“You can’t touch me, Max.”
“I’m not touching you. I’m just sleeping next to you.”
My pulse is racing. “Max, we don’t know what this man is all about. For all we know, ‘touching’ constitutes just that. Touching!”
“I think you’re being paranoid. You’re my girlfriend. I’m not even fucking you, for Chrissake.”
“I’m not your girlfriend here, Max.” I’m so frightened for him. Can’t he see that? “We don’t belong to each other here. We’re just someone else’s property!”
“Calm down.”
“No, it’s you who don’t understand!”
Greg is roused. His brown hair is tousled and his eyes are bleary with sleep. “What time is it?” he mumbles.
Max says firmly, “No, Gina. It doesn’t mean that if your groom was mutilated, I would be mutilated too, especially if we are all put here together. They can’t put us together and expect us not to touch. Don’t forget who we are and don’t forget that we are bound by the rules of the contract. The auction was for charity and so is our servitude.”
Greg sits up and leans his back against the wall. He’s sober.
“And yet, there’s always the element of unpredictability,” he says quietly.
“Shut up, Greg. You’re scaring her.”
“It’s not a matter of scaring her. She’s a consenting adult. She has a right to know things and make her own decisions.”
Now we’re talking sense. I calm down enough to fume.
“I still think you’re both making too big a deal about this,” Max argues.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious,” Greg says. “You’re protected by who your father is, Max. But the two of us are working class citizens.”
“That’s not the point. My father protects all three of us.”
“Not equally. He bought Alice and not us,” Greg points out.
This seems to hit a nerve with Max. A rush of pity floods me, but is soon replaced by my overwhelming fear.
My voice is tinny. “What have we heard about Vladimir Potchenko?”
The two boys eye one another.
Greg says, “The personal life of the man himself? Not much. People know fuck all about him. He’s behind his own iron curtain.”
“Forgive us if we didn’t have the time or means to Google him before we left,” Max adds drily.
“I can only remember what I’ve read in TIME or something or other,” Greg goes on. “He’s a dictator in the Benito Mussolini sense.”
“Or Fidel Castro,” Max says.
“No, worse.”
“Castro is pretty bad.”
“Yeah, but you don’t hear of widespread torture and the murder of his political enemies.”
“No, I’m pretty certain there were reports.”
This talk is not making me feel better, but it’s necessary. I need to face my demons and deal with them if I’m going to survive my term here.
“What are the reports?” I whisper.
I wonder if anyone is recording our conversation. Oh help, I’m getting paranoid!
Greg wrinkles his forehead. “I can’t recall in totality, but there were asylum seekers who escaped and told their stories. We’re talking about a very closed country that nobody knows much about. Like North Korea. They have their own way of life. There are state dungeons in which they throw political prisoners and torture them in all kinds of ingenious ways to make a point. There are concentration camps in which prisoners vanish and are never to be heard of again.”
My hand flies to my mouth for the second time that night.
“Just because it happens, it doesn’t mean it’ll happen to you, Gina,” Max quickly interjects.
He’s so certain I’m concerned only about myself, but my terror is more for him and Greg.
“But this is a man who sanctions this,” I say.
“Well, we have Presidents who seemingly sanction . . . or turn a blind eye . . . to the torture of Afghan, Iraqi and Vietnamese prisoners of war,” Max says heatedly.
“But we’re the good guys,” I argue.
Max looks at me deadpan. “Not to the folks who got tortured.”
Greg holds his hands up. “Let’s not get into a debate over this. I’ve done enough of that in college.”
Well, I’m still a college sophomore and I haven’t gotten into the really big debates yet. Which reminds me, Max and I are supposed to go back to college in the fall. What if we don’t manage to get back into college? Surely someone will look for us, right?
My parents know I’m supposed to be spending the summer with Max. They don’t know that I’m halfway around the world, about to enter a modern lion’s den. I’ve already made my one phone call to my Mom when I arrived at Max’s house, and that was all she needed from me to know that I’m OK. She was chuffed when she found out I had hooked up with Max.
Such a catch, she said over the phone.
If only she and Dad had known what went on in Max’s house . . . and beyond.
Footsteps scrunch outside. My heart stills. Despite his bravado in the face of danger, even Max pales a little.
The door unlatches from outside. Mansk stands there with two other guards. He smiles.
“Mr. Potchenko want see you.”
Max gets to his feet. “All three of us?”
“Yes.”
My stomach sinks to ground. And by this, I mean the absolute ground, forty thousand feet below.
4
We are led as we are – collared and naked and barefooted – to a part of the Airbus we have not yet ventured. Here, the walls are plastered with some sort of embossed wallpaper that catches the light in a certain angle and reflects it in shimmers. The floor is plushly carpeted. How big is this aircraft anyway? How many rooms?
Mansk prods me forward. I am the first to enter the first class cabin, or what constitutes as the first class cabin because it’s far larger than any first class cabin I have ever seen. It is festooned with luxurious leather sofas and armchairs, all done in pristine white. I’m almost dazzled. A fixed sideboard groans with cold cuts, cheeses, fruits and sandwiches in all kinds of bread and sizes.
My stomach rumbles. We have not been fed since we came onboard. Maybe they don’t intend to feed us. Maybe part of our torture involves having us kneel in front of this mouth-watering smorgasbord to stare at food we cannot taste or devour. It will be our private version of one of the Chinese hells.
Vladimir Potchenko is nowhere to be seen. The chamber is lined with his guards. There are no stewardesses. Only stone-faced men.
Mansk points at a spot on the floor in front of the table.
He says, “Kneel.”
Yes, I’m right. We are going to be here for hours. I’ll bet there will be no toilet breaks either. Pretty soon, they’ll be pressing icepacks against our bladders like some sort of Japanese game show parody to win a million dollars.
I make to kneel, but Mansk catches my wrist. “You come with me.”
The boys raise their brows in concern, but I shake my head. This is our lot. I stumble after Mansk to the door that leads to the cockpit. The fear bolts to my throat again.
Steady, I tell myself. Sooner or later you’re going to have to face him.
Why does he feel like an executioner?
Mansk knocks cautiously, and I know the dictator is in there. A word rasps from inside the cockpit. Mansk wrenches the handle open.
“Go,” he instructs me. He doesn’t move.
I realize I’m supposed to go in alone.
The cockpit is what I expect from an Airbus. Not that I’ve been in many of those. Vladimir Potchenko is seated at the pilot’s seat, his dark hair towards me. He does not turn. Beside him, the pilot speaks in a tongue foreign to my ears, pointing at items on the instrument panel. He turns to regard me and does a double take when he sees that I am naked.
I stand there, shivering, as Mansk closes the door behind me. So I am to be left there alone with Potchenko and his captain
.
The captain is a ruddy-cheeked, tow-headed man in his forties. He glances nervously at Potchenko and says a few words. Potchenko answers. He still does not turn, as if I am of no consequence.
I am left standing for a long, long while as the captain continues to instruct Potchenko on the finer arts of dashboard instruments. Outside, we cruise the blue, blue skies. Not a cloud is in sight. I guess we are too high up for clouds.
I keep very, very still. My pulse throbs against my neck like a heavy drum. I am aware of the shush-shush-shush rustling of the blood in my ears, but I daren’t move a muscle even though the air-conditioning hits me full blast on where I stand.
Potchenko says something to the captain. The captain gets up and comes over to me. His sharp blue eyes wear concern.
“Are you cold?” he asks me. His voice is deep, accented.
I nod timidly.
He takes off his jacket and puts it around my shoulders. His eyes take in my breasts and puckered nipples and roam down to my shaved pussy. My clit lies snug between its clefts and is very red and visible.
Almost reluctant to leave me, the captain goes back to his seat. The two men converse again, this time over another flashing instrument.
Finally, Potchenko turns to me. He is as I remembered from the amphitheater – a force of nature. He hits me full blast with his frontal presence, and I almost take a step back. The door is behind me, a forbidding barrier to my escape. His hair is jet black, as are his eyes, which are burning and coal-like. His moustache frames a hard, cruel mouth. I can well imagine that mouth giving the order to annihilate entire Guantanamo Bay-like populations of political prisoners.
“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 ope
ning 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.
Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) Page 2