Someone Elses Daughter

by Jack Norman

  “Hi,” she said weakly.

  There was a crack of the whip and a loud scream. Sara winced and the man smiled.

  “You don’t recognise me?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Sir…”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re supposed to call me sir.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She winced as he pinched her nipple hard.

  “It’s been some time, I suppose. I watched you growing up.” Sara blinked in astonishment at his words. The whip cracked again and Maddy’s scream was more plaintive this time. “You must have been eighteen when I last saw you. I always thought you had a good body, and now I can see that I was right.”

  He pinched her nipple again. The whip cracked. Maddy screeched and sobbed.

  “Who are you?” She saw him look at her admonishingly. “Who are you, sir?”

  The vibrator commenced again, buzzing like a small Honda, and her hips jerked. He smiled. His hand was stroking her belly now. The whip snapped twice in quick succession, followed by one, long drawn-out scream. Sara jerked as the man’s finger found her clitoris, pressing it against the vibrating flesh and bone.

  “I worked for your mother. You won’t remember me. I used to watch you swimming, playing tennis, horse riding... all the usual stuff. Then you went off to college. Now you’re here. Small world, isn’t it?”

  Maddy let out another wail, but there was no whip crack this time, just a slap. Sara grimaced as the dildo vibrated quick-time, but she glanced up and saw the black girl wielding a studded leather paddle against Maddy’s arse. Sara had her own concerns though. The man’s fingers were welding her pussy lips around the base of the dildo, and the heel of his palm was pressing up on her clit. Her mind was a maelstrom of tumbling thoughts. It had never occurred to her that someone who actually knew her would turn up at Borzov’s HQ.

  Sara was about to speak, but she winced at another splatter of leather on flesh.

  “Mummy’s been looking for you. Does she know you’re one of Borzov’s bitches?” He stroked Sara’s tingling and taut pussy lips as she held her body rigid, her hands pushing up slightly on the knees of the statue, clenching her eyes shut and gritting her teeth.

  “What do you intend to do about me, sir?” she finally managed to ask, her breathing ragged.

  “Oh, before the evening is though, I intend to have you prize your pretty cheeks apart while I fuck your anus until you scream,” he said.

  That was when the game began to feel less attractive for Sara Smithson.

  VII

  Sara sat curled on a footstool at Borzov’s feet beside his elegant dining table, as he fed her by hand. She had no say in what she ate, as in everything else in life of late. The table was sumptuously set, as usual, with candelabra and flickering candles, gleaming silver cutlery, sparkling glasses, and a snowy-white table cloth.

  “I regret that you wish to terminate our arrangement,” the Boss said, offering a wine glass to Sara’s lips.

  Sara sipped at the fine white wine. The taste was slightly acid on her tongue, complimenting the lobster he had been feeding to her, morsel by morsel. Borzov only provided the best, she had learned that, but it was all becoming simply too much. The vaguely-familiar man at the banquet had unnerved her. He had seemed no different to the other rampant guests, and had fucked her with cruel abandon, as he had promised. She didn’t tell Borzov or anyone else that he had known her father, but the fact disturbed her. It all added to a growing sense of restlessness.

  The initial thrill of the game had faded, and now she was becoming increasingly disturbed by the intense excitement that her enslavement caused within her. She was becoming worried by the illicit, electrifying frisson that came from being reduced to a mere possession to be used and abused, without any say in what happened to her. The humiliation, the pain, the debauchery... she simply loved it too much, and it frightened her.

  Like any sensible young woman, she had decided that enough was enough and it was time to end her erotic adventure. She had had her fun, and now it was time to put it all behind her and get on with her life. So Sara firstly told Georgy Nikitin that she wanted to resign her role, and he passed the message to the Boss. Viktor Borzov had apparently been magnanimous enough, and he arranged the intimate dinner to discuss the matter.

  “Wealth and fame brings great privileges, but it also brings its problems,” he said mournfully. “I can’t expect to have intimate relationships with women like other men do, particularly with my preference for dominance. That’s why girls like you are important to me.”

  Sara leaned forward to delicately take the lobster meat from his fingers. They were dining alone, without even the presence of Leo or Sasha to serve the meal. They had dined together before, of course, but she knew that Borzov had arranged this occasion to discuss her situation.

  He had made no concessions though. She was still dressed like a bitch. Her torso was wrapped in a black leather corset that cinched tightly about her body, nipping her waist and forcing her bare breasts up and out on shaped under-cups like delicious fruits. Similarly, the shaped lower edge of the corset framed the folds of her shaven sex and fastened tightly at the small of her back above the globes of her arse. She also wore thigh length black leather ballerina boots, laced tightly on her calves and thighs, and with heels so high that she had to take the tiniest paces on the very tips of her toes. She had been bathed and prepared by Sasha, and merely put into the elevator and despatched to the top floor. She had teetered unsteadily from the elevator with arms outstretched for balance.

  “I’m unable to accept your resignation, of course.”

  Sara looked up as if she had been shot. Her sudden movement jolted the glass and spilled some of the wine.

  “I cannot possibly release you now. You know far too much. Can you imagine the headlines if you were allowed to tell your story? It would be an international scandal. My old enemy Vladimir Putin might even choose the moment to strike at me.” He paused to smile and took a napkin to wipe a trickle of wine from the slope of her breast. “It’s not just about me, of course, Sara. I have a responsibility to my guests. They trust me implicitly to maintain their confidentiality.”

  That was true, of course. She knew that. Whenever she was sent up to the penthouse, she never knew what or whom to expect. Sometimes it would be a small, select group of two or three people, and at other times there were big parties that degenerated into orgies. She had met many famous personages who certainly wouldn’t want their good names compromised by a bondage scandal. There had been a champion tennis player, a hulking Eastern European boxer, a few of soccer players, some well-known actors... they were all keen to play at the court of the Tzar Victor Borzov. And business men and politicians, too, some of whom Sara recognised from broadcasts and newspapers. They had all fucked her in one way or another. She and the other women were merely there for the entertainment of the Boss and his guests.

  “You can’t keep me here as a prisoner forever, sir.”

  The elevator door hissed and slid open, and she looked across to see Sasha emerge and stand quietly in the background, presumably summoned by the bell-push under the arm of Borzov’s chair.

  “I won’t keep you here forever. If necessary, I shall move you on after a time.”

  “Move me on, sir?”

  “There is a ready market for young women like you, and I have a wide network of friends, any one of whom will keep a slave girl secure.”

  His casual words shocked Sara. She hadn’t even considered that Borzov might imprison her against her will. Hitherto she’d regarded it all as a dangerous, forbidden, but exciting game. However, she knew that she was helpless to prevent him from keeping her hidden and imprisoned in his basement. And neither did she doubt that any future owner would keep her just as securely enslaved, given the wealth and privilege of the people she had seen.

  “On the other hand,” Borzov went on, “you saw the lovely Lucy Letwell at the banquet?”

  In oth
er circumstances Sara might have smiled. ‘The lovely Lucy Letwell’ was the way the well-known news anchor was usually introduced on TV. When viewers saw the beautiful woman presenting the news dressed in her stylish business suits, they could never imagine Lucy’s secret life as a Borzov bitch. “Yes, of course I saw her, sir.”

  “And Maddy Maxwell? She is doing very well in Hollywood.”

  “Yes, I saw her too, sir.”

  “And there were others that you might not have recognised. Successful artists, writers and businesswomen… they have all progressed under my hand. You can too, Sara. All I ask in return is absolute, unquestioning obedience and utter faithfulness.”

  “These other women, sir... they don’t all live here?”

  “No, of course not, but they must come when I summon them.”

  “And for the rest of the time, sir?”

  “They are free to live their normal lives, more or less. I often send people to them, of course, or require them to do outcalls. They are never entirely free. The more famous they are, then the more of my friends who want to play with them. Lucy and Maddy tend to be kept very busy when they aren’t working at their careers.”

  Sara bit her lip. “They are your whores.”

  Borzov smiled and sipped the wine, draining his glass. “We are all whores in one way or another, my dear. The main thing is, if you must be a whore, make it worthwhile. My point, Sara, is that you have a choice. You can decide to become one of my fabulous bitches, make your fortune and fulfill your aspirations, subject to certain ongoing requirements and your complete discretion. Or you can refuse and become an abject whore, sold to the highest bidder and kept in some dungeon somewhere. Remember, every player has a basement like mine in some shape or form. Now which would you prefer, hmm?”

  “What if I used your patronage and still spilled the beans? You couldn’t stop me doing that.”

  Borzov was silent for some time. Then he looked evenly at Sara and said, “You know the story of Marilyn Monroe, I presume? She allegedly committed suicide, naked in her room. That was long ago and way before our time, of course. Poor, beautiful Marilyn mixed with some very powerful and famous people but she was becoming indiscreet and knew too much. She simply had to go.” He finished by drawing his thumb across his throat.

  “Are you threatening me, sir?”

  “If such a thing can happen to an icon like Marilyn, it could happen to anyone who becomes...inconvenient. On the other hand, in return for faithful cooperation and service, that delightful pussy of yours can be your oyster.”

  Sara grimaced but her mind was racing. She could see some convoluted sense in Borzov’s argument. Not only that, she could imagine her own niche in the business world, with all obstacles swept aside.

  “So, sir, you are saying that I can be one of your bitches and yet lead a relatively free and successful life?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or you will sell me as a slave to some despot somewhere. That’s it, right, sir?”

  “Which is it to be, Sara?”

  “It’s a no-brainer, I guess, sir.”

  “A no-brainer, the way you young people speak,” Borzov chuckled. Then he raised his hand and called to the youth waiting patiently by the elevator: “Sasha, come here.”

  Sasha walked over and took a wine bottle from the ice bucket to replenish Borzov’s glass. However, the oligarch waved the bottle away. Instead he reached for Sara’s chin and tilted her head to make her look up at him. His thumb pressed on her bottom lip and pulled it downwards, and then he exerted upward pressure on her chin, making her rise from the footstool.

  “Lie on the table, Sara.”

  She was about to protest but for some reason his quiet authority seemed to demand obedience. It had been like that from the moment she had met him. She seemed helpless to resist. So Sara meekly rose to her feet, balanced precariously on her toes, and then lay down on the white table cloth amidst the remains of the meal. Borzov reached to stroke her breasts, then her belly and, finally, the slit of her sex. Again she was aware that her body was responding to his touch. She simply couldn’t prevent it. Her breathing was becoming ragged and she edged her legs apart to allow him better access. He responded by dipping his fingers into her cunt then raised them to his nose, smelling the bouquet of her sex.

  “Well, Sasha, what would you suggest we do with her?”

  “Mr Borzov?”

  “Show Sara that I own her cunt, her ass-hole, her breasts and her mouth... everything. I can and will give the use of her to anyone I choose.”

  “Perhaps a blindfold, sir?”

  Within a few seconds a black cloth was bound over Sara’s eyes. She lay on the table, her heart pounding, listening. Then she gave a sudden start as something unexpectedly stung her right breast, and again, then again, something dripping... One of the candles! She squirmed and mewled as hot wax dripped on her bare flesh and, along with the smarting pain, she felt a curious sensation when it solidified and tightened on her skin. Then the wax was dropping on her pussy, burning and maybe blistering the tender flesh. Her legs were pushed apart, and her knees were raised high and pushed back until her ridiculously high heels rested on the table top. She writhed and moaned when the lighted end of the candle was pressed into her pussy and, although the flame was extinguished by her wet flesh, hot wax spilled inside her like molten lava. She gasped. The slick candle was wider in girth than she had expected and it was being forced high into her vagina. It seemed to be more than 3 inches in diameter and stretched her fully. She moaned as the candle was pushed up to almost touch her cervix, and then it was withdrawn a few inched before being pressed back again. Then it was left there, filling her vaginal sleeve. She gave a jolt when a tongue brushed against her clitoris, and then yelped as a finger pressed into her anus.

  “Do you understand me, Sara?” Borzov said, and as he spoke another drip of hot wax landed on the lips of her mouth, splattering against her teeth. She spluttered and closed her mouth, turning her head, but next drip landed painfully below her ear. “Your every orifice belongs to me. There is no question of you resigning.”

  “I can’t stay here...my mother... But I’ll be good.”

  She was silenced by another drip of hot wax into her mouth. The candle was withdrawn from her cunt, and she was aware of Sasha climbing onto the table top between her thighs. She was quite sure that it was Sasha. She knew him by his fragrance and from the lightness of his soft, almost effeminate touch on her wax-tormented breasts. Then she grunted when Sasha’s cock filled her pussy.

  “You must give yourself to me unconditionally,” Borzov said. “Tell me you understand.”

  “Yes, yes... I understand, sir.”

  “Good, let us hear no more of this resignation nonsense. Fuck her to completion, Sasha.”

  Chapter Two

  Borzov’s Daughter

  I

  Later that same night, in the early hours of the morning, Anna Borzov and her friends Nina and Renata were at a house party in one of Moscow’s smart new apartment blocks. The three girls had been celebrating Renata’s 23rd birthday in Moscow’s clubs, and they had met Raisa Poda in a bar. Raisa was a lecturer at Moscow University where Anna, Nina and Renata were students, and she had been lively company all night, cheerfully buying round after round of drinks. Her idea of a house party seemed to round the night off nicely. So they had all climbed into a cab and gone off in a tipsily good mood to fashionable Kropotkin Street.

  The foyer of the building had been guarded by quite the most brutish concierge Anna had ever seen. That was quite something, considering some of the thugs her father employed. However, the door of the 5th floor apartment door opened by a trim and handsome woman in her forties, fashionably clad and smoking a long black cheroot. “Hey, so you’ve arrived!” the woman said over the pounding music, kissing Raisa on both cheeks.

  “Some more new friends for you, Tara,” Raisa said with a smile. “This is Anna, Renata and Nina. They’re a bit drunk.”

  �
�All the better,” Tara said with a smile, exhaling pungent smoke and glancing at Anna. She pointed to an area beyond a low wall it the main lounge. “The drink is over there, and some pills too. Help yourselves.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” Nina said, and her eyes followed Tara’s pointing gesture towards a corridor on the opposite side of the room.

  “There are only half a dozen other girls here,” Anna whispered to Renata as soon as they were out of earshot of the woman. “And I can see just four men.”

  “It’s still early for a party like this,” Renata said with a shrug. “Get a drink.”

  “This apartment won’t hold many more people.”

  A man and two of the women were dancing on the polished parquet area beyond the seating. The lounge was already untidily littered with bottles, ashtrays and general detritus and, although the room was relatively large it was hardly a major party venue. The apartment was certainly expensively-appointed, though, with red, white and black decor in a trendy jazz theme: the mainly white walls were discreetly lit, with several black wall panels backing the white silhouettes of musical instruments - guitars, saxophone, trombone, a piano keyboard - and very trendy black and red furniture. Raisa was wandering round the room, kissing and greeting the women in turn and pausing to exchange banter with the men.

  “Oh don’t worry, Anna. Raisa seems to know most people here,” Renata said, pouring a stiff vodka and surreptitiously slipping the nearly-full bottle into her coat.

  Meanwhile, Nina was in the corridor looking for the bathroom. A door opened and a young man stepped out. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her. She recognised him immediately - Vadim Kasharin, a childhood friend and some time lover.

  “Nina Vitsin? What the hell are you doing here?” Before she could answer, he dragged her into a bedroom and closed the door. “You know what kind of party this is?”