by Sable Jordan
Sacha Sokoviev slammed the painting back in place and then cleared every item from his desk with an angry swipe of his arm. Fist balled, he slammed the exposed wood, letting out a frustrated growl. He dragged his shirtsleeve under his nose and sank into the leather, button-tufted chair. The latest update was no different than the others: Fedot, his guard, hadn’t found the girl. That would disrupt his overall plan.
And then there was the Amerikanskoy.
On principle, he distrusted Americans. Sacha had learned well the history of Mother Russia, and her downfall could be traced directly back to those sneaky snakes. Throw in the greedy, inflexible Japanese and Russia had no one she could trust at her back. Akio Takata should have been satisfied with the deal as it stood, but instead he wanted to undercut Sacha on the split and control production and distribution of Harvey after a year. They weren’t dealing with his father. It was Sacha’s technology now, and the sooner everyone got that through their heads the better off they’d all be.
Removing a silver tray and a business card from his desk drawer, he dumped an eight ball of coke onto the shiny surface, using the square of thick paper to separate two neat rows from the mound of white powder. An empty pen shaft to one nostril, he pinched off the other and inhaled deeply, tracing a line.
“Stupid Nikolay,” he muttered, sniffing. He switched holes and repeated the process. “You and that fucking Amerikanskoy. And the fucking Yaponskaya?” He thumbed his nose, feeling the white work it’s magic, then gripped both cheeks with his fingers and sucked in a lungful of air.
This was all his father’s fault. Nikolay had a history of working with the most deplorable of the world, the first of which was the American woman that had born him. Raised in the Marlboro projects in New York, any money she got turning tricks or that Nikolay insisted he’d sent rarely went toward something to put in little Sacha’s belly. Birthdays found him asking for toys that never came, and winter found him with few clothes to keep him warm.
She was not his mother. Just another useless cunt Nikolay knocked up and ran out on. The only thing Sacha Sokoviev ever got from that bitch was her coke habit.
At sixteen he was shipped back to Russia to live with an uncle, and the conditions weren’t much better. But it was then he realized the true power of his father’s roots. He was mesmerized by the influence of the Sokoviev name, and set out to prove just how much better than Nikolay he could be. There were those who reminded him he was a half-breed, but he didn’t feel like one at all. The strength of the Russian blood coursing through his veins had years ago washed away the stink of American from Sacha’s skin.
Unfortunately, another of Nikolay’s three-decade-old infractions had come back to haunt his eldest son.
Vision blurry, Sacha eyed the babushka dolls lined up on an occasional table, a gift from his father once Sacha had gotten out of jail and moved back into the chateau. To remind you it is all about family, Nikolay had said, one day you will understand. Sacha hadn’t given it much thought. He was no more family-oriented than his bastard of a father.
The nine rotund wooden toys denoted the lineage of the Sokoviev men, each one hand-painted with some feature of the person it was meant to represent; the name engraved on the flat surface of the base. He recalled his old man unpacking the dolls—opening the largest and removing the one hidden inside only to open that one and find another—repeating the process until he’d lined them up in order of height, droning on about the greatness of the Sokovievs that had come before them. At the time, Sacha busied himself with admiring the patterns of the thick Persian rug his desk sat upon.
Of the nine, there were but three dolls he could identify without having to read the appellation off the bottom. The smallest was Misha, his half-brother. He was born and raised in America, and the only kinship he felt toward the teenager came from knowing Nikolay had abandoned him too. With their father gone, Misha’s youth was all that protected him from Sacha’s wrath.
Next in the line was Sacha himself. Naturally, he liked his doll the best. Though there was nothing particularly distinct about it—small with the features rather hard to make out—he found it the most aesthetically pleasing of the bunch. And the most important.
After him was Nikolay’s, dressed in a business suit with a cap of silver hair and shrewd eyes. It wasn’t until two weeks ago Sacha realized this doll was out of place. And it was the first time he could remember wishing his sack of shit for a father wasn’t dead.
Another line of cocaine made it’s way into his bloodstream, but instead of having the desired effect of dulling his problems, the alertness caused by the drug seemed to make the situation shine brighter than any other. He stood from the desk, jumping at the sound of the chair toppled by the move, and then stalked to the door. Flinging it open, he looked down to see his puppet waiting there obediently.
He liked this particular toy, not so much pleased by her as a person, but as property he was proud at the acquisition. A dark-haired Russian with creamy skin, she was completely new to the Lifestyle, and had come to him shortly after his release from jail. One could only take so many fingers from a man before there were simply no more fingers left to take.
The girl’s face was nice to look at, not more beautiful than his, but it would do. She didn’t speak much, a desirable quality in his puppets, and when she did it was with respect for him as her Master and only in the tongue of their people. Uneducated, she couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age, and the skin covering her thin body was still soft and supple, so that every time his tools met it, her flesh was left nice and rosy.
With the clarity that comes from the brain being numb, Sacha studied her prostrate form and realized why this puppet was so enjoyable. She knew her place. Every puppet needed a little molding, and he’d sculpted this one a bit, but she’d taken to it the fastest. She immediately recognized she was the weaker member of the species and reconciled with her status in life.
He recalled her fear during that first encounter to his Dungeon; could almost smell it on her skin as he lashed her; taste it seeping from her pores while he rammed his dick into the too-tight, virgin pussy. And when he’d fucked her ass…Oh! Her screams were heaven; not rehearsed like some of the other puppets. Hers was a cry of genuine terror and he soaked it up the way eating Black bread before a binge soaks up the vodka and makes room for more. He’d given it to her good, had left his mark on her, and like a devoted bitch she’d taken it.
He crouched a bit to pet her glossy mane, then curled his fingers and lifted her from the ground by her hair. She gasped in surprise, and he felt his cock thicken in his slacks. She was like the perfect toy that never broke no matter how hard he played with it; always afraid the way he needed her to be. He pulled her through the door to his office and slammed it shut, then, leaving her in the center of the room, made his way to a bookshelf and slid it aside, uncovering a panel disguised to look like the rest of the wall. Pushing it inward revealed a dark chasm.
“What were you doing at the door?” he asked in heavy Russian, approaching the sub again.
She fidgeted, gaze at his feet. “Waiting for you, Kukol´nik,” she replied softly.
The answer was what he’d expected, after all, he’d instructed her to remain there an hour before. Staring at her naked body he noticed her knees were a shade of bright red, ignored that, and focused on the important fact—the cuts from their last session had nearly healed. It was an injustice he would have to rectify. And, while she wasn’t the person he wanted to beat, she would be a nice diversion from his reality.
“Is that what you wished to do?”
“I wish only to do as my Master tells me,” came the meek answer.
The response sent a shiver through his body, and he inhaled the power deep into his lungs, exhaled heavily through his mouth. “Undress me.”
Her fingers shook as she worked the buttons of his shirt and pushed the fabric from his shoulders. With reverence, she folded the clothing and placed it on his desk. Then she knelt and untied h
is shoe, carefully lifting his foot to remove it and the sock beneath. When she returned the foot to the floor again, she dipped lower to press her lips to the top. Sacha had never instructed her to do this, but that she thought of it furthered her subservience, and that delighted him.
Both feet kissed, she reached up to unfasten the buckle of his belt, unhinged the snap of his trousers. It was the only time she was allowed to look up at him. In any other setting he would have taken it as disrespect and punished her for it. But this was a matter of position, and Sacha was not an unreasonable man. So long as she was quick about it, he dismissed the violation and let her continue her assignment.
She inched the black slacks from his hips, revealing his erection. Raising his foot to free him of the pants, she repeated the move on the other side and folded the fabric neatly, settling it beside her. Task complete, she clasped her hands in her lap and cast her gaze downward again.
Sacha’s body was near exploding. That she could come and perform her duties so exacting spoke to his proficiency as a Master. But a new problem arose: to wait until he had her in his Dungeon, or to allow her the honor of starting him off now.
“Suck me.”
The puppet rose up on her knees, hands grazing his thighs as she opened her tiny pink mouth. Her tongue snaked out to lick the precum from his dick and then circled the head.
Unable to wait any longer, Sacha thrust past her lips, shuddering at the heat gloved tightly around his cock. He pulled back slowly then shoved in again, hearing the soft gags she made with the force. Gripping her head, it didn’t take long before the first round of cum exploded from his shaft, and his puppet swallowed it down with enjoyable slurps.
Just enough to take the edge off. Sacha looked down and frowned. “Missed a spot.” Her tongue rounded now-rosy lips in search of the stray fluid, lapping at the corner where his seed had been located. He turned away and preceded her through the hole in the bookshelves.
“Come along, puppet. Your Master wishes to see you dance.”
* * * *
McLean, Virginia
Daniel Gilbert had another club soda in his gut courtesy of the intriguing Miss Lana James. The match was hard fought, but in the end, he’d walked away the victor.
For her efforts, Lana downed three shots of tequila in succession, cringed at the strength, and sucked on a wedge of lime before announcing, “Woooo!” Shortly after, she decided to call it a night. She pulled on her jacket and pushed out into the darkness.
Daniel followed right behind—his last square of gum going into his mouth.
“So,” she said once they were clear of the bar’s noise and smoke. “I guess you just might be the best. Did you have to pull a Robin Hood on that last leg of the game? Made me look bad.”
He chuckled at her saucy pout. “You were showing off, Lana. Had to take you down a peg. You can have a rematch.”
“I’ll take a rain check. Gotta get back to campus—early class…” she trailed off.
He didn’t make a move, the second-hand confidence from the bar now absent. Chances of getting laid—30% and falling.
Lana stuck out her hand. “Glad I met you, Danny Gilbert. You take care.”
He nodded, returned the gesture mechanically, his brain occupied with cursing his cowardice. “You, too, Lana.” They stood for a moment, hands locked, before he tugged her closer, leaned down to risk a peck to her mouth. Her free arm snaked around his neck, and he took the hint, kissed her deeper. When they pulled apart her eyes were closed and she hummed, dragged her tongue over her lips.
“Let me…walk you to your car.” He said it nervously, as though a different man inhabited the body of the one she’d pulled into a dart game a couple of hours before.
“Is that what you really want, Danny? To get me safely to my car and watch me drive away?” He sputtered and she smiled. “You’re awful cute when you’re flustered. What do you do, Danny?”
His eyes shifted away from her nervously. Don’t blow this. “Risk assessment.”
Lana nodded. “Explains the Jekyll and Hyde routine you’ve got going. So in the bar you thought you had a chance, but out here…?”
Like an idiot, Danny didn’t respond. Her frankness hadn’t been accounted for.
“How about this,” Lana said. “Walk me to your car. I took a cab here. You up for letting me ride?”
He watched her mouth again. The cadence of her voice was slow, and pink lips formed each word perfectly as though she was trying hard to keep from slurring.
Tequila’s setting in….
“Danny?”
He snapped out of his stupidity long enough to act. Gripping her elbow, he guided her to the plain sedan across the street, unnecessarily checking for cars. It was nearing one in the morning in the little town of McLean. Anyone not at The Pub was already in bed. He opened the passenger door and saw her in, then rounded the bumper and slid into the driver’s seat, fitting the key in the ignition. “Where to?” The dependable car fired to life and he waited for directions.
“Your place works for me.”
His brows went up. “Thought you had an early class.”
“I’ll be there in time. I don’t plan to sleep.”
Before he managed to bungle this opportunity, Danny pulled from the curb. Lana leaned toward him and brushed his neck, her hands trailing down his chest. His heart raced. He hadn’t fucked a hot co-ed since college, and from the way she was behaving, he was about to break the streak. He would have closed his eyes but he had to focus on driving the distance to his apartment.
With one hand she worked at his belt, masterfully disengaged it from the buckle, then unfastened his slacks and tugged down the zipper. Her knuckles grazed his lower abs when she dipped her hand into his briefs and his foot jerked on the accelerator. He immediately corrected, heart pounding in his chest.
“Careful, sweetie.” She massaged his cock in her warm hand, slow strokes away from his body. He could feel himself leaking against the pad of her thumb, and she rubbed the wetness around the sensitive crown.
His foot hit the gas again. “Lana,” he warned. How could something so heavenly be so dangerous? If she kept it up they’d wreck.
“I want you ready for me once we get there,” she whispered, “so all I have to do is hop on and ride.” She continued to nip his neck, licked the sensitive spot below his ear. “Just breathe, baby.”
A red light loomed up ahead, but Daniel couldn’t wait. Without slowing, he wheeled the car into an empty lot and slapped it into park.
Lana looked out at the loading bays of an abandoned business complex and giggled. “Nice place you have here.”
“Come on,” he said hurriedly. Yanking the bar beneath his seat, the chair slid to the back of the track. Then he leaned forward to push the steering wheel up as far as it would go to give her room. “Come sit on my lap.”
“Condom first. Minimize the risk, right?”
He didn’t have condoms, or any other sort of prophylactic, but if he didn’t come soon he’d feel it for days.
Lana’s hand in her purse quelled his anxiety. “Don’t worry. Got you covered.” She pulled out the rubber and a jumbo pen.
“What’s that?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t so far out of the loop when it came to sex that he didn’t know an adult toy when he saw one. But they came in so many shapes nowadays….
“Insulin,” she said, a little embarrassed.
“You’re diabetic?”
She nodded and unrolled the condom down his turgid shaft, stroking twice from root to tip firmly. Every other thought left his brain, moaning as she continued, slowly at first, then pumping faster and faster until his hips lifted from the seat and he bucked into her hot hand.
“Oh, damn!” he screamed, part delicious agony, part anger at not being inside her as his cum filled the condom. His body was locked in a rigor state, spasming so hard he didn’t initially feel the tiny jab in the side of his neck.
“Wha—?” He looked at Lana, trying to make s
ense of why his arms and legs were starting to tingle. And his face…it tickled too.
Lana started on his dick again, and he turned his attention there. “Just breathe, baby,” she coaxed, smiling at him. “Don’t fight it, let it come.”
This had to be the best orgasm ever if he couldn’t feel his legs! But then, he realized, he couldn’t feel his cock, or her hand on it either. His ribcage throbbed; the pound reverberating in his ears. In a panic, he gasped for air, not feeling the clean stuff burn his lungs.
Throat closed, heart seized, the last image Daniel Gilbert’s saucer-size eyes would ever capture was of Lana James pulling off a sandy blonde wig.
Nope. He hadn’t calculated that.
* * * *
Gale reached over the warm body and checked for the lack of a pulse. “Thought ya’d never die.”
She wanted to spit. Kissing the man was like eating toe jam seasoned dirt with a rusty mint undertone, and trying to numb her taste buds with tequila hadn’t worked. Couldn’t he at least have bought orange flavored Nicorette?
Keeping herself from gagging, she pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and wiped down anything she might have touched with a cloth. With an enzyme-embedded pad, she wiped around in his mouth and down his neck making sure she destroyed all traces of her DNA. His belt came free of the loops and she slipped it around his neck, tugging it tight enough to dig into his skin; secured the free end to the handgrip over the rear door. Then she pulled a page from her bag and secured the photo in his left hand.
Next came the condom.
“Things I do for my country…” she grumbled.
Carefully removing the rubber, she inverted it. Then she positioned Daniel’s large right hand around his flaccid little cock. It took some doing. With the inside-out prophylactic over three digits, she meticulously staged the semen over his fingers, on his leg, and a little on the bottom edge of the steering wheel for good measure. But the cherry on this sundae was the print out.
The image was of a scantily clad anime character—the computer generated vixen bent over with, pixilated pink cunt on display. She dabbed a bit of jizz just outside of the open target and chuckled. “The one bull’s-eye ya’ sorry ass didn’t hit.”