by Alta Hensley
The sick crowd shouted in agreement and a wave of motion began in the sea of monsters as the winners, some followed by their entourage, made their way toward the stage.
“You have to, bro. Don’t blow our cover,” Anson said, obviously knowing what was running through Stryder’s head. “Think about the big picture.”
“This is sick.”
“It’s necessary. Don’t play the hero now. We will die, and none of those girls will ever get rescued.”
“Fuck!” Stryder growled as he walked toward the stage. What the fuck was he going to do?
Chapter 4
Zoya shrank back as men began to walk onto the stage. The events of the last hour seemed surreal. And yet she had witnessed every agonizing moment, had heard the descriptions given of each woman, all being forced to stand naked and vulnerable before a room full of strangers. She’d been forced to display her body in a way she’d never imagined, and could swear she’d felt the searing burn on her skin from the hundreds of eyes staring at her most intimate places. And now, as the clomping of feet clad in expensive shoes echoed across the stage, she knew that the horror of the nightmare was nowhere near its conclusion.
As she took another step backwards, her eyes darted to the left, seeking an escape path, only to watch as Natalia was yanked forward to stand in front of a hugely obese man. Though the man took a seat in the chair that magically appeared, he still loomed over the petite woman. Zoya felt bile rise in her throat watching the winner reach out and take hold of his newest acquisition… not by her hands or even her arms. No, he grabbed Natalia’s breasts, squeezing the soft mounds and grinning when his actions caused her friend to cry out. Without thought, Zoya took a step towards them only to feel her arm taken.
“Nyet.”
That single word had her reality crashing down. She couldn’t save Natalia… hell, she couldn’t even save herself. With her heart threatening to burst, terrified at what she’d see once she was forced to lift her gaze, she had a brief moment of confusion. These men were some of the wealthiest on the planet, and yet whoever had hold of her was wearing… cowboy boots?
“Vwee govereetye po Angleeskee?”
Before she could consider her response, she answered automatically, “Yes, I speak English.”
“Good. Look at me, Zoya.” When she didn’t immediately do so, the man lowered his voice and repeated his order, “Look at me.”
Instead, she turned her head at a shrill cry that came from her right. A woman had been forced to her hands and knees, a large black shoe against the back of her neck ensuring she’d not lift her cheek from the stage floor. Another cry came as she was struck repeatedly between her thighs, the man’s hand flying back and forth against the tender skin of her inner thighs until she opened her knees wider. Once she had, her new owner wasted no time in plunging into her, grunting with the effort required as the poor girl’s body was in no way ready to accept his cock. That fact didn’t stop him, it only earned her more pain as he repeatedly slapped her ass while he continued to thrust into her dry pussy. With a sob, Zoya turned her head away only to see Natalia had been placed on the fat man’s lap, his sausage like fingers gripping her waist as he ground her down onto his pelvis.
“Oh, God,” Zoya moaned, closing her eyes and swaying a bit at the atrocities she was being forced to witness. She was exactly like these women. She, like each of them, had just been sold into slavery, had been bought by a complete stranger who would no doubt use horrible means to force his slave into obedience, and yet she just couldn’t find it within herself to lift her eyes. If she never did, she’d never have to acknowledge that a man like the one who was raping that woman, or the monster who was continuing to maul Natalia was her… what? Owner? Master?
“Zoya, don’t look at them. Look at me.”
The words were spoken so quietly, and yet she heard the authority in each one. What surprised her was that they weren’t accompanied by a slap, a twist of her arm, or a threat. That and the sound of yet another scream cut short, the sight of Anya kneeling, her head bent back, a cock being forced down her throat and the raucous laughter and cheering from a group of men further down the stage had her finally obeying. Her blue eyes lifted to find a pair of dark eyes looking back.
“Good girl.”
Good girl? What is that supposed to mean? Is he being kind? What response am I supposed to give to such an innocuous statement? No! I can’t think this way. Despite his words, this man has just paid for me like I am some sort of delicacy at the corner market. She gave a strangled laugh at that thought. What delicacy cost seven million dollars? Not one that is to be set upon a mantle and gazed upon as one would a priceless painting. This stranger has paid to own you, Zoya, don’t forget that… not even for a moment.
The hand wrapped around her arm gave her the gentlest of tugs, pulling her closer to the man before her. He didn’t look like a monster. His eyes remained locked on hers, the black mask doing nothing to disguise their color which reminded her of the darkest chocolate… warm chocolate. That surprised her as she’d never expected a predator, a deviant, could have eyes that seemed to offer empathy. She’d expected them to be beady and, well, threatening. His hair was also dark, wavy against the collar of his suit. He wasn’t old, as a great deal of the bidders seemed to be… far younger than the man with the cane who’d bid so aggressively against him. But that means nothing! It doesn’t matter what he looks like. He did exactly as each of these monsters did—he bid—it doesn’t matter if it was one dollar or millions—he paid to own another human being!
She was pulled from her thoughts when another person became visible. This man had been standing beside the first, out in the audience. His hair was blond, his blue eyes gazing from the holes in his mask and yet, they too, seemed kind. Could it be that these two were different from the others? Feeling a surge of hope flood through her body, she was about to speak when the worst monster of them all stepped up beside her.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Gardenzio?” Vasily asked.
“Not at all,” the man holding her arm answered.
“Then might I ask why you’ve yet to join your fellow winners in the entertainment I’ve requested?” He chuckled and grinned. “Perhaps it is not true that Italian men are incredible lovers, or perhaps you require assistance?”
Zoya felt the fingers around her arm tighten and yet felt no real pain. She watched her owner’s brown eyes go even darker as he stared at the man who’d arranged the debauchery going on all around them. She held her breath, every cell in her body sensing danger, and yet that danger didn’t seem directed at her. Confused, she looked between the three men, each one far taller than she even in her heels and appearing ready to not give an inch in any sort of dispute. It was the blond man giving the smallest shake of his head that broke the staring contest.
“You’ll have to forgive Michael. He never did earn very high marks in sharing.”
“Or following others like some fucking lemming,” Michael said with a glance around the stage, where every man was already well involved in showing off their slaves.
Poplov nodded. “I can understand, and yet I must insist. It simply wouldn’t do for you to deny your slave the opportunity to be a part of the entertainment,” he said, sweeping his hand to encompass the acts being performed across the stage.
Zoya couldn’t help but notice the fingers around her arm tightening yet again when Poplov had said the word slave. Was this man—Michael—different from the others? Was he going to…
“Your whip.”
Whip? Zoya felt her heart stop when Michael uttered those words and gave a nod towards Poplov… or rather towards the coiled whip attached to his belt. Her blood ran cold as she saw a grin appear on Poplov’s lips. How could I have forgotten? Haven’t I heard countless tales of monsters disguised as handsome, kind-hearted humans just waiting to entrap an innocent soul?
“Ah, a man of my own tastes,” Vasily said, dropping his hand to the snap that held the whip in place. The s
ound of him popping it open had Zoya’s insides turning to liquid. Surely not—he couldn’t, wouldn’t—would he? As Poplov caught the whip in his hand, holding it out to be taken by Michael, she had her answer. When her new owner unfurled the whip with a simple twist of his hand and then snapped his wrist, the leather cracked through the air and she felt as if she were going to be sick.
“Pozhaluysta, nye,” Zoya whispered, then repeated it in English. “Please, no.”
Her plea was ignored by Poplov. “Of course. Why mimic another when you can be original? And from the look on your pretty little slave’s face, she’ll learn a far better lesson than from simply being fucked.”
Zoya’s queasiness was replaced with a pull so strong, so primal—to fight, to flee, to survive—that she attempted to yank her arm free, her scream for him to let her go drawing the attention of those around them. Poplov just laughed at her fruitless struggle.
“Yes, an excellent choice, Mr. Gardenzio. A good hard whipping will have her begging to spread her legs or even her own ass cheeks for your use instead of this pathetic attempt to escape.” Vasily then stepped back, clapping his hands loudly to garner the attention of those yet to take notice.
“Gentlemen, it has been quite a delight watching you stake your claim upon your slaves. Quite enjoyable indeed—at least for the men.” He waited for the chuckles to die down and for some of the men to finish pushing their slaves away or to tuck their spent, limp cocks back into their pants. Once most of the men’s attention was upon him, he continued. “It seems we will be receiving a demonstration by our comrade Mr. Gardenzio. Please, gather around and enjoy the spectacle as his slave Zoya experiences her first taste of the whip.”
Zoya could close her eyes but she could not close her ears as both the roar of approval from the men and the gasps or cries of shock from the women rang out. It took a waft of air blowing directly onto her skin to have her realize that Michael Gardenzio had stepped close and was bending down, his lips at her ear.
“You must scream,” he said with what she thought was an insane request. Of course she’d be screaming from the moment she felt the first lash. He didn’t allow her to jerk away, continuing to speak. “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you, but we must put on a show. Trust me.”
When she gave a strangled sob, he repeated his words. “I know you don’t believe me, but Zoya, you must trust me.”
She wasn’t given time to think as he stepped away while Poplov questioned him as to what was keeping him from beginning. “Do you need me to assist you? I’d be quite delighted to do so.”
Michael straightened. He ignored Poplov, giving a small nod to his companion. “George, hold her.”
George said nothing but stepped forward and took Zoya by her arm, and after Michael finally released his hold, George led her to a section of the stage where there was no one currently standing. The other guests who had begun to surge towards them stopped as the whip cracked through the air, snapping and popping like a live wire as Michael lifted it again and again.
“Shh,” George said when Zoya couldn’t stifle a whimper. He turned her to him, her front to his, her wrists held securely in his hands. “Trust Stry… Michael,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, and he won’t truly harm you.”
Zoya couldn’t fathom how that was possible. She was stark naked, every inch of her flesh tightening in terror, her mind unable to comprehend what was about to happen, her ears flooded with the crack and snap of the whip. The only thing that kept her upright was this tall, strong man holding her wrists, pulling her against his body, his height allowing him to easily look over her head though he was looking down at her.
When he released one of her wrists, she didn’t even attempt to pull away. He pulled her hair over her shoulders, baring her back to offer his partner an unimpeded target. Keeping the golden strands in his hand, he took her wrist again. She felt him move, bracing his legs a foot apart. It took her a moment to realize the room had gone silent. She broke that silence with a shriek when she felt something touching her between her shoulder blades.
It wasn’t the whip; it was Michael’s hand. Though he was a man and not a woman, she knew that what he really was was a warlock instead of a witch. He was the male version of Baba Yaga; the monster all Russian children learned was just waiting to catch a naughty child. A monster who took the greatest pleasure in capturing wayward children to then tan the very flesh from their bones before adorning herself with the flesh worn about her waist.
“Try to relax. Trust me… trust us,” the monster said softly, giving her flesh a long stroke before stepping away, the sounds of his boots telling of his departure. Looking up into the blue eyes, she saw the request reflected there, as well. But she’d learned that trust was an illusion—she’d trusted Katarina and now, here she was, about to be publicly whipped in front of the most evil human beings on the planet. Closing her eyes against those of sky blue, she laid her forehead against his chest, her fingers clutching his coat. Part of her—the most desperate part—prayed that she was wrong. That instead of monsters, these men were some sort of avenging angels and yet, hearing the whirl of the whip, she knew they couldn’t be.
The first stroke landed against her back, causing her to arch and gasp. Before she could fully process the sensation, another landed to the right of the first. She gasped again, her eyes flying open to see her knuckles turning white with her grip.
“Relax,” George whispered.
Her eyes lifted but didn’t find his as he was staring over her head, evidently watching… waiting for the next lash to fall.
It did and she couldn’t contain a cry as the leather touched her then lifted away. George’s hold was like iron, unyielding, and yet he whispered again, “Relax.”
How in the hell could she obey? Another lash, another cry, this time drawing her onto her tiptoes as the stroke had landed across the flesh of her buttocks. Following was another, then another, and yet why wasn’t she screaming? Why wasn’t she begging for mercy? Did she not have any sense of self-preservation remaining? Had she totally given up?
As she considered these questions, the lash continued to fall. Each one had her giving some sort of response. Each one drawing a yip, a squeal, a gasp, a cry from her. Each one causing her body to jerk, to tense, to lift or to wag to the side as if to make his target more difficult to find. Yet his aim never erred as stroke after stroke touched her flesh, warming it… caressing…
Wait? Caressing? How can I think that when he is whipping the skin from my body?
But was he? Yes, it was painful. Yes, it was terrifying and yet…
“Oh, God.” Her whimper was met with a tightening of George’s hands around her wrists and a softly uttered, “Shush, you’re fine, but you need to start yelling. Give a scream or two to stop this.”
Her mind was whirling just as the whip whirled before it struck. She couldn’t think… couldn’t put her feelings into words, but his words finally penetrated the fog of confusion. He was telling her to scream… just as Michael had. Why? Another stroke painted its line of fire across her bottom again, and its flare of pain allowed her clarity for a brief instance. Of course, Poplov and these men expected her to be in excruciating pain. Desired to hear her scream, to observe her writhing and begging. The whipping would continue until she gave them exactly what they expected, what they demanded.
The next stroke landed against her back again, and she threw back her head and screamed. The sound surprised her and yet with it came a release and a desire to vent—not her pain—her anger. The next one was met by a louder scream that reverberated around the stage and drew some response from the audience as men began to mumble.
“Again,” George said, his tone different than before, almost as if he was extremely pleased or amused that her act was convincing. Hell, was it really an act? No, it… this was real.
She screamed again and again, her body bucking and her feet lifting as if to escape and yet going nowhere. Another scream rent the air before she reali
zed she’d given it without benefit of feeling a stroke… well, not a stroke from the leather. Instead, she felt the warmth of a hand as fingers splayed against her lower back, right above the curve of her ass.
“Good girl,” Michael said again. “Very good, Zoya.”
With his words, she collapsed into sobs, her cries muffled by the broad chest she leaned against. What the fuck had just happened? She didn’t want to hear him praise her. The man… the monster had just whipped her! When the hand moved against her back, she flinched.
“Don’t!” Though her voice was barely audible due to her position, it was enough to have the warm flesh lifting from her skin.
“Well, that was quite impressive, Gardenzio, though from your slave’s continued insolence, it is obvious it wasn’t enough. Hell, you didn’t even break her skin. I think a little blood running down her back would go a long way to showing this slut exactly who is her Master.”
Zoya tensed, not at his words but at Michael’s growl. “I don’t particularly give a fuck what you think, Poplov.” She gasped when she felt a new weight descending upon her, and felt her wrists being released as she was turned to be helped into the coat Michael had removed and was now buttoning to cover her. She looked up to see dark eyes flashing in anger as his hand gestured towards the others. Zoya saw men grinning like fools or leering in lust while the women she’d come to know were mostly curled up on the floor, some weeping quietly, some looking like they were in shock, a few bleeding. That thought had her realizing that she felt something fluid on her leg. Had he struck her there? Slipping a hand beneath the coat that hung almost to her knees, she swiped her fingers over her thigh. Somewhat terrified to pull it free, she listened as Michael continued. “Unlike these fools, I do not break toys for which I’ve paid a great sum of money. We’ll be leaving now.”
“To each his own,” Poplov said as if the very notion of any sort of leniency was a foreign concept. “I’ll get your papers.”