Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3, Book 3)

by Aphrodite Hunt

  Mansk asks, “The three of you?”

  “Yes. But please, this is my idea. Whether or not you decide to help us, Max and Greg had no say in this. If you must punish me,” I swallow, “punish me alone.”

  My heart is beating wildly. I clench my fists at my sides. Please, please, please, I will him.

  He finally says, “You play a dangerous game, as you Americans call it.”

  “Yes, I know. But I have no choice. Aimelie’s threats to keep us here until our bones rot is very real.”

  He considers this. I can see emotions flit across his face. Perhaps he too has been the subject of Aimelie’s whims. Or perhaps his sister has been. I may never know. But I do know that I don’t want to hang around this place any longer – like a prisoner under the blade of an axe. An axe that might fall any minute upon our necks because no law protects us.

  I’m escaping because I have to. Not because I want to.

  He finally says, “I will think on this very carefully, Gina Wesley. It is a very huge thing you are asking of me. One that can put me in very bad peril.”

  Wow, his English has certainly improved after the time he spent with me. I nod.

  “I understand. But please . . . think about it. If you help us . . . Max’s father is very rich. We can . . . pay you, give you asylum . . . protect you.”

  I’m not sure if I should be promising all these things to him, especially when I do not have Max to consult as to what his father can and will do, but I’m betting Russell would like to see Max safe as much as I would. Desperation calls for desperate measures.

  He nods once. “I will sleep on these things, Gina Wesley. And I will give you my reply.”

  When he does not move, I ask him anxiously, “What have you come to see me for? Has something happened to Max? To Greg?”

  “No. But Aimelie has requested for you.” He shifts a little on his feet, looking uneasy.

  Fear bolts up my throat.

  Oh no.

  “What is it that she wants with me this time?” I say, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice.

  *

  I am totally correct in reading that what Aimelie wants, Aimelie gets. In so many ways, she is far worse than Alice. At least Alice has Russell to rein her in whenever she got too bad. But Aimelie is an unchecked force of nature. A tsunami that is allowed to climb to unimaginable peaks – to wreak havoc upon the helpless and unsuspecting coastal villagers.

  Especially when her father is away.

  I feel like a leaf being swept up in someone else’s storm.

  Mansk leads me out of the kitchen. Once again, I am made to walk through interminable passages that smell of ancient lichen. My hands are bound behind me.

  Instead of the tower, we enter a passageway that leads downward in a slope. Here, the walls drip water. The rivulets run like tears down cold stone.

  The appearance of a dungeon cell jars me, even when I was expecting it. Gawd, I think, my pulse is fluctuating wildly. It’s started – the road to my execution. First, they put you into the dungeons. Next, they feed you your last meal, if you’re lucky. Then they get a priest to give you last rites, if you are also lucky. Then they march you off to the Guillotine in a broad flipped-finger gesture that says, “Fuck you, America”.

  Of course, I’m running ahead of myself. Here I am, thinking that my death would be the start of World War 4. In truth, Uncle Sam might think I’m just a blip on their radar, no different from the countless men and women who have given themselves up to Iraq or Afghanistan or some other war that we were pointlessly fighting.

  Mansk dances me past the dank empty cells. I don’t know why they are empty. No skeletal prisoners are shackled to their walls. No rusted iron manacles dangle from the ceiling. No dirty straw is strewn upon the stone slabs of the cold floor, permeated by the ammonia stench of urine.

  Oh wait. I think I know why they are empty. Either the prisoners are in some sort of state detention center . . . or they have all been executed as quickly as they have been arrested.

  Yes, yes, I will now stop being a drama queen.

  If only I weren’t so scared!

  Mansk takes me to a closed cell. Closed behind forbidding stone walls, that is, and accessed only by an ancient iron-strapped door.

  “Enter,” he says, pushing the door forward.

  At least this cell is not empty.

  Greg is tied to a single chair in the middle of the cell. His arms are threaded through the back of the chair in an intricate pattern of rope work. His legs are slightly apart and similarly tethered to the front legs of the chair. He is as naked as I am. His soft brown eyes arrest mine as I walk into the room. His cock – a cock I am fairly familiar with in both sight and use – is a flaccid appendage between his legs.

  Two guards stand behind him. One of them is armed with a coil of rope.

  Fear grips me. Are they going to torture Greg in front of me and make me watch? Or is this going to be some ghastly hanging?

  Mansk says something to the guards and they stride over to me.

  “Greg,” I cry as they seize my arms and waist.

  “Gina, hold on.” His voice is cracked with strain.

  Instead of dragging me, the guards haul me bodily up, with their hands upon my hips and the undersides of my thighs. Naturally, they ensure that my legs are opened and that my vulva is displayed like a velvety, glistening flower. They carry me to where Greg is seated. His expression is steadfast as he holds my eyes. I know that he is as frightened as to where this is going as I am, but he is remaining calm for me.

  A pang fleets through my chest. I know that Greg loves me, and it is not as a sister or even a friend.

  The guards hold my hips above Greg’s penis, which is rapidly becoming turgid. Maybe it’s my presence. Maybe it’s because I’m so female and my pussy is suddenly wet and wanting. But as soon as Greg’s cock achieves some semblance of rigidity, Mansk takes it in his hand and caresses it into hardness. Greg’s crown swells and the large vein upon his penile shaft bulges.

  Mansk holds Greg’s dick erect as the guards lower me onto it. My vulva eases upon its firm head like a glove, and the rest of its shaft slides into my creamed tube noiselessly. Greg’s warmth and musk permeates my nostrils. My hips grind upon his, and we are almost face to face, breasts to chest – except that we cannot embrace because our arms are tethered respectively behind our backs.

  My nipples rub against his smooth pectorals. This causes them to regain tensile erection, and I’m suddenly hard there as well – as though they are little stones in the shape of rosebuds. Greg’s rod is a firm, comforting stick whittling inside my pussy. My lips brush against his, and he takes this opportunity to give me a little reassuring kiss.

  I love you, his eyes mutely say.

  I know, I want to say, but my expression must have suggested only distress.

  Satisfied with our position, Mansk orders the guards to bind us together with the coil of rope. This is wounded around our torsos in the rib area, effectively tethering us to the chair and me to Greg. The bonds are tight, but not tight enough for me not to be able to affect some sort of vertical movement.

  So this is to be our punishment. Strange punishment that it is.

  Mansk says, “Aimelie has ordered me to tell you this. She wants you to know she is merciful. While she subjects Max, your boyfriend, to many sexual positions in her bedroom upstairs, she wants you to be with Greg, who she knows is Max’s sister’s fiancé. She hopes the two of you find a fulfilling relationship.”

  My expression must have registered shock . . . and then perplexed horror. Horror that Aimelie’s twisted mind would be so warped as to believe that my ties to Max can be severed so easily. And horror to think that by forcing me to embrace Greg this way, I would forget Max.

  Mansk grimaces. Apparently, he thinks so too. But he shrugs as he and the guards troop away.

  “Enjoy this while you can,” he tells me as a parting shot. And there is another hidden meaning in his eyes.
/>   I will consider your request.

  Then again, it could mean: I will consider telling Potchenko about your request.

  Little beads of sweat prickle the back of my neck as the door clangs behind him like a final proclamation.

  4

  Greg and I are alone in the dungeon cell. The air is chilly and dank with all the droplets of water evaporating from the walls. Somewhere above us, I can hear the plop-plop-plop of falling water. There is a single flickering torch mounted against one wall, which is the only light in the room afforded to us. I suppose this is Aimelie’s way of allowing us to gaze deeply into each other’s eyes.

  I am afraid.

  I am afraid of looking into Greg’s beautiful brown eyes because of what I would see there. A declaration of love, perhaps. An admission I am not yet ready to embrace.

  Or perhaps I am flattering myself. Perhaps Greg feels only affection for me because of our shared travails. He is, after all, engaged to be married to the beauteous Alice. Would he risk being part of the Devlin fortune just for me?

  I do not have the self-confidence to think so. While I am pretty, I do not have the composed beauty of a femme fatale – or at least one who can launch a thousand ships. I am not clever or interesting enough. And I am certainly far from being sophisticated and experienced. Even my body – while nubile and lush and ripe – is hardly that of a goddess. My best feature is perhaps my hair, but that is scarcely enough to make me the object of every man’s desire.

  I feel foolish as I catch Greg’s eyes, even though my heart is thudding against my chafed ribcage.

  What I see there takes me aback.

  Greg’s cock worms within me – eliciting tendrils of exquisite sensation. Our collective breathing causes his hard flesh to gently slide within me – but in mere centimeters.

  Greg says hoarsely, “You are afraid of me.”

  “No,” I lie.

  “You are afraid that I will tell you something I can’t take back. Aimelie is shrewder than we give her credit for, and she is right. I do have . . . feelings for you, Gina.” His voice breaks at this last.

  No, no, no, I pray, the blood suffusing my ears like a waterfall.

  He goes on, “But I know that you don’t have those same feelings for me. I know you love Max.” He averts his head. “I loved Alice once, but she is a spoilt, rude, devious and cruel brat who has been allowed to run riot on everyone’s feelings for too long. As soon as we get back, I’m going to break off the engagement.”

  The shock hits me.

  “No, no, Greg, no. This is not because of me, is it?” I say desperately.

  He barks a short laugh. “No. OK, maybe partially. But it’s primarily because I don’t want to be married to someone who will make my life a living purgatory, no matter how rich her daddy is and how many career opportunities he will give me. I have made my own way before this, and I will continue to do so.”

  I remain silent.

  He stares at my face.

  He says gently, “Don’t worry, Gina. I’m not going to impose my feelings upon you. You belong to Max and nothing will change that. I just wanted to . . . you know, tell you how I felt before . . . anything happened to us in this place – ”

  He lets it trail. His expression is bruised, as though he expects to be let down and hurt badly.

  So he too is afraid of Potchenko and Aimelie and their unpredictable mood swings. I debate whether to tell him of my little tete-a-tete with Mansk, and decide against it. Even though the cell’s walls seem ancient, their interiors may be cobbled with hidden cameras and recording devices. I do not prematurely want to reveal my cards.

  Confusion swirls in my head, and that too frightens me. For mine is not an open-and-shut case of ‘Yes, you are right. I love Max and I will never reciprocate your love’. It is not that my love for Max has wavered, but that my feelings for Greg go alarmingly deeper than I thought they would. I have always pushed them to the backburner. Refused to confront them because of everything that is going on around us.

  But his declaration now forces me to face them head on, and the swell of emotion that eddies within my psyche is an unexpected storm.

  I swallow the hard lump that has bolted into my throat. I owe him the truth in these uncertain climes, if nothing else.

  I say, “No, Greg, you’ve got it wrong. It isn’t that I don’t love you. I do.”

  “Like a brother,” he says with bitterness.

  “No. It’s more than that. That’s why I’m so confused. I love Max. But I love you too . . . to an extent.”

  It’s true. I think I must have fallen a little in love with Greg during my Final Initiation. Back when I wasn’t sure as yet of my feelings for Max. Back before we became a couple. Back when Greg was the only beacon of kindness in a cruel world where men and women sought to use my body for their pleasures and nothing else.

  “But not as much as you love him,” he says.

  “No. It’s different.”

  I dare not describe it. My feelings for Max have always been associated with awe and lust and love and a little master-slave domination that still lingers no matter what has changed. Of course they would be. He was my initiator and dom before he became my boyfriend.

  But my feelings for Greg . . . ahhh. Now that’s complicated. With Greg, I feel assurance and attraction and warmth and a gooey sense of safety, like being embraced in a pair of arms that will protect, succor and defend me.

  “I understand.” His face flinches, and he looks away. His brown orbs are filled with unbearable pain.

  My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is to hurt Greg at a time like this. Oh, that Aimelie. She’s smart. She knows that Greg harbors feelings for me and she has made our situation so dire that she knows we must confront those feelings before it is too late. She is playing a cruel psychological game with us, like a cat which must toy with its prey before she devours it.

  Unless her threats of keeping us here forever are also part of that game.

  Will she . . . or won’t she?

  If only we have the answers!

  “I was expecting this,” Greg says, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ll get over it. It’s just that you . . . you make me feel special, Gina. Like no one else. Whenever I’m with you, I want to protect you. Keep you safe. I will never, ever let any harm come to you, you know that, Gina.”

  Yes, I do. Tears steal into my eyes.

  “I would give my life if I thought I could save you from being harmed,” he declares.

  Yes, I know that too. I would do the same for the boys . . . with a little push. I’m not as brave and noble as Greg is.

  I close my eyes desperately, squeezing hot tears out of them.

  “Oh no, don’t, Gina. The last thing I want to do is to make you cry. I wish I can hold you, stroke your hair. Don’t cry, please.”

  But I can’t help it. The situation has gotten into me. Burrowed like an alien host into my bones and taken residence there like some pervading insect. The tears run fast and flowing down my cheeks.

  To stem them, I begin to move my hips. My back chafes against the ropes that tie me to Greg, but I don’t care. My pussy inches up and down his still solid cock, coring myself into him in that little space proffered to me. My movements are jerky, abrupt – but he still moans against me.

  “Kiss me,” he whispers.

  I know I am adding salt to his wounds, but I do it anyhow. I press my lips onto his (at this position, we are at the same height) and kiss him with all the feeling I harbor for him in my conflicted little world. I kiss him and kiss him – my tongue darting inside his mouth. He catches it and sucks at it, not wanting to let go.

  Our kisses deepen and become more heated, and suddenly, it’s as if we are no longer strangers. The final barrier has fallen and we give in to ourselves. He puts all his passion and pent-up emotions into his kiss, and I respond hungrily to him.

  Even as I grind against him, our mouths never leave each other’s. My pussy compresses his cock, and some
where inside that confined recess, he locates my G-spot. I jerkily massage him until we are both climbing, and kissing, and climbing further, and kissing more feverishly and lovingly – so glad to be still alive – and cresting a peak, and a further peak. Until we both breach some infinitesimal edge, and I abandon myself to the maelstrom of sensations and frightening emotions.

  I scream my climax into the stone ceiling of the dungeon cell, and I feel him ejaculate into me. Hot, gushy, ropy strings of semen – swarming into my womb, cascading into every groove and recess, filling me with a warm, pleasurable tide.

  Once again, I feel safe. Protected. The way I always feel around Greg.

  He’s dependable, reliable, loving. And as much as I hate to say this, I think he loves me more than Max does.

  I close my eyes, panting, and bury my face in his shoulder.

  All the more reason to get all of us out of here.

  5

  Mansk comes to me when I least expect it. When I have given up all hope of him ever giving me an answer. Meanwhile, in the week that ensued, I am taken to Greg every day. We make love, open now with our feelings for each other.

  It isn’t that I have forgotten Max. Far from it. Is it possible to love two men? Well, I do. I’m not being greedy, nor am I using Greg as a spare wheel just in case the more unpredictable Max doesn’t work out. I’m merely being honest.

  If Aimelie had planned it this way, it is working.

  I am not allowed to see Max. From what I hear, he is perpetually ensconced in Aimelie’s tower – slave to her every command.

  Potchenko, her father, is apparently on a tour of the countryside, according to Mansk. He has a series of executions he personally wants to oversee. I can imagine the myriad heads that fall into the basket before the blade of the Guillotine, and I shut my eyes in dismay.