Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) (4 page)

Max sees them too and blanches. I mutely
plead with him not to do anything, say anything. I can’t bear it if
he’s punished with worse than the whiplash end of a leather
belt.

Because of me.

Greg too is outraged. He struggles to mask
his features as Potchenko’s eyes flit across their faces.

“Which of them is your lover?” he asks
me.

“Master?” My heart begins to thud painfully.
Is this some sort of trick question?

“Which of them do you fuck?”

I tremble.

“I-I have fucked both of them, Master.”

He nods. “Of course. As is your station. But
which of them do you love?”

It is an unusual question from Potchenko.
His features are impassive, and I cannot gauge where this is
leading. My stomach clenches.

Would I doom one of them if I tell the
truth? Would I doom both of them if I do not tell the truth?

Oh the choices. The choices.

I point to Max and say in a quavering voice,
“He is my boyfriend, Master.” My heart roils in its cavity. Am I
setting Max up for a special sort of torment?

Potchenko takes this in.

“Good.” He gestures with his thumb to his
guards, all ten of them, and says something. They file out of the
cabin, all except for two – Mansk and another man.

Potchenko’s fingers begin to unbutton his
military jacket from the collar. His guards come up to assist
him.

“Are you hungry, Gina Wesley?” he says.

So he knows my name. Well, he did buy me,
but I would have thought that something as insignificant as my name
would escape him.

“Yes, Master.”

He points at Max’s sandwich-decorated torso.
“Then eat to your fill. Use only your mouth.”

Feeling helpless and ill at ease, knowing
the boys are ravenous as well, I get down on my knees beside Max.
He does not dare speak to me, but his expressive eyes shine.

It’s OK
, they are saying.
Don’t
worry about me
.

My hair is a curtain as I lower my mouth to
one of the tiny triangular sandwiches and take it between my lips.
My lips brush against Max’s warm skin in a surreptitious kiss. He
keeps very, very still. No doubt both of them have been promised
with severe punishment should they drop any of the food.

I chew and swallow the sandwich hungrily. My
stomach growls with its churning acids. I take another sandwich
between my teeth. Whatever it is, it’s delicious. It’s made from
some sort of salami and cheese with a tomato thrown in.

To my right, Potchenko undresses fully. He
has a barrel chest with a layer of dark scruff. He is lean and
muscular. His cock is limp, and it does not show any signs of life
even as he gazes upon me.

I quickly avert my head and resume my
eating. My heavy tresses brush against Max’s side and a
precariously perched sandwich falls off to land on the floor.

Oh oh oh oh.

I freeze, wondering if Potchenko would
notice. I hold my breath, as does Max.

Mansk spies the fallen sandwich. At the same
time, I arrest him with my silently pleading eyes.
Please, let
this go.

He shoots me a helpless look.
I
can’t.

Potchenko saves him the option of having to
betray me by noticing it himself.

“Whip the boy,” he tells Mansk, as though he
is casually instructing him to bring him a glass of wine.

My chest recoils.

“No!” I cry. “It isn’t his fault. Please.
Whip me instead.”

Potchenko turns his full dreaded gaze upon
me, and I wilt.

Oh, oh, what have I gotten us into?

“Insolent child. Speak only when spoken to.
Go kneel there at the side.”

I’m crying as I scramble to obey him. My
legs are deadweights.

Mansk removes the rest of the bread from
Max’s immobile body. Max’s features are controlled, but I glimpse
the rage and despair in them. I quail.

Oh Max. I’m so sorry.

Mansk fishes out a riding crop. I have seen
their kind used for horses before, and I wince as Mansk positions
himself behind Max. There’s resignation in the guard’s eyes as he
ponderously brings down his arm.

The sharp k-r-a-a-c-k of the crop takes me
unawares, and I leap in fright. A splotch of red appears on Max’s
luscious white buttocks. He does not make a sound, but I can see
him clenching his jaw.

Mansk brings down the crop again. I can’t
bear to look, but I make myself do it anyway. Guilt courses through
my veins. Greg is equally as strained as he struggles to maintain
his arms in that position – no easy feat, I can tell you.

I envision the thoughts tumbling in Max’s
head. Does he hate me for subjecting him to this? The half-digested
sandwiches congeal in my belly, making me sick.

K-r-a-c-k. K-r-a-c-k. Each blow is like a
blow upon my own buttocks. I withdraw into myself with each
sickening crack, willing them to stop.

When Mansk has beaten Max soundly for a
total of fifteen blows, he stops, panting. Max’s buttocks are a
fiery red. Sweat glistens on his tight body. He does not raise his
eyes to look at anyone, least of all me.

“That is enough,” Potchenko pronounces. “Let
her finish her meal.”

I am in no position to eat anything. In
fact, I think I’m going to throw up. But I dare not visit any
further torture upon Max and Greg. Mansk puts down the crop and
goes to the buffet table. With a silver tong, he picks up a slice
of Parma ham. He holds it high in the air as if to tempt me, and
then he saunters to Greg’s pierced cock – still at full mast – and
drapes it casually over the erect shaft.

Meat upon meat. There’s an analogy here that
I’m too frightened and frazzled to think about.

Potchenko says, “Eat it, Gina Wesley.”

I creep to Greg’s front. The veins in his
temples bulge with the tension and his arms tremble slightly. He
must be under great strain. How long has he been forced to stand
like this? Kneeling before him, I delicately pick the slice of ham
up with my teeth and take it gingerly away from Greg’s penis. I
chew, my saliva running despite my thirst.

Oh, I’m such a bad, bad person – to be
hungry when the boys are wretchedly starving and in pain.

Mansk stands above me with a silver tray. He
replaces the ham with a slice of cheese upon Greg’s ramrod flesh,
and I eat this also. Cheese is followed by a slice of steamed
zucchini. And more ham. All this while, I am solicitous and
careful, making sure not to nudge Greg in any way that would make
him topple those precarious sandwiches from their muscled ledges. I
have learned my lesson with Max.

Potchenko has seated himself in the corner
of my vision, but I dare not swivel my head back to look.

Mansk now takes up a butter knife. I cringe,
remembering what happened to my groom.
No, no, he wouldn’t dare.
We have just gotten here. No, please.
But instead of doing
anything drastic, he knifes some salad dressing out of a silver
bowl and smears a large swath of it on Greg’s tubular head and
shaft.

Greg’s chest shifts slightly, as though he
needs to take a deeper breath, but doesn’t dare.

“Suck it, Gina,” comes Potchenko’s command
from a seemingly dreamlike distance. “Take it in your mouth and
suck it properly.”

He wants me to disarm Greg so that my friend
will be forced to sink onto his knees and be beaten like a dog with
the riding crop.
God.
This will be a test of both our
resolves. Ready tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them furiously
away.

I have to employ the utmost care as I take
Greg’s pierced cock into my mouth. It is bent at an upward angle,
as erect as a jutting piece of rock. To make it fit my mouth, I
have to tilt it downwards. He shudders. I stop, my heart in my
throat.

Has he dropped anything? Anytime now, I
expect Mansk to take up the riding crop again.

Greg recovers the balance of his
outstretched arms. I dare not meet his eyes, which are scorching
two holes into the top of my head.

His pierced flesh slides in between my lips,
the two metal barbells like cold buttons at either side of his
crown. I suckle it slowly, reluctant to go vigorous in any way. I
taste the sourish, tangy salad dressing, but I refuse to let my
tongue roam around Greg’s cock as I usually do when I have
someone’s penis in my mouth.

“Harder,” Potchenko snaps.

I attempt to suck harder, hollowing my
cheeks to increase my pumping motions without compromising Greg.
His breathing quickens, and a cold rush pours down my veins. I am
so, so afraid of letting him get hurt because of me. What Potchenko
is doing to us is cruel. He has made us masters of our own fate,
and what a dire fate it is.

“Harder! Take more of it into your mouth!”
My new master’s voice is a whip crack.

I swallow more of Greg’s flesh. He is
starting to get restless. I will him not to move, not daring to
lick his column in any way that would arouse him further. What a
situation we are in! Such a reverse from everything we have always
been party to.

Greg seems to have nerves and muscles of
steel. As much as I suck him, he doesn’t drop his stance. Maybe
it’s his training. Maybe it’s his sheer power of resolve. After
all, not many men can withstand a cock piercing.

Or Alice.

“Enough. Stop,” says Potchenko.

In relief, I take Greg’s cock out of my
mouth. I can hear his almost inaudible whoosh of tension release.
His abdominal muscles unclench and he visibly relaxes.

“Come here, Gina Wesley.”

I turn. I see now that Potchenko is seated
upon some kind of low boxlike seat. He is naked. His legs are
splayed wide open before him, and his limp cock dangles before his
balls. His buttocks sink into an oval-shaped hole. The seat is open
at the anterior portion and there’s a leather cushion lining upon
the top.

It is a very unusual seat for a
dictator.

He gestures to me.

“Slide your head underneath, Gina Wesley.”
He pronounces my name as though it’s my badge of honor.

I glance at Mansk, and he nods.

“I help you,” he offers.

I shake my head. No need. Pulse throbbing
against my neck, I prostate myself in front of Potchenko. I know
what he wants me to do. I flip over to lie down on my back, and
then I worm and shuffle my body in – inch by apprehensive inch. The
shadows of his thighs cross my face and I can see his piercing
black eyes boring down upon me. I scoot in to escape them and the
darkness of the box’s top descends upon my forehead, and then my
eyes . . . and I’m safe.

Almost.

Potchenko’s buttocks are two shapely moons
above my face. As soon as I’m firmly in place, he sinks in further,
burying the cleft of his buttocks into my face. He smells earthy –
of flesh and life and clean soap.

“Rim me,” he orders.

I raise my chin and protrude my tongue – the
little wet tongue which I daren’t use on Greg to full effect. I
lick the circumference of his anus. It tastes simultaneously sour
and sweet. The rugged texture of his heavy balls weighs and grinds
upon my jaw. I thrust my tongue into his asshole further, licking
and licking anything I can get the tip of it around.

“Come here, Max Devlin,” I hear Potchenko
say.

My pulse butterflies.
Please, please
don’t hurt Max.
I redouble my rimming efforts in a desperate
attempt to please Potchenko so that he will be easy on Max. In the
narrow aperture of light afforded to me, I can see Max’s hesitant
shadow over my prone body.

“Suck my cock.”

So Potchenko isn’t averse to men. Why else
would he purchase Max and Greg?

Max climbs over my body, taking care not to
tread on me. He places his legs on either side of my arms. I make
it easy for him by bunching my shoulders, which are just outside
the box, and wrapping my arms around my torso. I glimpse Max’s
beautiful thighs and erect cock over my body. It is an
uncomfortable position for him as he angles his body downward so
that his head comes between Potchenko’s thighs.

The tips of my nipples graze his chest. His
cock head has no choice but to stab my smooth abdomen.

I hear moist sounds of sucking above me,
filtering through the box. I wonder if Potchenko’s cock is erect by
now. Max is not gay, but what choice does he have as a sex slave?
What choice do any of us have?

We are a peculiar pair, both licking and
sucking in concert with every volt of energy we have left in our
tongues.

“Fuck her,” Potchenko commands.

I tense as Max – probably still with his
mouth around the dictator’s cock – slides his body down. I part my
legs to help him. His weight bears upon me as he arcs his body so
that his penis – his wonderful dick that I have not gotten enough
of recently because we were not allowed to touch each other – is
poised at my entrance.

I lift my hips up to meet him. So much of me
is still nervous about this simple act of fucking, because I expect
Potchenko to complicate everything and turn it into a psychological
torture/physical clash of wills. Max’s cock pushes easily into my
wet vagina, which is always eager to receive him. His chest blocks
out most of the light afforded to me, but I still can see how well
defined his pectorals are.

Max’s hips – always swimmer powerful and
possessed of an eclectic driving energy – begin to move. We are
both practiced with each other. He knows exactly which angle to aim
his cock into me, which portions of my cozy little passage my
erotic spots reside. (My whole vagina is an erotic spot, but there
are some that are more acclimatized to receive pleasure than
others.)

It’s a strange ménage – me with my tongue
inside Potchenko’s asshole, Max’s mouth around his cock, and Max’s
penis fucking me. We form a triangular wedge, and for some reason,
I think of geometry lessons – axles and trajectories and stuff. Max
establishes a firm back-forth rhythm – a ‘grunt with every fuck’
slam-slam-slam into my groin that rubs my walls just
oh-so-right.