ohhh.

  She can almost see her name in gold lettering on her door. SUSAN CHALMERS, VICE-PRESIDENT. She has earned her way to that promotion and she fully deserves the post. She has brought in the Stoughton contract, worth three hundred million dollars. OK, so Leonard is neck-to-neck with her with the Habber contract to the tune of three hundred and fifty million dollars, but what is a mere fifty million, right?

  Her heart sinks.

  Actually, if they wanted to be picky about it, that fifty million can mean the whole world between a promotion and another few more years of waiting in the wings. It just so happened that Dan Barry, the previous VP, dropped dead of a heart attack. Susan was genuinely sorry about it, even though Dan was a lecher who liked to grope all the women and cheat on his wife.

  She looks at herself in the mirror again. She’s attractive enough with her coppery curls and wide brown eyes, but she has always wished she could be prettier and taller. But being pretty is not going to cut it with Mr. Channing Crawford, the CEO of Crawford, Peterson and Fulham Inc. As far as she knows, Mr. Crawford hasn’t even looked at any woman in the company. Rumors might have abounded that he was gay had it not been for his extreme alpha male masculinity and the way he seems to suck all the air out of a room.

  Nope. This is all going to be based on merit. Maybe she needs the extra fifty million dollars after all.

  You can do it, girl.

  She plucks her purse off the sink and makes herself walk out of the restroom. Her legs are slightly wobbly as she strides to the elevators. The CEO’s office is on the top floor. Even after five years in the company, her encounters with Channing Crawford have been thankfully brief and limited to boardrooms and town hall meetings.

  She doesn’t wish for broader contact. The man is frankly intimidating.

  The light on top of one of the elevators comes on, and the doors slide open. Susan makes to step in, and freezes when she sees Leonard Drake inside.

  Leonard smiles craftily. He is a tall black man with a full head of straight black hair. He is always impeccably dressed and he doesn’t walk – he glides like a shark.

  “Going up?” he says.

  She wonders if it’s a metaphor. She debates whether or not to postpone this appointment with Channing Crawford to another time. But you don’t postpone appointments with Channing Crawford. You don’t get a second chance.

  She steels herself and lifts her chin up.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she says.

  She walks into the elevator with an air of confidence that she does not feel. Gotta keep those hands from trembling. She presses the button to the top floor, aware that Leonard is sizing her every move.

  “Oh,” he says in a silky voice, “going to the CEO’s office?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’ve just been there.”

  Oh? Susan pricks up her ears. She will not give Leonard the satisfaction of turning her head to address him, however.

  Leonard goes on, “Let’s just say the VP job is pretty much wrapped up.”

  “Nothing is ever wrapped up until it’s over,” she says acidly.

  Internally, she’s going damn damn damn in dismay. What uproariously stellar interview did Leonard give Channing Crawford? What new projects did he promise to deliver if he were to get that VP post? Leonard is an upstanding member of his church community, and he has a lot of contacts channeling in from that way.

  As for her, she hasn’t gone to church since grade school.

  Damn.

  She wonders if it’s too late to court a parish.

  The elevator reaches the twentieth floor and Leonard gets off.

  “Good luck,” he says, grinning. “You’re gonna need it. Lots of it.”

  She glares balefully at him as he turns tail and walks off. The elevator doors hiss shut again, and it’s up, up, up to top.

  If only.

  Her nerves are jangling when the doors slide open to reveal a wide passageway. At the end of it is the CEO’s office. It takes up almost the entire floor.

  Susan steps out. She is wearing red heels, and they sink into the blue and cream carpet. Her blouse is red silk and her skirt is a pencil-silhouetted tartan. She looks every inch the powerhouse professional, or so she hopes.

  Her steps are strident until she gets closer and closer to the office, and then she falters.

  Why oh why am I so nervous?

  Relax, you’ve got the goods. So what if Leonard gets the job? At least you’ve given it your best shot.

  But I don’t want him to get the job! He’s never going to let me live it down!

  Straightening her back with new resolve, she resumes her gait to the CEO’s office.

  Ms. Radcliffe, the forty-something year old Executive Assistant who has been with the company since its inception, looks up.

  “Right on time, Ms. Chalmers.” She smiles.

  “Please call me Susan.” Never hurts to get on the Executive Assistant’s side.

  “Go right in. He’s waiting for you.” Ms. Radcliffe jerks her head. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her nerve bundles are starting to fire up again. Susan swallows, grips both her fists, composes herself and heads in.

  And almost stumbles.

  The man sitting behind the large mahogany desk has always unsettled her, and even more so now. Channing Crawford is in his late thirties and he radiates a magnetic aura of great power. He doesn’t look his age though. He looks younger, possibly because he is so fit.

  He is handsome – almost unspeakably so. His blue eyes are sparkling and vivid in a well-chiseled face. He has marvelous bone structure – a structure she can well imagine on ancient Greek kings and war frescoes. His dark hair is razor shorn into a buzz cut, and his body is bulked up and magnificent under his dark suit. His lips have a determined and ruthless streak to them.

  She can’t look away from his eyes. Her knees begin to wobble again.

  Damn. Now you remember why you take great pains to avoid meeting this man.

  Not helping are the rumors of how he found his fortune. It isn’t a matter of luck or investment, though those came much later. Channing Crawford, William Peterson and Derek Fulham were Iraqi war veterans – battle-scarred and hardened army officers who had been decorated for many acts of valor. In Iraq, they had found hoarded gold bullion and claimed their share of the spoils.

  The rumors speculated that the way they found the gold was not without bloodshed. Iraqi warlords were involved, even organized crime. There were whispers of a bloody raid, the detonation of an entire citadel and a chase across the desert.

  Of course, no one could ever confirm what happened. Only Channing Crawford, Wi
lliam Peterson and Derek Fulham knew exactly what went down, and they weren’t telling.

  With this gold, they came back to America and founded the company. William Peterson was killed in a surfboarding accident (also raising suspicions) and Derek Fulham sold his shares to Channing two years later. Now Channing Crawford holds the share majority in a company that has capital investments as far as China, Bolivia and the Middle East.

  Susan can now feel the weight of speculative history emanating from this magnificent specimen of a man – mixed with a thrilling splash of mystery and danger. It’s as if she’s face to face with a drug lord, not a CEO of a much-admired company.

  This is a mistake. She shouldn’t have come here.

  Then she thinks of Leonard Drake in this very room, facing Channing Crawford down. Her mouth sets into a determined line. If you can’t bear to be in the same room as Channing Crawford, then you have no business being a VP of this company.

  Channing says, “Yes? Susan Chalmers, isn’t it? You wanted to see me?”

  Direct and right to the point. No pleasantries required.

  Susan swallows.

  “Yes, Mr. Crawford. I came to see you about the Vice-President’s job. I’m going to tell you why I think I deserve it.”

  Before she can lose her nerve, she rushes into her well-rehearsed spiel about her list of accomplishments within the company. And yes, it’s a long list. As she states each achievement and contract she has brought in by rote – without once referring to any piece of paper – her voice grows steadier and her back becomes straighter.

  Why, she thinks proudly, I do deserve this job.

  Channing Crawford listens to her monologue with an intense look in his blazing blue eyes. When she finally finishes, he says, “Impressive, Susan.”