Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) (3 page)

“Shoot them and dump their bodies into
unmarked pits,” he would say without compunction or mercy.

My stomach does a queasy turn. He is looking
at me. Me!

I shiver even more violently.

Oh, oh, oh. What do I do? What do I say?

Say nothing. Do nothing, unless he tells you
to.

“Come here, girl.” His voice is even,
brimming with confidence – as bass deep as rocks. This is a voice
which is used to being obeyed without question.

My feet pad towards him on their own
volition. You see? My feet know how to obey him, even if the rest
of me is slow to comprehend. My brain seems to be on permanent
freeze. The cockpit surrounds me, pressing me in, but I barely
register anything else.

It is
him
. Only him. Drawing me in
like a lethal magnet. My throat dries. My voice has fled and hidden
itself within the deep compressible structures of my vocal
chords.

Will he order the pilot to open the plane
door and push me out without parachute? He’s capable of doing that.
He’s capable of anything and everything. In Ursk, his word is
law.

This airplane is under the jurisdiction of
Ursk. I am not an American citizen here. I am his slave.

The captain’s white jacket hangs
precariously from my shoulders. The edges cover half my breasts,
but my erect nipples are revealed enticingly. My breasts are
swollen and heavy. My entire pussy is exposed, as are the bottom
halves of my buttocks.

The pilot and copilot seats are divided by a
sizeable console of dials and instruments. Two throttle levers –
very much like the gear shifts of automobiles – protrude from this
metallic mélange. There are two narrow spaces in between this
mounted console and the seats.

I come up to Potchenko as close as this
arrangement would allow. He is dressed in his military attire with
its stunning array of medals and ribbons and epaulets. He is very,
very impressive. Up close, I can feel the force of his magnetizing
aura sucking me in – like being toe to toe with the devil himself.
It’s as though he is made out of some radiation material, like
radium or plutonium. A visceral sensation passes through me, as
though the radiation waves are frying me with their proximity.

I have never felt this way with anyone
before.

It is not a sexual feeling. It is not
terror.

What is it then?

Potchenko reaches out and grabs my left
breast. A jolt of energy assails me, coursing down from my torso to
my toes. Oh, I will be a wreck if this is what happens every time
he touches me. It would be like fucking an electric god.

He squeezes my breast – painfully. So
painfully that tears come into my eyes. I gasp.

“You are weak,” he remarks. He has an
accent. “I will have to make you strong.”

A shiver of fear spears down my
backbone.

He plays with my breasts, nudging the
captain’s jacket aside. He pinches my nipples and twists them,
eliciting a little cry from my throat. All this while, the captain
watches on with grave eyes, not saying anything. Not
daring
to say anything. The atmosphere in the flight deck is charged. The
air smells crisp, as though circuits are about to be burned.

“Beautiful,” Potchenko pronounces. He
swivels to the captain. “Is she not innocence itself?”

The captain replies in Urskan, which sounds
like a cross between Russian and Czech, not that I’m particularly
expert in either language.

Potchenko says, “She is like a virgin. Eve
before her fall from Eden. When I first saw her, trembling and
naked, bound like a beast of burden, it is as though innocence
itself has been captured, chained and harnessed. I knew then I had
to have her at any price.”

He is still speaking as if I’m a trophy, an
inanimate object to be seen and not heard, although he is speaking
in his perfect English for my benefit. His words wash over me. His
constant praise of my innocence tinges my cheeks.

Potchenko reaches for my pussy. I stand very
still – my heart beating fast – as he wrests my outer labia from my
clit, peeling them off as if they are pomegranate slices. My poor
throbbing clit – so sensitized, so vulnerable – is revealed like a
gold nugget in its sea of cocooned flesh.

What does he think of me when he looks at
me? I am arrested by his obsidian eyes. I am drowning in them even
though his gaze is focused on my pussy.

He seizes my clit in between his index
finger and thumb. My skin there is on fire, and as he applies the
pressure, a deep erotic tendril shoots through my entire cunt,
flushing the entire front of my body scarlet right up to my
cheeks.

“Ohhhhh,” I moan, unable to help myself.

His gaze darts upward to my face. “You like
it, do you not?”

“Y-yes.”

“You will call me Master.”

“Yes, M-master.” I have not called anyone by
that for a long, long time. I savor the word on my tongue. It makes
me feel calmer. In my place.

He squeezes my clit further, sending me into
spasms. I stiffen my back. My fists are bunched. I dare not touch
him or place my hands on his shoulders, as I normally would if
someone is playing with my pussy. I think I can climax just by
letting him compress the nerve bundles in my clit into a flattened
piece of ecstatic flesh.

I whimper again, feeling embarrassed by my
wanton need.

He withdraws his hand.

“You like it too much.”

I nod helplessly.

“You will be punished for that.”

My blood runs cold. What does he mean?

He gestures to one of the throttle levers on
the middle console. It is turned towards the door of the cockpit
while its twin on the copilot’s side is rotated towards the other
way.

“I want to see you on this. Get on.”

I can’t believe my ears.

“G-get on this, Master?”

“Yes.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“On your cunt.”

I eye the throttle lever frantically. It is
large and the top of it is shaped like a knob. A knob bound in
leather, as big as my fist.

I have been fisted before, of course, but
the thought of that . . . that thing inside my vagina. Won’t I
dislodge it somehow? Make the plane go crazy?

“We are on autopilot.” He gestures to the
flight panel. “What manner of my commands do you not comprehend?”
His tone turns a tad dangerous. His eyes glint.

Ice frosts my veins. I envision the external
door opening again and myself being ejected without a parachute. Or
worse, one of the boys being ejected without a parachute because I
am foolish enough to be unable to comprehend my new master’s
commands.

God.

You can do it, Gina.

I take off the captain’s jacket and hand it
back to him. My movements are dreamlike and heavy. He accepts it
with a worried nod. What does that bode for me?

I am awkward and clumsy as I climb onto the
middle console. It is a table of instruments pockmarked with
flashing buttons and dials. What if I dislodge any of them? The
captain watches me, his face pinched with trepidation, and I get
the impression there
will
be consequences if I do alter any
of the settings, despite the plane being on autopilot – only he is
too frightened to say anything to the dictator.

My bare soles gingerly navigate a few dials.
I have to tread very carefully upon the flatter pieces of
equipment, all the while keeping my balance. I sense that Potchenko
wants me to face the cockpit door, and so I maneuver myself thus. I
almost lose my balance a couple of times.

Potchenko barks something to the captain and
the latter scrambles out of his chair to help me. Together, we
perch my loins above the chosen throttle lever. The captain’s hands
are warm and firm. I am now in a squat. The captain slides one hand
over my buttocks and the other above my left hipbone.

The hard leather of the throttle is like a
fist knocking against the wet gaping hole of my vulva.

“Lower yourself,” the captain urges me.

It is clear he doesn’t dare touch my pussy,
not even to open my labia like a wet clover to facilitate my
passage.

Potchenko regards me with his glittering
eyes.

I take a deep breath. I lower my hips, and
the knob intrudes into my hole. It is seemingly stuck there, its
wide girth unable to push in further unless I give it some help. I
part my own pussy lips to widen my hole, and I lower myself
further, allowing the knob to slide in a centimeter more. My vulva
is very stretched. The leather is harsh upon my sweet tender
flesh.

Beads of sweat dot my forehead and the back
of my neck. I lick my fingers to wet them. Then I slick the wetness
around the perimeter of my vulva. I lower myself another inch, and
the knob pummels through into my tight vaginal tunnel, expanding it
bit by bit.

I groan as it slithers in with difficulty.
But once the tip is through, the rest follows easily enough. The
throttle lever is so huge as to be uncomfortable, and I squirm upon
it as it wedges itself deep into my vagina. I let it go as deep as
it can go, and then I stop there – stuck to the console.

“Very good,” Potchenko remarks.

He lets me stew there for a bit like a piece
of erotic modern art. Truly, I don’t think anyone has ever been in
my situation before. The throttle lever impales and fills me,
letting every part of my vagina know that it’s omnipresent. The
discomfort eases slightly as my juices pour out to slather the
knob. But the throttle is still very, very huge, and my entire
pelvis feels full to the brim. I know I won’t be able to move if he
asks me to.

My breath is coming out in short, sharp
bursts. Sweat gathers and trickles down my back and the crevice of
my buttocks.

Potchenko gets up from his seat to study me.
He walks around the narrow space, scrutinizing me from all
angles.

“Take off your belt and whip her,” he says
to the captain.

I freeze.

The captain is alarmed. He whispers
something to Potchenko in Urskan, which Potchenko replies to with a
harsh bark.

I’m terror-stricken. I’ve never liked being
whipped or spanked and I have never been beaten with a belt before.
The very thought of that curling leather snake fills me with a
coldness so frigid that I’m unable to compose any other thought,
other than the alphabet. And so I begin to recite it mentally like
some dreadful countdown to my punishment. A. B. C. D.

My mind is screaming and screaming, trapped
like a rat on an airplane.

The captain knows better than to disobey
Potchenko. As do I. He unbuckles his belt. My guts contract with
fear. Every instinct screams at me to flee, but I’m stuck firmly in
the strangest way possible, rooted by my own barely maintained
control.

The captain stands behind me. His belt arm
trembles. I face forward, unable to keep the tears from running
down my cheeks. I wince, anticipating the first blow.

It catches me around the shoulders. Whack! I
cry out. It is every bit as harsh as I expect a belt to be.
Although my long mahogany hair dampens the impact, the band of pain
flares at my shoulder blades. I can imagine what Max and Greg must
be thinking in the other room. Can they hear what is going on in
here?

The belt descends again. Whack!

The captain seems to be avoiding my
buttocks, which are quashed against the console with its flattened
displays and jutting dials. My hips grind against the metal surface
with its jutting protuberances and uncomfortable undulations.

Whack!

The belt catches me at the small of my back.
I cry out with each lash, the hot tears stinging my eyes.

Whack!

Whack!

The captain aims for a different part of my
back each time. I think I must have lost count. I am faint with
pain and terror. My shoulders and back is a burning morass of ant
bites. Each band crisscrosses to the next, and I am speckled with
numbness. My throbbing vagina is sore from being rubbed from side
to side, and from back to front, and every angle possible as I
twist and writhe to minimize the impact of my blows. My eyes are
blurred, and I can taste the salt of my tears upon my lips.

Potchenko says something, and the captain
stops. I can hear him breathing hard and glimpse the snakelike
trail of his belt. I slump against my punishing knob, bruised and
fatigued beyond measure. My muscles are sore from being held in
such a prolonged contracted state.

“Help her up,” Potchenko orders.

The captain’s hands are extra gentle as he
circles them around my hips. Together, we raise my buttocks above
the throttle lever, which is now smeared with a thick layer of my
cream. I am very shaky as he helps me down.

“Go.” Potchenko motions me.

I stumble to the door as he follows me from
behind.

5

In the first class cabin, the boys are
decked out with food.

I mean literally that.

Max is on all fours. Sandwiches have been
neatly laid out on his back, arranged in little triangles with wide
spaces of his skin in between. Greg is standing straight up,
immobile. His arms are spread out at his sides in the manner of a
cross, and sandwiches have been placed on them as well as his
broad, muscled shoulders.

The penises of both my boys are
magnificently erect. Max’s impressive tool slams against his flat
stomach in his crouching position. Greg’s pierced one rises above
his pubic nest and firm, ripe balls. He wears his usual barbell
piercing, though I’m sure Potchenko would decorate him with other
things when we land.

Both boys look up in concern as I enter.
Max’s handsome face is creased with worry. He mutely locks his
beautiful blue eyes with mine.

Are you hurt?
hurtles the
question.

My face is wan. My footsteps are unsure, and
I still wobble as I walk. I steal a look at my back. It is streaked
with red crisscrossing bands.