PUNISHED BY THE DICTATOR’S DAUGHTER
(BOOK THREE OF THE INITIATION 3 SERIES)
By Aphrodite Hunt
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt
Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt
Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords
PUNISHED BY THE DICTATOR’S DAUGHTER
1
It comes to me sometime during my second week in Ursk that Aimelie Potchenko is not only soft in the head, but that she is utterly and truly evil.
She has decided that she wants to wrest my boyfriend from me. And not only does she wish to do this, she wants to humiliate and torture me as much as possible like the icing on her proverbial cake. She wants me to savor every moment of her comeuppance and triumph over me.
Take today for instance.
Aimelie has ordered her guards to have me brought to her chambers. I am naked and unwilling, but my contract as a sex slave stipulates that I must obey her anyway. So when they come to me, I obediently allow them to clasp my arms behind my back with heavy iron chains. The two guards in their mud green uniforms collar me in studded iron and attach me to a leash.
As they do all this, their hands brush repeatedly against my breasts, nipples and private parts. Their faces are hungry and sly. It is as if they have not had the chance to grope a woman in a long time, something that is fairly possible in this place, I reckon. But their gestures are also gentle. One of them lifts my hair and artfully arranges it around my shoulders in a marvelous spill. The other strokes my cheek longingly.
They speak to each other in their guttural, sometimes harmonious language – none of which I can understand. But their tone is admiring, and their lips are moist with desire.
“What is she going to do to me?” I whisper.
If they understood me, they give no sign of it.
“Tarqoay,” one of them says to me.
“What?”
“Tarqoay,” the other one repeats.
Whatever this Tarqoay means, I decide, it surely won’t bode well for me. It’s only a matter of how much humiliation I can take.
They lead me up, up and up the stairs of a strange tower to Aimelie’s bedchamber. It’s almost like a fairytale tower – Gothic with steep, steep stone steps and a blast of wind coming down from the slit windows. I think we must have climbed five stories. My thighs are already aching when we get to the top.
OK, so I’m not that fit, although my body is a wet dream to these two guys, seemingly.
We arrive at a pair of wooden doors strapped with iron. The guards knock once, and then push the doors apart. They bade me to enter.
I step into the chamber, the apprehension churning my gut once again. I’m in a constant flux of turmoil in this place. I can’t sleep properly. The food isn’t exactly Michelin three-star. Everywhere I go, I have to surreptitiously look over my shoulder – expecting something awful to happen, like another beheading or some other awfully creative method of execution.
The doors open into a spacious lounge. In contrast to what I was expecting, it is filled with modern minimalist and extremely colorful furniture that looks suspiciously as though it has been packed, sealed and delivered from Ikea.
Uh . . .
Well, I’m flummoxed. This completely throws me off guard.
The guard behind me prods my shoulders. I take a tentative step forward to where he is gesturing – the open doorway leading to the bedroom. Even before I move towards it, the sounds that assail me are ominous. Gasps, moans and groans permeate the air as I enter, and with dread, I recognize at least some of them.
In the circular tower bedroom, Aimelie and Max are entwined in some sort of passion play. Max has been strung to the four bedposts with tight ropes. He is spread-eagled, his beautiful body stretched upon his cushiony rack. Aimelie too is naked and riding him. She gaily turns as I come in, her pixie features open and laughing, her breasts flouncing and bobbing up and down.
My heart sinks.
So she wants me to watch.
I have seen Max fuck a whole host of other women before, of course. And he has seen me fuck a whole lot of men, including his own father – who made him guide the paternal penis into my own vagina in some sort of pagan offering symbol. So if anyone has a right to be psychologically damaged, it’s Max. Though my own psyche is pretty much at the tip of its iceberg.
Aimelie says something to the guards in Urskan. Her voice is singsong and her face is radiant. For all I know, she could have been commenting on the weather, which is turning into the color of slate. Aimelie escalates her vigorous humping of my boyfriend’s cock as the guards seize my bound arms and shoulders.
“Aimelie,” Max’s ragged and breathless voice breaks through, “please, don’t hurt her.” His eyes are tired. There are worry creases upon his forehead, but he has never looked more beautiful; or more worn down.
“Ah yes, you still love the beautiful Gina, no? Soon, you will be forgetting her.”
Aimelie fucks him so hard that the headboard slams against the papered wall, shining with décor highlights. Above the bed is a framed portrait of her father, Vladimir Potchenko, the dictator of Ursk. He looks down gravely at all of us as his precious daughter screws the hell out of my beautiful blond boyfriend.
Up, down, rotate, oscillate. It’s as though she’s trying to screw all his feelings for me out of the window while I’m still watching.
The guards make me squat against the far wall from the bed, where I have a good view of Aimelie’s ass bouncing on top of my boyfriend’s well-muscled hips. They release by chains and make me hold my arms horizontally at my sides. They disengage the lariat, but still keep the iron collar around my neck as a mark of servitude.
Aimelie half-turns and says something to the guards. They nod gleefully.
As I stay still, the guards drag a box filled with saucers towards me. They don’t have to tell me not to move a muscle when they start piling the plates upon my arms, shoulders, and strained and bent thighs. I have basically become a human smorgasbord. The saucers are delicate. I recognize the hallmark of extremely fine china beneath the rose patterned design, and it goes to say that I am forbidden to drop any of them.
“Break one, and I will have you severely whipped,” Aimelie says, still in that teenage singsong voice of hers. Is it just me, or has her English improved? And it has just been one week of practicing periodically to Max, I suppose, when their language is not colored by ‘fuck’ or ‘suck’ or ‘lick’.
“Aimelie, please,” Max says. I can see the desperation on his flushed face. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you want.”
“You are already doing anything I tell you to. Do not try to bargain with me for her hide. It does not become you. Back in America, you were lovers. But here, you are mine.” She says that last with a feverish possessiveness that sends alarm bells ringing in my head.
I am afraid to breathe. My thighs already bear the strain of squatting. My pussy is wet and exposed. My arms tremble slightly, and I rue the fact that I scarcely have had the time to tone them. They are weak and ill-suited for duress. The iron collar is heavy around my neck.
But that is not all Aimelie has in store for me.
She says something else to the guards. One of them goes to a drawer in a plain white chest (Ikea, naturally) and takes out a large black dildo. It is so thick and huge that I cringe. Normally, I would be
able to take such a dildo in one of my orifices – no problem. But right now, I am unsteady and emotionally wrenched. My flesh is a hotbed of burgeoning pins and needles. I don’t think I can take much more than my current forced posture.
The guard comes back and squats behind me.
He says something to me which I interpret as “Don’t move.” Without lube, he posits the glistening dildo at the rim of my asshole.
I’m getting frantic. My breathing quickens.
The dildo eases into my anus, and I immediately feel the stretch of my tight sphincter. The synthetic rod navigates my snug little circle, overcomes the momentary resistance, and plows through to the open canal. I have to use every ounce of my strength to keep still. I squeal as the dildo pushes apart my rectal walls. The saucers quiver dangerously.
The guard says something soothing against the back of my neck. I think he is trying to reassure me. Breathe deeply, beautiful girl. Do not scream.
The dildo penetrates me slowly, allowing me to adjust to its girth with every inch that it claims inside my rectum. I feel it creep up – deeper and deeper. I have to suck in my breath to maintain absolutely stillness.
Please, I whimper soundlessly, please don’t let me drop anything. I’m not sure I want to incur Aimelie’s dubious wrath. I can only pray that she doesn’t decide to ask the guard to fuck my ass with the dildo. I will not be able to withstand it.
My asshole clenches around the tool, contracting like a closing fist. My arms tremble and the saucers shiver precariously.
Aimelie turns to watch me. She laughs and says something. Then she slides off Max’s gleaming cock. Max’s impressive member stands like a flagpole, streaked with her cud. He eyes me helplessly. Aimelie rotates her body so that she is now facing me instead of the headboard. She hovers on all fours over the prostate and bound body of Max. She is smiling as she gazes at me.
She lowers her unshaven pussy onto Max’s stiff cock so that I can get a proper eyeful. She does this in slow motion, relishing the fact that I am thus encumbered in my torturous position – subject to her whims and unable to move. Once again, her pussy sheaths him to the very hilt until her perineum and the base of her buttocks is quashed against his loins. Her pussy lips rub against the shoal-like curvature of his balls.
She laughs as she begins to hump him again, the bed creaking with her vigorous movements. Tears come into my eyes and I blink them away. Yes, I know Max is a slave. I understand intellectually that he has been fucked by more men and women in my absence that I care to count. As have I. But what Aimelie is doing reeks of psychological manipulation. She’s manipulating our feelings, our emotions, and our open fears of incarceration in this terrifying country.
Behind me, I sense movement again. The guard has returned. This time, he carries what I can only glimpse as a glass candle holder. Possibly from Ikea. I sense this affinity that Aimelie seems to have for Ikea instead of far more expensive furniture – which I’m sure Daddy would readily indulge her. It is one of her strange affectations.
Oh, oh, but the candle is lighted.
The guard carefully places it on top of my head. And really, there is no recourse for me now. The dildo stuffed up my ass, making its presence felt very loudly, is already marginalizing my attention. As are the saucers on my arms and thighs. My limbs are rapidly transcending into a fatigued stage.
And now with this abomination on top of my skull.
Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .
I shriek as the candle holder and its flame comes cascading down, striking my flexed shoulder on its way and causing my right arm to shudder and spill everything upon it. The saucers come tumbling off to smash upon the stony floor.
As a result, I rapidly become defragmented.
Everything else crashes around me, and I scream and scream and scream – much more from the shock and sheer terror of what Aimelie would do to me than from any real pain. I think I have become hysterical. My own screams ring in my ears as I collapse, my limbs folding in on me as I fall onto the floor. I curl myself up in a ball upon the scattered shards. I scream and scream, unable to stop my voice box from splintering like a banshee’s.
To say that I’m an awful mess would be to mention that the ocean is a little bit salty.
There’s a commotion around me. The guards are trying to pick me up from the floor. I can hear Aimelie’s voice shouting above the din.
I stop screaming, but only because I’m out of breath. My sobs choke in my throat and my chest is a pumping bellows. Hands pull me up and succor my waist. I find myself disheveled and standing amid the debris of my unraveling. The dildo has fallen out of my asshole. My soles tread saucer shards. I’m too frizzled out to feel or hear anything above the thunderous roar of blood in my ears.
When my vision swims into focus, I am staring at Aimelie – who is still atop Max. This time, her face is apoplectic with rage.
Oh my. What a mood swing.
She says something in a cold, deadly voice. The guards seize my arms again – this time roughly. I cry out.
The guards bend me over the bed so that I am on my knees, with my torso slung across the mattress between the ‘V’ proffered by Max’s bound legs. I am staring straight at Aimelie’s pussy, into which is embedded Max’s cock. In fact, I am so close to their conjoined genitalia that I can smell their intermixed musk. It’s a sweaty, sexy smell – of desire, of control, of domination.
“Lick me,” she says.
One of the guards grab bunches of my thick hair and pushes my face towards her pussy. I have no choice but to lean my chin upon Max’s tight balls. With my nose buried between her sticky folds, I dart out my tongue to lick her clit. Max’s warm scrotum grazes my chin – a comforting testament to his presence.
“Faster,” she says. “Harder.”
I tongue her and tongue her as she begins to writhe upon Max’s penis. She tastes mostly sour, and her juices stain my lips. If only I didn’t hate her so! At the same time, I hear a clink of metal and the soft swoosh of a belt being tugged off. I will not escape my little hysterical display unscathed.
“Aimelie, no . . . please,” Max pleads.
I cringe as a shadow flits behind my back. The first blow of the belt takes me across the buttocks.
Slap!
I shriek. The leather is rough and worn, but it still packs a sting like no other. Hot tears flood my eyes.
“Lick me,” comes the command. A female hand trawls the top of my head and presses my nose further into the recesses of her labia.
I lick and lick fervently as the guard continues to beat me. And after a while, I fold into the pain, surrendering myself to my fate.
If only my fate weren’t so grim.
Aimelie confirms it next: “I’m going to have you beaten like this every day while I fuck your former boyfriend until he passes out. And then I’m going to keep him in my playroom forever while I have you and your other friend thrown into the dungeons. You will never leave this castle. Never.”
2
I am worried. Rightly so.
Aimelie is a very real threat, especially since her father caters to her every whim. Or maybe I don’t know them that well at all and I’m overreacting. I’m allowing myself that possibility. But it’s better, I believe, to overreact to a very real threat than to stay complacent until Big Daddy takes our freedom away.
And I believe it’s already happening now.
I am forbidden to see Max. I’m out of my mind with anxiety. Big Gerta doesn’t talk to me except to feed me and beat me, sometimes simultaneously. And oh, she takes personal care to bathe me too. So when Mansk comes to visit me in the kitchen a week later, I’m over the moon.
“Mansk!” I’m so relieved to see him that I actually fall into his arms. This – a man who has fucked me and hit me in the name of Potchenko and his crazy daughter.
Mansk smiles as he hugs me and strokes my back. The scar on his face is purple today. I wonder if it changes color throughout the season, or if it has something to do with
the cold. I am naked, and he takes my body in appreciatively.
Gerta is standing behind us, her hammy arms crossed like a female warrior’s. She clears her throat. Mansk says something to her, and she leaves us in a huff.
I lick my lips nervously.
“Are we truly alone?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He seems amused. “Why?”
“Is anyone listening in to us?”
He crinkles his brow in puzzlement. “I do not think so.”
“Good. Because I have something to ask you.” I grip his arms tightly. “We need to escape.”
3
I don’t know why I am entrusting myself to the hands of this man – this toady I hardly know. But call it my womanly intuition. Mansk’s sister is a political dissident who has been executed by Potchenko. Although he has betrayed very little emotion at her execution, I believe that somehow, somewhat he has been moved by it.
Affected deeply.
I gaze at him out of my pleading eyes. I am attractive, yes, and I’m using all my powers of feminine persuasion now – my innocence, my youth, my moist, parted lips. I am not a fool to think that he will help me escape just because I offered him my pussy. But by serving up my fragility, I am appealing (I hope) to his innermost sense of humanity.
Help me, my eyes mutely plead.
His features soften. I can tell that he too has been affected by me. A little.
Of course, I am well aware that I may be serving myself, Max and Greg up to his wrath as well. What if he decides to tell Potchenko what I have done? Instead of permanent incarceration with Aimelie up my ass every day, we may be looking at the Guillotine. I have given up all hope that my being an American citizen would help protect us. I am not so foolish to believe in that fact anymore in this godforsaken world. Even in America, we were never fully protected.
A bullet in the head is still a bullet in the head, even if the political repercussions are dire. I would still be dead. So I stand there at the precipice of uncertainty, steadfast in my decision to throw our lives into Mansk’s hands.
Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3, Book 3) Page 1
