Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica)

by Aphrodite Hunt

  SHACKLED BY THE DICTATOR

  (BOOK TWO 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

  SHACKLED BY THE DICTATOR

  1

  Why does the very notion of being in Ursk terrify me so?

  I think it’s because – like North Korea – no one knows all that much about it. There’s an iron curtain surrounding it from all geographical sides. No plane is even allowed in its airspace without being shot down. There are many speculations in journalistic articles, but few actual media reports, if any. No one is ever invited there. And the only person who has tried to write a book about his experiences there (after escaping from it, of course) was murdered before he could finish in a highly publicized case.

  So forgive me for being a teensy weensy bit scared.

  Fuck that.

  I’m volcanically terrified. I’m over-the-top, stratospherically, out-of-my-mind terrified. I’m so terrified I’m practically quaking by the airplane window of Air Force Ursk.

  I’m strapped into my seat with Max and Greg beside me. We are all naked. I have been in planes before, but it still feels weird to land on uncharted foreign soil with my bare buttocks in contact with the scratchy cushion.

  Below us, the mysterious land of Ursk sprawls like a lush, verdant carpet. I feel like I’m entering a version of the Forbidden Planet. I peer out of the window, trying to count the trees. OK, that’s foolish. I might as well try to count the hellish sheep in the nightmares I’ve been having ever since I knew I was coming here. I spy a steeple here, glinting red roofs there, a dome-shaped building somewhere else, and a scatter of terracotta houses.

  No skyscrapers anywhere, but then, why would they need skyscrapers when most of the population has been thrown into prisons for dissent, right?

  Imagine. I’m one of the first people from the Western Hemisphere to cross the border to Ursk. I can write a book about this when I get out. TIME magazine would want to interview me. So would Larry King. I’ll be the most famous sex slave alive.

  If I ever get out of Ursk, that is. And if rumor serves us correct, it’s going to take a helluva more than a stamp on my passport to pass ‘Border Exit’.

  My hand grips the armrests as the plane descends with a piteous whine. Max senses my consternation and grasps the back of my hand.

  “Relax,” he murmurs, “you’re going to be fine.”

  Easy for you to say that. You’ve got a billionaire daddy to bail you out.

  Greg is seated on Max’s other side. The furrow in his brow denotes that he is deep in concentration. I like Greg a lot. In fact, I think I may like him a whole lot more than ‘a lot’. But my feelings are all topsy-turvy and runny like a half-boiled egg when it comes to Greg, especially since I have a boyfriend who is gorgeous and golden and rich and who loves me every bit as much as I love him. So I can’t deal with my Greg preoccupation right now.

  It doesn’t help that Greg is engaged to be married to Alice, Max’s bratty older sister with whom he had an incestuous relationship.

  I know. We’re so majorly fucked up.

  The plane’s wheels touch the tarmac of the landing strip. We jostle and bump in our seats. If there’s a commercial airport in Ursk, I can’t really see it. This is more like a private airfield. The never-ending trees line the strip like quivering sentient watchtowers.

  Shit, shit, shit. I’m not prepared for this.

  The plane screeches to a halt. No one comes for us, and so we have no choice but to stay put in our seats.

  “Do we get up?” I say anxiously.

  “Do you want to risk getting spanked?” Greg says.

  Spanking, I can handle. It’s the other unknown factors that we have yet to uncover as strangers in this strange land.

  After a while, Mansk and a couple of guards come along.

  “Get up,” Mansk orders.

  We unbuckle our seat belts and straighten ourselves. I notice the cold gleam of metal in Mansk’s hands.

  “Stand,” he says to me.

  I obey, my body shivering slightly. He is very close to me and I can smell his man musk – natural, without aftershave. I find myself focusing on the scar on his chin and wondering what it would be like to be fucked by him. That is, if Potchenko will ever permit him to fuck me.

  He proceeds to clip two silver clamps in the shapes of pins upon my erect nipples. These are tight, cutting most of my circulation off immediately. Tears squeeze into my eyes. The clamps are connected to long silver chains, which he proceeds to pull taut.

  He buries these within the petal-like folds of my outer labia. The cold metal wriggles in between my sensitive flesh, entrapping my tender clit hood in a vise grip. My poor clit is imprisoned, and the plump sweet flesh that is trapped begins to swell with pleasurable girth.

  How am I going to walk like this?

  The guards are decorating both Max and Greg with similar accoutrements. They position me between the boys. We stand in a line – one after the other: Max, me, followed by Greg. Max’s nipple chains are wound around his balls and below his groin. The loose ends are pulled taut to exit behind his buttocks, and attached to my nipple clamps.

  My chains are in turn attached to Greg’s nipples. The tiny links of metal jostle and rub fiercely against my clit and secret folds of my inner labia, sending alarmingly erotic sensations all over my pussy.

  My creams start to flow. They pool within my snug passage – eliciting a different sort of electric tingle inside my groin. It’s molten liquid against a raw fleshy massage.

  My poor clit throbs. I feel as though I can spontaneously orgasm just like that.

  They handcuff our wrists behind our backs.

  “Now walk out of the plane,” Mansk commands.

  It’s difficult, I can tell you. Mansk leads the way down the aisle to the open door. Max follows. The uncomfortable tug on my nipples jolts me into movement and I stumble – the crazy sensations in my clit and pussy running all over like vibrating ants. Every step I take is labored, intensified and oh-so-pleasurable. Every move I make comes with its own battalion of waves and peaks, threatening to send me towards the orgasmic edge any time.

  We troop down the stairs, our bare feet treading upon the lightly studded metal. I’m trying very hard not to trip and fall.

  A sight like I have never seen before greets us. Truly, I was not prepared for this. The vista from the airplane window only showed me one side of the airstrip – the wild, untamed foliage of Ursk. But on other side —

  I suck in my ribcage. I cannot quell the rapid thrumming of my pulse.

  Vladimir Potchenko stands before several rows of his soldiers – a hundred men in each line. And beyond them stretch thousands and thousands of people. The enormity of the crowd which has turned out to greet us (no, actually him) staggers me. There must have been twenty thousand people there. No, more than twenty thousand. They blanket the ground like a sea of clothed flesh.

  The airfield is just that – an airfield with several buildings. But the fields that go beyond it are immense . . . and filled with those silent, patiently waiting people. I swear there isn’t a single murmur that ripples through the throng. I can even sense the heat, weight and press of the bodies under the Eastern European sun. A cool summer breeze sweeps from the distant purple hills on the horizon.

  Have
these people come to see us? I don’t think so. We are just sex slaves. We don’t command that kind of gravity and attraction.

  “Gina, you have to move,” Greg says softly from behind me.

  The tug of the chains upon my nipple clamps forces me down the steps of the aircraft. The chains dig harshly into my pussy grooves, exerting their intimate tension. My clit weeps for the compression upon its sides. It’s difficult to be graceful when you are so encumbered.

  We go down the steps without event. I can feel all the eyes of the soldiers and the people upon us. What must they be thinking of when they view our embarrassingly bound state? Are we the first sex slaves from a foreign land to ever enter Ursk?

  We walk down past the lines of soldiers. A thunderous roar swells from the crowd, followed by chanting in a language I am not familiar with. I don’t think they are cheering for us.

  Potchenko walks ahead, surrounded by his entourage. He gets into a waiting open top Mercedes with several of his guards. The crowd breaks into raucous applause.

  An open cart – pretty much like the ones used in quaint picture postcards of European peasant life – awaits us several cars behind. It is attached to two patiently waiting donkeys. My stomach clenches. So we are to be exhibited before the citizens of Ursk like animals.

  Still, what am I expecting? The red carpet tour?

  Mansk and his guards help us climb onto the cart. We are still chained to each other, and I stumble behind Max as I ascend the rickety steps. The floor boards on the cart are mere wooden planks, rotting with age. Crisscrossing rough-hewn wooden bars surround us. I feel like an eighteenth century prisoner being taken to the gallows.

  Max, Greg and I are made to kneel upon the floor of the cart – one after the other, triplets in humiliation and servitude. Mansk and another guard climb in with us.

  “Keep your thighs apart,” Mansk orders us. “Show genitals . . . always.”

  Figures.

  A guard outside beats one of the donkeys with a stick, and we are off. The wheels of the cart trundle and roll painfully down the asphalt – a medieval contrivance traversing a modern road.

  There must have been ten cars in the motorcade, with our cart sticking out in the middle like an extremely out-of-place thumb. All around us are people – cheering, waving, shouting, chanting. My knees scrape against the floor boards. The uneven wood fibers grate upon my skin. Thank goodness the cart is rolling slowly, or I’d lose my balance and fall against Max’s smooth back.

  It soon becomes apparent that the people are chanting but two words in Urskan: “Velka Vudca.” They repeat this in a sing-song chorus: Velka Vudca, Velka Vudca, Velka Vudca.

  Mansk eyes me. He has been looking at me now and then – sometimes openly, sometimes surreptitiously when we are in Potchenko’s presence. He rakes his eyes down my breasts and open pussy. I lick my lips. I know he wants me. Only thing is . . . will he ever act upon it and risk castration, dismemberment or even execution?

  File this knowledge away, my inner voice tells me. It might come in useful later.

  I clear my throat. Am I allowed to speak to Mansk without being spoken to? Well, I don’t care. I’m going to do it anyway.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Mansk, sir . . . what are the people chanting?”

  “Velka Vudca?” The words trip from his tongue easily. “It means ‘Great Leader’.”

  Great Leader. I savor the appellation. So this is what it means to be a dictator here in this hidden nation, ostracized by the world. But what do you need the world for if you are God in your own considerably huge microcosm?

  As the parade weaves down the streets, I study the buildings behind the people. They are extremely Gothic and colorful – with golden spires pointing to the sky. Gables and gargoyles festoon the walls, as do carved angels and cherubs. Tricolored flags flutter in the breeze. I take it that those are the Urskan national colors.

  I could have been in Prague or Budapest and I wouldn’t have known the difference. Only, of course, I haven’t been to either Prague or Budapest.

  But unlike those cities, an unsettling miasma permeates the crowd. There is a restless feeling of coercion here. The people’s cries seem forced – but it’s a strange kind of forced, as though you are made to recite the alphabet before a particularly strict headmaster whom you completely fear and respect and even love . . . while you retain just that hidden streak of rebellion.

  I have experienced those very feelings against Dean Whitehouse. Russell Devlin. Even Max Devlin. They were all my doms at one point or another.

  And this dictator is the greatest dom of them all.

  Mansk proceeds to give us the guided tour, whether or not we asked for it.

  “We are in Gorky, capital city of Ursk. Two million citizens live here.”

  “Are they all out in the streets today?” I ask timidly.

  “Many of them are in fields and factories, toiling for their day’s wages.” Mansk has a faraway look on his face.

  I know Mansk’s English isn’t the best in the world, but I find it strange that he should select the word ‘toiling’. And the way he says it is unexpected as well. As though he is repeating a phrase he has read from a magazine.

  We come out into a plaza where a bronze statue of Potchenko stands thirty feet tall, towering over the gathered masses like an imperial judge. It has an incredible likeness to him, I note. But it is the assembly before the statue that fills me with dread.

  A raised platform has been erected to face the statue. Three contraptions that I have not seen outside a museum have been placed upon it. My gut rolls at the sight of three massive Guillotines. Their frames are painted black, and the cunning blades that are suspended from their top bars are angled and shiny. They use Guillotines here? I thought they have been outlawed.

  But wait a minute.

  Three Guillotines.

  There are three of us in the cage. Max, Greg and myself.

  A sudden panic seizes me. Surely they are not going to execute us for a public spectacle? What have we ever done to Ursk and Potchenko? Does he mean to murder us in cold blood in front of all these people as a flip of his third finger to the very Western capitalist supremacy which imposes sanctionsup on his country?

  Oh my God.

  That is exactly how he is going to play it, right?

  My palms behind my back are now clammy. The blood runs cold within my veins – ice-cold, despite the starkly contrasting sunniness of the day. Overhead, clouds scud across the mockingly sweet blue sky.

  “Max,” I whimper.

  “Gina, it’s going to be OK,” he whispers tersely without turning around. His shoulders tremble, and I can tell that he doesn’t quite believe in his own pronouncement.

  Greg says urgently from behind me, “Gina, it’s not what you think. He’s not going to kill us. There is no point. He’s not stupid enough to incur the wrath of Uncle Sam by executing us when we haven’t done anything!”

  Not stupid, I think, my teeth clattering now. But rash. Maybe he really wants to bring war down upon himself. It has been known to happen. Dictators do stuff like this throughout history. Entire nations have had to pay for it.

  There are television crews in front of the podium. Cameras are angled towards the stage. For it is a stage, make no mistake about it. A political stage for Potchenko’s one-upmanship to the world.

  Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God.

  I can only repeat this as a litany because my mind is totally blanked to everything else. For some reason, Mansk does not meet my eyes. Of course. He knows what will happen to us. He has known all along. My thighs are trembling so hard now that I can scarcely hold myself upright. Sweat trickles down the cleft of my buttocks.

  I can’t believe I’m really going to die. I’m a living political statement. I’m about to go down in history books as a footnote. And not only me – but the two people I absolutely love and adore: Max and Greg.

  I simply can’t bear it if they are to be killed alongside me.

  A s
oldier bedecked with medals and epaulettes climbs onto the podium – a silhouette against the sun. I don’t have to understand Urskan to know what he is saying:

  “Bring the prisoners.”

  2

  I don’t know what I’m expecting. My life to flash before my eyes, perhaps. Every memory of my mother and father and sister, Karyn. All my precious memories of Max fucking and loving me. And Greg, with his sweetness and warmth and tenderness.

  But there is strangely nothing. There is nothing because my shriveled leather of a temporal lobe has curled up and decided to go AWOL. My memories are malfunctioning – that can be the only explanation. My vision isn’t great either. Everything in front of me is runny, as though a pail of soapy water has been thrown against my retinas and is now slowly trailing down my screens.

  Every fiber of my being tenses as I wait for the door of our cage to open and the guards to physically haul us out.

  But there is . . . nothing.

  Instead, two men and a woman are brought up the stairs of the podium. They wear grey smocks, and their hair is lanky and bedraggled. Their heads are bowed. They are the very portrait of misery and resignation.

  The guards line them up behind the Guillotines.

  I know I’m supposed to find this terrifying. I have never seen a live execution before. But the profound relief – guilty relief – that washes through me almost pitches my entire body forward. So I am to be spared! So are Max and Greg!

  This time, at least, the little warning voice tells me.

  Still, to watch a public execution is no laughing matter. I decide that I am not going to watch it. I am going to kneel here on my comfortable cart and keep my eyes fixed steadfastly upon the floorboards.

  Mansk says, “Did you think for one moment you are to have your heads chopped off?”

  Yes, actually I did.

  Greg says in a tight voice, “Are public executions common here as a ‘welcome home’ present for Potchenko?”