Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3, Book 3) (2 page)

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.

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.