by Anita Gray
Two hours it takes me to work up the courage to call Maksim—two bloody hours—because I know he's going to punish me for failing.
And I'm not wrong.
He isn't happy when I lie and say that I need another week, that I only have eleven minutes—I'm just trying to spare my ass some time. He curses down the phone in Russian, telling me, “Charlie will lose it if we don't give him what he needs, Blaire. Do you understand that? Do you fucking understand what he'll do to me? To us? Pizdets!” he screams with fury, ‘this is the fucking end’.
I'm quiet throughout the whole ordeal, shitting bricks, and once he's finished rambling, he hangs up on me. He shows up at my apartment half an hour later, as I knew he would. Punishing me in my own home is his way of letting me know that while I don't live with him, I can't escape him.
Three loud knocks echo through my personal space. My heart is racing. My palms are sweating, and my mouth is so dry.
With a trembling hand, I open the front door to him and stand there with as much innocence as I can conjure up, sinking into my shoulders and my waist length hair.
He looks the part in a sharp gray suit paired with a crisp white shirt, but that's where his customary, docile facade ends. His eyes flair with disappointment as he looks down at me, shaking his head.
This isn't good.
Though Maksim sometimes beats me to teach me a lesson, he never looks disappointed with me.
He must be really scared of Charlie.
“You don't often let me down, my little pet,” his lips curl against natural white teeth. “I'm very, very unhappy with you.”
I drop my eyes to the floor so my hair curtains my face, mentally blocking out what's to come. He's an unpredictable sadist. One minute he'll whip me, and the next he'll drown me or worse... burn me.
I hope to god he'll just whip me today.
Reaching out, he grabs my wrist and drags me through the living area, into my bedroom. I stumble to keep up with him, my naked feet slapping against the marble floors.
By the floor to ceiling windows opposite my bed, he swirls me around to face him, knocking me off balance.
“You know what happens next,” he warns, thenhe orders in Russian,“On all fours with your pants down!”
When he lets go of my wrist, my thoughts go white. I scramble to obey, dropping to my hands and knees. Without shame—Maksim has seen my unclothed body more times than I care to remember—my sports trousers come down, then my pants. I have to leave them around my knees, I've always thought because the elastic in my trousers ties my knees together.
Cool air breezes through my thighs, blowing over my naked sex. A hand lifts up my t-shirt and bunches it around my waist, then a single finger runs over the scars on my back. I shiver quietly, holding myself up on all fours.
“Podgotovsja!” Maksim yells from behind for me to ‘prepare’, his voice resonating through the double height room.
I do. I try to relax as best as I can but it's so difficult.
The seconds tick by—I'm counting in my head.
'One. Two. Three. Four.'
I imagine he's standing there looking at my scares, at my naked ass like a hungry man starved of rage. There's nothing more in this world Maksim enjoys over inflicting pain.
He fumbles with his belt and I can tell he's using both hands. I've seen and listened to him do that for ten years.
Though I'm relieved that he's only going to belt me, the sound of metal clanging against metal makes me cringe, sends me into some dark place in my mind.
White thoughts. Focus on your white thoughts.
It's so hard. If there's ever a sound I'd love never to hear again, it's that. I'd notice it a mile off.
When he pulls his belt free, woosh! I cower to brace myself, my hair curtaining my face, the ends dripping over the floor.
The first whip whistles through the air, then a loud, powerful SMACK rings right through me.
I jump subconsciously, a desperate scream stuck in my throat preventing my ability to breathe for a moment.
My head rushes with the lack of oxygen. He gives me a moment, and I manage to suck in a lung full of air.
“Podgotovsja!” he yells again for me to ‘prepare’.
I squeeze my eyes and my teeth shut, fisting my fingers and my toes.
Wa-tch!
I jolt in my own skin.
“Podgotovsja!”
Wa-tch!
“Podgotovsja!”
Wa-tch!
“Podgotovsja!”
Wa-tch!
My ass and the backs of my thighs are on fire, each welt throbbing...
“Podgotovsja!”
I don't move, nor do I cry out, even while tears swim in my eyes. I just take the beating, going into a numb zone.
———
Eleven strikes in succession, Maksim groaning after each one, and it's over.
I almost pass out with relief that it's over, my head swimming with endorphins. I take deep, steady breaths now that I can, blinking away the black spots in my vision.
The belting wasn't that bad. I've suffered much, much worse. If anything, I think Maksim has been too soft on me.
“One more week, Blaire,” he says, leaning over me from behind. The buttons on his suit are cold against my naked, wounded flesh. “If you do not successfully attain fifteen minutes, this-” he rubs my ass with a rough, open palm, starting with my left cheek, and then my right, making me wince, “-will be child's-play compared to how I will punish you.”
The next breath I take-in shakes in my throat. He's been soft with me so the next hiding takes full effect. Now it makes sense.
“I want to see you at my house on Saturday at nine P.M.,” he whispers, a Russian gargle in each of his words. “My driver will collect you from here.”
Saturday is exactly one week from now. I'm petrified. I'll never have his fifteen minutes, and I know that what he says is the truth—this was child's-play compared to what he's going to do to me.
“You understand, Blaire?”
“Ye-yes,cэp Maksim.”
“Good. You can pull up your clothes, my little pet.”
I do. Under his tall frame because he's still towering over me, I pull down my t-shirt, then pull up my pants and trousers.
Maksim stands back when I'm fully clothed, ordering, “Get up.”
Pushing to my feet, I grimace, grinding my teeth because my clothes chafe against my red and sore behind. Yeah, it wasn't that harsh of a beating but it still stings.
“Here, my little pet.” Maksim passes me a bottle of cream from his suit jacket pocket. Hunching down, he kisses my face, pressing his lips to the sharp of my cheekbone. “So you can focus on the job and not your pain. You know the drill—apply three times a day.”
His arms wrap around me, burying my face in his warm chest, sheathing me in the smell of burnt brut. I remain as still as a rock, empty of emotion, my hands hanging by my sides. I'm used to thisfor this is how Maksim comes. A beating follows disobedience and tenderness follows brutality. It's always been this way.
“You know,” he husks out, brushing down the back of my hair over the curves of my spine, “if you want to make me happy again, why don't you get on your knees and please me, my little pet?”
My heart leaps into my throat, but I obey. Shutting my eyes, I slide through his embrace, down to my knees, and reach for the zipper of his trousers with one hand, squeezing the bottle of cream in my other. I will myself not to think about it while he strokes the top of my head, that if I hurry up, it'll be over.
“Cэp Maksim,” I hear from behind, and my heart sinks.
“Ahhh, my pet,” Maksim purrs. “What a surprise.”
I glance over to see James standing in the doorway, dressed in his black combat gear. In a panic I try to check out his face to see if he's okay but I'm too guilty/nervous. I know what happens next.
“I'm sorry,” he says, lifting a defensive hand. “I didn't know you were here. I just wanted to check in on Blaire
because I haven't heard from her in a while.”
“Of course you did, my pet.” Maksim chuckles with dark desire, and I feel that he stares down at me when he whispers, “Always just in time, isn't he, Blaire?”
I flinch against my given name, and then he shoves my head back, forcing me to fall on my sore ass. The bottle drops out of my hand with a light thud and rolls away under my bed. I consider crawling after it but end up cuddling myself, gazing deadpan at the floor. I'm pushing filthy images of him fucking James from my mind. He often makes me watch but James says it's okay because at least I'm safe from Maksim's sexual attention.
It's quiet for a moment, bar the blood roaring in my ears. I expect they're exchanging knowing looks.
“Why don't you have Blaire make you some lunch, cэp Maksim?” James comes up to us with artificial confidence. “I'll see to you.”
8
A week later
My eyes are heavy and my body is lethargic. I've not slept properly in two days. I've been studying to the ends of the earth on The Dark Web for a way to gain complete control of London's CCTV system because my hacking skills have proved useless. As I feared, there's no way, so I'm here at Maksim's house in his office to collect my punishment. Hopefully, if it's brutal, he'll knock me out cold and I won't feel anything
Hopefully.
“I can do only eleven minutes,cэp Maksim,” I confess, standing with my head down. “I'm really sorry.”
“Only eleven minutes?”
“Yes,” I whisper, glancing up at him.
He's slouched back in his chair, behind his desk, hands clasped together in his lap.
“I'm sorry,cэp Maksim.”
“Oh, I'm sure you are, my little pet.”
Dropping my gaze because I can't stand that half amused, half thwarted expression on his face, I kneel before his desk so he can hit me, squeezing my eyes shut to brace myself. He warned me last week that this punishment would be brutal. I'm horrified to think about what he's going to do. The worse thing he's ever done was brand my skin. I passed out on the dining room table, only to be woken up in a bathtub full of freezing cold water.
The cold water hurt more than when he burnt me, bizarrely so.
I can't go through that again. It was torture. I can't even explain what the recovery was like, the way my skin felt stretched out every time I moved; how hot and irritated my back was.
“Stand up,” Maksim says.
With my eyes still on the floor, I do, but I almost lose my balance because I'm shaking like a leaf.
“You know, my little pet,” his husky voice makes me shiver, “as a child, when I failed to do what was asked of me, my parents would brutally rape me to teach me a lesson-”
Is that what he's going to do? Have sex with me?
I remember the way he looked at me when he was fucking that poor girl at the Asian Prince's party the other week. This has to be his next move—nothing else makes sense.
I'm not scared if it is time for him to have me. I've always known this day would come.
“-But I wouldn't do that to you,” he tells me. “Not brutally, anyway. You mean more to me than I meant to my parents.”
I pull my eyebrows together, wondering where he's going with this.
“There are other ways to teach you a lesson,” he says, and then he's quiet. The creaking sound of a chair makes me flinch, then a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “Charlie Decena will have to make the most of eleven minutes. Look at me, my little pet.”
I do. I lift my lashes to find his golden gaze.
“Is there anything you need?” he asks, a peculiar, evil expression on his face. “Or any questions you wish to ask?”
“Um... I might need a few extra computers, just if I get locked out of the CCTV system.”
“Of course.” He leans down and says in my ear, “I'll have them set up in your apartment for when you execute the job.” He kisses the side of my face with hard lips. “Now, you should go tell Charlie of your equal success and failure. He is out back.”
Great.
Coming down from the rush of fear that he was going to hit me, I nod, turn on my heel, and get the hell out of his office before he changes his mind and gives me a good bloody hiding. I follow the pounding music down the hallway to the kitchen. It's packed with half naked girls dancing all over the place in a drunken state, and an assortment of men whose eyes are glazed over. They're drugged up off powdery cocaine, mountains scattered across the white worktops and the dining table by the back doors.
I continue through the kitchen in search of Charlie. One guy—I can never remember his fucking name—smirks at me as I pass him. “When is Maksim-Markov going to give it up already?” he says, watching me with glossy eyes, leaning over the kitchen worktop on elbows.
I don't even look at him. I round the dining table, shoulder barging the girls who smell sweet with perfume, and steal through the French doors.
Outside, my breath mists the cold night. A few more of Maksim's friends surround the illuminated swimming pool that's in the heart of the patio area. I also note James, who nods at me from the other side of the pool. He's dressed in his combat uniform, standing about with his work partners Oliver and Shane. I lift my hand in a small wave. A gentle smile reaches his candid, affectionate eyes. Fuck. His eyes are a little black. He's still bruised from our fight, dark greeny-gray patches marrying his cheeks and his nose.
I remember what he did for me last week as if it happened just moments ago—let Maksim fuck him in an attempt to spare me sexual attention.
Overwhelmed with guilt, I have to shut off my thoughts and emotions. I can't think about how bad I feel for him. I have to endure Charlie Decena soon.
To the left of the pool, Maksim's dogs—his girls—stand on all fours with leashes around their necks. They're all naked. Some of them are absolutely petrified, crying and cringing from Maksim's friends who are copping a feel. The other girls aren’t bothered. They seem used to what's happening to them, staring ahead blankly.
As usual, I fight to ignore my instincts telling me to teach these perverted bastards a lesson. I'd tear them all apart single-fucking-handed.
I go over to James so I can quickly say hello; nod with respect at Oliver and Shane. They return my gesture before walking off, I assume to give James and me a moment.
“Hey.” James smiles down on me, and also offers up his beer. “It's still cold.”
“No. You keep it,” I say softly. I can't seem to return his affectionate smile. He looks a mess. His left eye is bloodshot from the impact of my punches.
My eyes crinkle with guilt.
“Don't worry,” reaching out, he gives my hand a squeeze, “it's all superficial. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, noticing he's got red strangle marks around his neck. “I'm fine.” I look down at my feet, then back up at him. “I can't stop. I have to...” I gesture out, “you know... I just wanted to make sure-”
“I know.” There's that sincere smile again. I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me feel like shit.
Leaving James, I go off and find Charlie at the other side of the pool. He's wearing jeans over white trainers and a black round-neck t-shirt that hugs his masculine body, his hair tied back. The silvery-blue water reflects on his handsome face, lighting up his olive skin, shimmering against that perfect black hair. He's got his arm around a blonde wearing a white bikini. She has to be cold. It's freezing out here.
I know she is because her nipples are like bullets and goose pimples are racing down her arms.
Charlie is whispering something in her ear, making her giggle like a frivolous teenager. Even the other girls standing about him are giggling, indulging him.
“Jesus,” I scoff to myself in Russian, continuing for him.
To think that most women are like this—giddy to the sweet nothings—makes me want to vomit. A man would have to work a lot harder than that to make me laugh. Mind you, no man has ever made me laugh before, so I cannot comment on how ha
rd the endeavor would be.
When I reach him, I ask, “Can I speak to you for a moment, Charlie?” We meet each other's gaze, and I add, “In private?”
I'm surprised that I'm not anxious to see him. If anything, I'm grateful that I have to endure his disappointment as oppose to Maksim's.
The girls surrounding Charlie raise their eyebrows at me, affronted that I would even attempt to approach him. I'm fully clothed in black sports trousers, trainers, and my leather jacket, hardly dressed for the occasion.
I don't bother returning their gestures of abhorrence. Enough blood will be spilt tonight—my blood, probably.
One of the girls seems to know exactly who I am, because she tells the others to look away. “Say nothing,” she urges.
“Hello, Blaire,” Charlie's Latin seasoned voice is soft and inviting. Reminds me of Hannibal Lector.
He scans my appearance—just like he always does—a dirty grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
The blonde under his arm doesn't know whether to glare at me or him, her eyes flickering between us.
I don't react to his intense, penetrating gaze—or I try not to. I cannot control my cheeks. I strive to appear impassive, my hands in my leather jacket pockets.
“Sure you can speak to me,” he rasps out eventually, taking his arm from around the blonde. With his hair tied back, his features are sharper and harder. He's so handsome, and for some bizarre reason, I can't help imagining he's tanned all over.
Stop imagining, I admonish myself internally.
“Hey,” the blonde grips his arm, rubbing her hip against his cock, “you're coming back, right?”
Charlie gives her a deadly stare and snatches her hand off his arm, pushes her back a step. She stumbles to find her balance, so stunned by his dominant-aggressive behavior that she just gawps at him.
I'm not stunned. Men like him are often assholes.
I lead the way into the house with cool composure, through the luminous white kitchen.
“Look at that tight little ass...” that bloody guy is still going on. “Maksim-Markov really does have to give it up.”