by Shandi Boyes
“Do you want to wear this?” I ask K, holding up the dress Arabella fetched for her. It’s skimpy, short, and I’m reasonably sure it’ll have me going on a rampage when we arrive back at Clarks.
The pulse in my jaw drops several inches lower when K shakes her head. Her shirt is grubby and far too big for her tiny frame, but she knows as well as I do that it isn’t the packaging that makes a person attractive. It’s their uncracked insides.
With a smug grin, I toss Arabella’s stripper dress onto the floor of her room. “She doesn’t want your dress—” My words are cut off by K’s hand darting out to touch my arm. She stares at me with wide, terrified eyes before she drifts them to the shoes Arabella is clutching. They’re basic and bland with only the slightest heel, however, she stares at them as if they’re Gucci. “You want her shoes?”
K’s eyes fall to her bare feet as quickly as her hand returns to her side. For a second, she doesn’t breathe, ashamed she showed eagerness for something she doesn’t own. She wanted Arabella’s mall-purchased shoes so much, she failed to consider how much they could cost her, so now she’s more panicked than excited. It’s clear she’s never been given anything without a hefty price tag attached to it, not even something as simple as a pair of wedged sandals.
When I click my fingers two times, Arabella coughs up her shoes as if she’s a genie and I rubbed her bottle the right way. “Sit.” My command is for K, and the bob of her throat reveals she’s aware of this.
After a second swallow, she does as requested, her eyes never lifting from the floor. I relieve my throat of its sudden dryness before kneeling in front of her to put on the first shoe. The high rise of my shirt on her slim thighs already makes her legs look like they go for miles, so you can imagine how much seduction a two-inch heel will add.
“Sit still, Duchess,” I command when it dawns on me the tiny shudders trickling through her body have nothing to do with her wearing shoes for the first time in God knows how long and everything to do with my hands being on her. Is it a scared shake? I don’t know. If Arabella weren’t eyeballing our exchange like a freak, I’d be halfway through testing my theory by now. Alas, I have to maintain patience—again. “Arabella is a worse cleaner than she is a cook. Even if I wanted to answer your every whim here, K, I can’t, so stop convincing me I can.”
Arabella scoffs at my insult. K smiles. It isn’t a full smile, it’s barely noticeable since her chin is tucked in close to her chest, but it sets off the pulse in my ears so quickly, I’m concerned my hearing will never be what it once was.
“There you go,” I mutter once I have the second latch done up. “Now how about a twirl?” K shakily accepts my hand before she gingerly pivots around. She’s embarrassed by my request, but the ruddy red hue creeping across her cheeks ensures it’ll occur more often from here on out.
The downpour we got caught in earlier cleared away the mess from her face and unknotted most of the bird’s nest in her hair. If you can take away the paleness of her skin, her teeny emaciated frame, and the red rims around her eyes from when she cried while coming, you’d have no clue she was held captive against her wishes. That’s how significant something as minor as a pair of shoes was to her mindset.
Once K is facing me front-on, I clear away a smear of gravy on her top lip before curling my hand around her. “Are you ready to get out of here?”
Her nod this time around isn’t concealed like the one she did when I asked her if she wanted Arabella’s shoes.
“Jim—” My words stop when he bursts into the kitchen with his coat already on and the keys for his truck in his hand.
I tell Arabella to take the next right before dropping my eyes to K. She’s snuggled into my chest, sleeping like a baby. I want to say the droning lull of Jim’s old motor is responsible for the peaceful expression on her face, but that would be a lie. She placed her ear over my heart the instant our attempts to un-bog my car caused its tires to sink in deeper. She’s as comforted by the sound of my beating heart as I am when I hear it pulsating in my ears.
“Go a quarter a mile up, then pull over. We’ll walk the rest of the way.” Nikolai kept Clarks hidden for a reason. Even with hiking not being my activity of choice, I don’t want to be the cause for anyone knowing where it is. “Here will do.”
Ignoring Jim’s grumble that Arabella is well aware of the location of Clarks, I divert my attention to K, so I can wake her up without scaring the shit out of her.
My worry is unfounded. She’s awake and peering up at me.
“We need to walk from here. Do you want to test out the versatility of your shoes or jump on my back?” My last two words come out with a husky laugh when her eyes pop open at my offer. “Piggyback ride it is.”
After thanking Arabella and Jim for the ride with a lift of my chin, I slide out of the cab of his old truck with K still in my lap. I could carry her through the desert-like valleys like a groom does a bride over the threshold, but I offered her a piggyback ride, and for once in my life, I’m going to do as offered.
“If your legs get sore, tap on my shoulder, and we’ll stop for a few.” Her legs won’t get tired from our trek. It’ll be from how wide they have to spread to curl around my waist. Our differences in size are starkly contradicting. She’s so light, my damp jeans weigh more than her, and it’s lucky if the top of her head reaches my nipple piercings.
“Děkuju.” I don’t understand a word of Czech, but considering she said the same word every time Arabella reloaded her plate with food, I’m reasonably sure it’s some sort of thanks.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Clarks, the sun is setting on the horizon. K’s faint breaths hitting my neck advise the clomps of my boots didn’t deter her from getting some shuteye. She slept the entire way.
When men from Nikolai’s crew spot my approach, they dot my chest with the scopes of their high-powered rifles. I wait for the red dots to lift to my face before squashing my index finger to my lips. Sometimes my brothers get excited about identifying a threat’s approach before the clearing, they fire shots of celebration into the air. I’m usually all for the adrenaline rush of unloading the chamber of a high-powered assault rifle, but I’d rather K stay asleep, so I downplay my eagerness.
The amused faces of Nero and Mikhail confront me when I break through the matured trees surrounding Clarks. They’ve seen many women cling to me the past three years, but this is the first time she’s clothed, and they’re not being invited to sample the merchandise. I’m all for fucking, have been since I was sixteen, but you can be as assured as fuck K will never be offered to any man, much less the horndogs of Nikolai’s crew.
“Any word from Eight?” I ask Nero while placing K onto my bed in the middle of my room.
Nero scrubs at the stubble on his chin before shaking his head. “No birds are whistling just yet. The quiet is a little unnerving.”
I jerk up my chin, agreeing with him before tugging up the bedding to cover K, wordlessly assuring her the slant of her head isn’t necessary. She is still with me, she’s just zoning out to protect herself, not just sexually, but emotionally as well.
The less you know in this industry, the longer you survive.
Once every inch of K’s body is covered by a duvet, I shift on my feet to face Nero and Mikhail. They kept a respectable distance by staying outside my door, them too noticing the glazed-over expression K’s face got when they followed our walk to my room.
“Maybe send out some feelers. We usually get rumblings long before a storm.” Men in this lifestyle love to gloat. It gets their rocks off as well as the whores they regularly sink their teeth into.
“Alright.” Mikhail strays his eyes to K for the quickest second before he pivots on his heels and stalks away. His glare doesn’t clench my jaw as expected, probably because his stare was more filled with remorse than desire.
After stepping to the right, blocking Nero from giving K the same sympathy as Mikhail, I ask, “Where’s Nikolai?”
He lick
s his dry lips before curving them into a smile. “Still holed up with Justine. Do you need him?”
I shake my head. “But come get me if he needs me. I’m gonna jump in the shower to wash off the pig shit from my skin. They were extra hungry today. I think we might have a new record. Consumed in under eight minutes.”
Nero arches a brow at the impressive number I cited, but he’d rather focus his attention on the first half of my statement than worry about a record he’ll never come close to beating. “That’s pig shit I’m smelling? Right.”
After hitting me with a wink, announcing he knows as well as I do that the sweet smell coating my skin isn’t close to the disgusting mess pigs get grubby in, he moseys down the corridor like I’m not five seconds from shoving my rifle up his ass. Pompous prick.
Once my door is shut and locked, I drag my eyes over K’s still form. Upon discovering she’s asleep, I toe off my mud-stained boots, yank my shirt over my head, then drop my hands to my belt. After flinging my jeans over the chair I slept in last night, I head for the bathroom. I won’t lie. My cock is hard and throbbing with want.
I’ve never gotten hard over a kiss before. They don’t thrill me enough to be seen as pleasurable. But our kiss—that goddamn motherfucking kiss that almost had me treating K like the monsters from her nightmares—got me so damn hard, my cock hasn’t deflated an inch the past hour and a half.
I have no control over it.
None whatsoever.
It’s like her kiss was Viagra, and I took the maximum dosage.
Even now, recalling her feather-like moans and the smell that vaped off her skin when she came has me wanting to return to my room. To push away the bedding and spread her legs wide. To snap off the soiled panties she’s been wearing for God knows how long. To lick her, eat her, and come over every inch of her.
I want her dirty and broken.
Stripped and scared.
I want her so goddamn much, I want to be one of the monsters from her nightmares.
But if I do that, she’ll only be mine once.
I want her so much more than that, so instead of focusing on what I can’t have just yet, I climb into the shower, wrap my hand around my cock, and give it a long and determined stroke.
The pounding I give it for the next five minutes is brutal. I don’t give the barbell piercings speared through my shaft any leeway in the tightness of my grip. I hold on tight, hurting it as it wants to hurt K.
She’ll never take all of me without bleeding. She’s tiny, and the scars I felt while fingering her will make her even harder to penetrate, but my God, do I want her.
It’ll have to be her choice. If she wants me, she’ll have to prepare for the pain associated with it. She will bleed no matter what. I’ll just make it pleasurable for her this time around.
If possible.
The vicious strokes on my cock weaken as I ruminate over the idea of K being capable of orgasming during sex. She shattered earlier without much initiative, but that isn’t unusual. I’ve made many women come with only a stroke of my thumb, however, not one of them has cried during it.
Will that be normal for K? Will she always break when she gives in to the sensation overwhelming her. She’ll still be beautiful once she’s put back together, but I don’t see it being healthy if it occurs every time.
I could show her how awesome sex is, make her an addict who depends on climaxes as much as her body requires food to live. I’ll need to gain her trust, and have her looking at me differently than she does any other man. To watch me as she is now with her lips parted and her eyes wide. For her jagged breaths to match mine when she takes in my cock sliding in and out of my fisted hand.
She has watched a man jerk off before. The low tilt of her chin assures me of this, much less the dilation of her pupils, but I doubt she ever watched them as she’s watching me now. The focus would generally be on her—the smooth planes of her stomach and the generous swell of her tits even with her being starved. She’s battered and bruised, but more than enticing enough to double the speed of my pumps.
My hips jackknife on repeat as an overwhelming desire to come crashes into me. My body trembles as precum drips from my crown. I tug on my dick so fast, even the coolness of my piercings feel roasting hot.
As I bring myself to the brink of insanity, I refuse to look at K’s pebbled nipples or check her panties for wetness. Even with tingles racing from my sack to the tip of my shaft feeling good enough to come, this isn’t about me. Just like the fireworks blistering in the cloudy sky above the pigsty, this is for K.
After adjusting my footing to ensure K has the best view possible, I splay my spare hand on the tiles above my head. I want to come so bad, but it’s got nothing on my urge to make this the most riveting performance K has ever watched.
While increasing the pressure on my strokes, I suck in big breaths through my nose. I can smell K’s heated skin from here, her cunt.
Fuck.
Its intoxicating smell is my undoing.
As cum rockets out the crown, I strangle my dick, pissed as fuck it couldn’t hold back for a second longer. It shoots murky white substance up the tiled wall of the shower stall and coats my hand, jerking on repeat until it goes limp, and my lungs are breathless.
“Go to sleep now, K,” I murmur through the exhaustion clutching my throat. “Go to sleep before I do something I can’t take back.”
I don’t need to look her way to know she’s sinking away from me.
The loss of her heated gaze is telling enough.
Fifteen
Sales Docket Number 12574… or is it Kristina?
Ten years earlier…
* * *
“Do you remember what Pa said, Kristina?” my mother asks as she braids the thick waves of blonde curls hanging loosely down my back. I’ve been growing my hair for as long as I’ve been living. Twelve years of growth sees it stopping just before the faintest dip in my back. “Treat people how you want to be—”
“Treated. Never less or never more. We are all equal people.”
“That’s right,” my father chimes in, his voice full of pride. “Everyone has their place. You just need to find yours.”
“I will, Pa. I’ll do precisely that today.” I wait for my mother to twist a ribbon through the bottom of my braid before spinning around to gain their approval on my outfit of choice. I have on my best Sunday dress, my face has been scrubbed clean, and since I’m hoping to represent an adult more than a child today, my lashes have the faintest splattering of mascara. I don’t need blush or any of those other gimmicks they sell on the boxed television in my parents’ room. My cheeks are already rosy, and since I got my complexion from my mother’s side of my family, I’m not as pasty as the other blonde-haired, blue-eyed children in town.
My mom places down the horse-hair brush that’s been passed down from generation to generation in our family before twisting around to face me. “You better get a wiggle on. Mrs. Novak does not appreciate tardiness.”
While nodding, I run my sweaty hand down the flare of my dress before making a beeline for the door. I’m so nervous, my palms are sweaty.
“Remember to finish your schoolwork as soon as you’re done,” my father shouts when I break through the door of the servants’ quarters.
He can’t see me, but I nod my head, nonetheless. I love my parents, and we’re extremely fortunate to be given a cabin on the grounds of the Novak’s estate, but I don’t want to be them when I grow up. I want to be a nurse, or a pilot, or perhaps a naval officer.
If you haven’t worked this out yet, I haven’t exactly worked out what I want to do just yet. There’s only one thing I do know, I don’t want to do it here. The only people I can help here are the Novaks, and they have so much money, they don’t need the type of help I’m offering. I’m only applying for the position of chambermaid today so that I can put aside my wages for a degree. They’re not cheap, and my parents can’t afford to pay on my behalf. I’m two years younger than t
he starting age of most of the chambermaids, but I’m hopeful the mascara on my lashes will mature up my looks enough they’ll look past the childishness of my face.
“You’re Hana and Ivan’s daughter, correct?”
Mrs. Novak’s head pops up from my handwritten resume when I nod. “Yes, Mrs. Novak. My father is currently your chauffeur, and my mother is your head housekeeper.”
“And you want to be a chambermaid? That’s your career aspiration?”
I lick my lips, truly unsure how to reply. I’ve never been a fan of lying, so I go with straight-up honesty. “Not exactly. I’d like to be a chambermaid for now. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”
Her expression switches from amused to miffed in less than a nanosecond. “Grow up is a fitting set of words considering your age.”
“I will work hard, and I’ll have no trouble keeping up with your schedule as set.”
She arches a blonde brow. “Even with you being half the age and weight of your colleagues?”
I nod, preferring to lie without words. I’m strong, despite my small frame. My parents raised me right.
The knot in my stomach tightens when Mrs. Novak sighs. She only ever sighs when she’s disappointed, which is often these days. “I’m sorry, Kristina. I don’t see you being a suitable fit for our staff. Perhaps in a few years—”
“I won’t be here in a few years. I’ll be at college.”
She smiles like I’m joking. It agitates me more than I’ll ever express. “We’ll see.”
After dismissing me from the room with a wave of her hand, she shifts her focus to the next applicant on her long list of many.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” I mouth to my mother during my silent trek across the ballroom-size room.
