The Russian

by Isabella Laase

  She had no options; her job was to do what he demanded, and she was content in doing so. As a reward, she received as a gift his gentle smile and kind words of encouragement that filled her heart with pleasure, her arousal swirling to swell her clit.

  “Beautiful, koshka. Beautiful. Now, let’s finish the final hours of your memories here.”

  Chapter Eight

  They spent the next few hours in his playroom where she was anchored to a soft padded wheel. Stretched out like a cross with her arms and legs spread, she was a few feet off the floor, standing on small rods that poked out of the sturdy frame with her plug-filled butt pushed against the leather. Thin straps trapped her wrists, ankles, and thighs to the contraption along with an additional wider one around her belly to keep her firmly secured. The mechanics allowed her to rock from side to side as she shifted her weight, granting an almost weightless effect that left her giddy.

  His first act was to shave her pussy with a pair of electric clippers, brushing his hand over her sex to remove loose hairs and exposing the pink, swollen skin around her labia. Her lack of a love life hadn’t made personal grooming a recent priority, but the purity of her fully shaved vulva returned an innocence she’d long forgotten. He grinned, standing close to palm her tingly skin and torment her channel. “Slav was right, I do prefer this.”

  Once he was satisfied with her appearance, he teased her channel with a purple rabbit vibrator, prodding her vagina without fully entering her. The ache grew stronger when he passed over her clit, but the twirling sensations worked in opposing directions to deliver too many signals, making her squirm in a futile attempt to evade him. The vibrator was fastened into a pouch and strapped between her thighs, and he used a remote to alternate slow pulsing between her clit and pussy. Tickly feathers and a sharp metal wheel left small red marks across her breast, tummy, and inner thighs. As his vibrator increased its speed, the pulsing worked in contrast to the feathers and metal, and her restraints didn’t allow her any means to unite the effects.

  He continued to torment her, increasing his pressure and her painful pleasure until she approached the perfect balance, fighting the orgasm as long as she could. When he turned the vibration fully on her clit, she cried out in defeat. A sharp contraction pulsed through her groin accompanied by a release of wetness that stained her thighs.

  Luka rubbed the effects into her skin with long, sensual strokes before freeing her from the restraints and plugs, and she sleepily waited for his next move. She anticipated the dark, scary cage with no small amount of fear, but she was sure it would please him. He wrapped her in a warmed blanket and kissed her forehead.

  “Come, koshka. You need to get showered and be ready to leave.”

  It all ended with those simple words, but her mind raced with a thousand questions about his needs and how they were connected to her arousal. What did he gain when she was tied and punished? What should she have done differently? From there, she irrationally obsessed on everything about him. When was his birthday? Did he like restaurants or takeout? What was his favorite season? Did he like romance movies? Or chocolate chip cookies? Or a glass of wine over a cold beer? But there was no place in their relationship to share that level of intimacy. From the start, their shallow foundation had been built without a hint of a future.

  Unable to accept that harsh reality, she silently pleaded for him to join her in the shower and spend their last few minutes enjoying the warm water pulsing against their muscles with one force. It would be the perfect end to a perfect day, but he walked to the window to stare toward the setting sun, his back to the room ending their tryst.

  She went in alone, picking off the white hardened wax with her fingernail to drop into the wastebasket. Turning up the water temperature past the point of comfort, she stood under the pressure that penetrated the bright red reminders of his lust, keeping alert for any indication he’d changed his mind and decided to join her. By the time she’d washed her hair and wrapped in an oversized fluffy white towel to return to the bedroom, he was gone.

  The door to the hallway had been left ajar, and the muffled sounds of a random laugh track from some sitcom filtered up the back stairway. She couldn’t find her scrubs, so she dressed in the clean pair of sweats and a brand new t-shirt that had been left on the bed and grabbed her ponytail holder from the bedside table, twisting her wet hair into a messy knot on top of her head.

  When she arrived in the kitchen, her gym bag, winter coat, and heavy boots had been gathered in a small pile by the back door, waiting for her to leave with an abruptness that burned at her eyes, but she sat at the table with a forced smile. He’d warned her. This was a temporary commitment, and that commitment had ended.

  * * *

  “You’re not eating,” he chided, picking up the remote control from the kitchen counter to change the television station. “I’ll get the weather forecast from the local news, but we should start for your apartment before the snow gets too deep.”

  “Actually,” she corrected, picking at a piece of lint on the borrowed pants. “I own my own house. And you should have left my scrubs upstairs. You might need these clothes for, I don’t know, somebody else.”

  “They belong to my aunt, and she won’t miss them,” he said, pointing at her plate with his fork. “Stop fussing and finish your dinner. As long as you are in this house, you will do what you are told.”

  The scolding ignited that frustrating satisfaction when somebody cared enough to nag. Having established her own rules from an early age, it didn’t take a psychology degree to understand why his bossy ways and stern demands appealed to her, but she didn’t have daddy issues. At least, she couldn’t afford to have daddy issues. Mia needed to stand on her own two feet, and even Luka must realize the time had come to regain control of her life.

  “Thanks,” she said, willing her voice to remain light. She pushed the plate away from her. “But I’ve had enough. They’re pretty good about plowing the roads around here, but we’ve got at least six or seven inches, so it’s going to take a little longer to get me home. And I’m glad these belonged to your aunt. I wouldn’t want to wear something that belonged to...”

  She let the sentence drift, blushing at the thought she was about to appear jealous over his past. “But I should still give them back.”

  “The clothes are not an issue. And I don’t know who else you think they could have belonged to. This is Zoya’s home, and she is a generous hostess. She would be proud to offer you the clothes, and she has a soft spot for Anton, so she would very much appreciate your support.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved her knife and holster before dropping it on the bright placemat. “And I should return this as well.”

  Picking it up, she expected to feel the connection to her past, but sitting in Zoya’s beautiful kitchen, it may as well have been a cheap souvenir from the local dollar store. The trinket was nothing more than a piece of metal from a father who’d left her a lifetime earlier.

  “I trust you aren’t plotting to stab me in the back,” he said dryly, breaking into her thoughts. “You’re staring at that as though you’re planning something nefarious.”

  “I told you I’m not a fighter,” she said with a blush. “I shouldn’t even carry it except I’ve had it since grade school. It’s pretty much the last thing my dad left me.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely. “I understand first-hand the pain of losing a parent when you’re still a child, but little American girls shouldn’t carry knives. They should have dolls and kittens. Now that you’re grown and live alone, you should buy a small caliber handgun and get formal training in protecting yourself.”

  “Yeah, well, we lived in a tiny two-bedroom trailer with five, sometimes six people depending on who my mother was sleeping with, so even a kitten wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of finding a quiet place to sleep. And my house is in a nice enough neighborhood. It’s in the 19th Ward, a few blocks from where Susan B. Anthony lived.” S
he kept her gaze on her still full plate. “And my father’s not lost. He’s at Attica, serving twenty years for manslaughter. I only have a handful of memories of him, and that knife was one of them.”

  She paused before adding, “That’s something I don’t share about myself very often. I don’t know why I told you.”

  “If there is one thing you can trust,” he said with a smirk, “is that your secrets are safe with me, including your special affection for Susan Anthony. If I had known you had an interest in women, we could have done things very differently these last few days.”

  “Susan B. Anthony,” she corrected him with a laugh. “She was a women’s rights advocate over a hundred years ago. She was arrested in Rochester and her trial eventually ignited the whole country to pass the amendment for women’s right to vote. She was a big deal.”

  “We keep our women much more subjugated than that,” he dismissed with a dramatic wave. “I prefer a woman who knows her place. Barefoot and pregnant, I believe is the appropriate American description.”

  “That’s terrible,” she said. “What kind of country doesn’t give women the right to vote in the twenty-first century?”

  “I’m still teasing, koshka,” he said with a sigh. “I do have a sense of humor, even if it is apparently lost on you. Communism may be an oppressive form of government, but it was equally oppressive to all sexes. Women’s rights actually made great progress under the Stalin regime, much faster than in America. In my country, most women are raised to be strong and independent, except when they walk into my bedroom. You have an unusual interest in history for somebody who chose science as a career.”

  “I had a great history teacher in high school. I begged my counselor to put me in every class she taught, and I hung around with her almost every day after school. She bought me my prom dress and helped me apply for scholarships and college. It’s amazing what a difference one person can make in a kid’s life.”

  “I can understand,” he said with his typical frown. “When I first went to Moscow, I was beyond frightened. My mother had just died. My two older brothers had been placed in a different school that didn’t allow boys as small as me, and I wasn’t even sure where my younger sister ended up when our family fell apart. The headmaster’s wife took pity on me and allowed me to stay in their home on weekends and most holidays for years. When I turned twelve, my father transferred me to my brothers’ school, and I cried over the loss.”

  Emboldened by his response, she risked continuing. “Will you answer an honest question?” His arched eyebrow offered a clear warning, but she had no fear; her tone was more important to him than her message. “When you took the knife from me, I thought you were going to hit me.”

  Crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat, he appeared to be deep in thought. “That,” he finally responded, “is not a question.”

  “Don’t be obstinate. I just want to know. Were you? Going to hit me?”

  “Yes. That thought crossed my mind. And that wasn’t what I expected you to ask me.”

  “So, why did you stop? I mean, you were angry. I can see how you must have considered it a threat.” Even if you did yank me off the street at gunpoint, but she kept that thought to herself.

  “I’m not sure,” he said with a shrug. “You deserved to be punished, but striking you didn’t seem to be appropriate. A bruise on your beautiful face would take a long time to heal, and I didn’t want to be the man who did that to you.”

  She was satisfied with his answer, but she’d learned more about him in the last ten minutes than she had in the last ten hours. “Have you ever actually hit a woman? I’m just curious.”

  “I would strike anybody who betrayed me. I don’t care about their gender. You have to understand, koshka, I am not a man of integrity.”

  “I disagree. So far, you’ve been nothing but honest with me, even when it’s to tell me to mind my own business. I don’t think you would lie to me.”

  “That is quite a leap of faith in somebody you’ve just met,” he said with a shake of his head. “Do you have experience with men who hit you? Did your father strike you or your mother?”

  “Not experience with, really, men. Overgrown boys, yes. I grew up in a rough neighborhood and you had to be tough to survive. And I don’t remember my father ever losing his temper with me or anybody else, which is pretty weird considering what he went to prison for. But my mother did get into a few nasty battles with the sperm donors who created my little brother and sisters. And I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d repressed something violent between my parents. That’s probably why I’m so messed up.”

  “Messed up? I don’t understand.”

  “Come on, Luka. Anybody who plays games like this and enjoys it? What kind of woman accepts pain?”

  “Do you think I am ‘messed up,’ too?” he asked, his tone holding a clear warning. “Is that what you perceive all of this has been about?”

  “It’s a relative term,” she insisted. “Besides, delivering pain isn’t the same thing as receiving it. I’m obviously a bigger nut job than you are.”

  “Nut job...” he murmured, sending her a look that could have stopped a bullet. “I do not appreciate the way you describe a woman I have chosen to spend my time with. As a doctor, you understand that pain and sexuality are tied to the same part of the brain. Perhaps we should revisit some of our rules before I take you home? I would not wish to leave you believing you have done something wrong.”

  “Come on, Luka,” she repeated. “We both know our little game is over. And I’ve taken enough psychology courses to realize our attraction for each other is... was... rooted in what’s left over after our dysfunctional childhoods. We really aren’t that different, in ways that matter, anyway. Did you ever see your father hit your mother?”

  “Yes.” He spoke simply, but an angry fire in his eyes showed she’d gone too far.

  He picked up their dishes and rinsed them in the sink before loading them into the dishwasher. Straightening his shoulders, he crossed the room to stare out the windows toward the lake. The silence grew louder with only the television filling the void until it stood between them like an impenetrable wall.

  “I’m sorry, Luka. I have no right to question your motives or your past. You have been amazingly supportive when I didn’t have a clue what was going on, and I’ve enjoyed myself. Let’s just get started for home, and you can go back to your normal world without having to worry about me.”

  She expected him to move to the garage, but he waited a long, awkward minute before continuing. His tone was a strange combination of cold vulnerability, and he never turned around.

  “My father wouldn’t have hesitated to strike her, or his children, but they did not have a relationship like... like this. There was no respect between them. He is a violent man, and she was a gentle, loving woman who died a horrible death with him as the root cause. But none of what we have experienced is a game, koshka. This is my lifestyle. Do you understand the difference?”

  “How did she die?” she asked gently, taking the small open window to the little boy’s pain and ignoring the adult conversation.

  For a second, she didn’t think he was going to answer, but he spoke just above a whisper. “It was a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  Her heart breaking, she chose her response carefully. “I’ve long since learned that there is no correct response to tragedy. It totally sucks, and I wish that little boy were here right now so I could do something kind for him.”

  She didn’t say she was sorry, nor did she gush or carry on. When she’d been foolish enough to share her own drama, she felt worse when they returned with an apology. It was either a pity response filled with preconceived judgement, or they were trying to imply they’d done her some great favor by sharing her burden and lessening her pain. It never worked that way; her pain and her past was hers to bear and hers alone.

  The six o’clock news turned to a headline about two unidentified bodies found in neighboring ru
ral Ontario County, victims of gunshot wounds. This was a part of the world where murders were unusual enough to be newsworthy, but Luka turned the television off before returning to the kitchen.

  “We should start for the city now,” he said, picking up her coat and holding it to help her into it.

  “Did that have anything to do with Anton?” she asked, pointing to the television.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes, Luka. I do.” In her heart, she knew the answer, but the question was a chance to evaluate his character, and, in some strange way, her understanding about herself and the kind of men she chose to allow in her bed.

  “Then yes, it does. Let’s go. I think your boots are dry now, but you should buy another pair. This is the frozen north of America. You need to pay a little more money for warmth and comfort.”

  Since she’d already known the answer, his revelation didn’t frighten her, but there had to be more to the story. There was no way she could believe he was a cold-blooded killer. When he didn’t expand on his response, she wanted to shout at him, to shake something loose in their relationship that was winding to an unhappy end, but she was stronger than that. Or weaker. She wasn’t quite sure.

  “Thank you for trusting me with that information,” she said, taking the coward’s way out and slipping her arms into her coat. “You don’t need to worry about my silence.”

  “But you are mistaken. I don’t trust, koshka. That is the first thing you should have learned about me.”

  She slid her bare feet into the worn lining of her boots before opening her bag and locating her cell phone, her scrubs, keys, and her wallet, categorizing her memories from the moment she’d seen him in the elevator until that second in Zoya’s kitchen.