Thirty Days of Shame

by Ginger Talbot

  But I’m not getting any answers this morning.

  Anastasia and I watch for a while as all three kids scramble around on the wondrous wooden play structure. I see Helenka at the top, scanning the grounds. Looking for an escape route. I could join her, but I don’t bother. We’re probably safer here then we would be on our own. If Sergei could find us, then Vilyat could have found us eventually. Also, I’ve already violated my agreement with Sergei once; I shudder to think what he’d do to me if I did it twice.

  Jasha comes to fetch the kids. They’ll have another self-defense lesson and then someone will work with Yuri in his new mad science lab. When Lukas hears that he can join them, he bounces with happiness. Anastasia hovers over them protectively, and even holds Lukas’ hand as they head off for their lessons.

  I go back to my room. The shoes have all been moved to my closet.

  I shower, I surf the internet, looking at yachts just to amuse myself and see if Sergei’s going to buy everything I look at online. Maybe a yacht will show up tomorrow, moored to one of the palm trees. Finally, I get bored, so I go searching for Sergei. I walk past maids and servants who nod respectfully at me as I pass, and then I hear his voice around a corner, and head towards it.

  I’m about to turn the corner when I hear something that freezes me in my tracks.

  “That’s perfect. You’re beautiful, Ludmilla, thank you.”

  I stand perfectly still.

  Who the hell is Ludmilla?

  “Fantastic. Great, great. Best news I’ve heard in ages. I could kiss you.”

  Could you really? Not if I find the bitch and stab her first.

  A wave of jealousy snatches the breath from my lungs. I turn and hurry away before he sees me.

  I try to remember if Sergei ever told me I was beautiful.

  As I make it back to my room, I realize I’m actually crying. I hurry into the bathroom, and my hands are shaking as I turn on the tap. I grab a washcloth and scrub at my face.

  Who the hell is Ludmilla?

  This is insane. Sergei has made it abundantly clear that he will leave me for good at the end of thirty days. He’s even offered to write me a huge “thank you for letting me fuck you” check in the form of his glorious estate.

  He can’t possibly care about this woman as much as he cares about me. He admitted it himself; he’s obsessed with me. So obsessed he spent a lot of time and money hunting me down and bringing me back to him.

  Did he sound passionate on the phone? Could she be a family member? An employee? That must be it.

  It has to be.

  He brought me back here, not her. I know how strong his feelings are for me. I’m not saying they’re healthy feelings – they’re a dark obsession. But if he has such strong, enormous feelings for me, they must fill up his whole heart. They couldn’t possible leave room for anyone else.

  That’s what I tell myself as I try to wash away the hurt and jealousy that chew at me.

  I’m scrubbing and scrubbing at my face when I hear Sergei’s voice right behind me.

  “Come with me,” he says without preamble.

  I start and stifle a shriek. I turn off the water and drop the wash cloth, and spin around to stare up at him.

  He turns around and walks away. So sure, I’ll follow, like the loyal dog I am. And I do. I hurry after him.

  “You know, normal people might say something like, hello, how was your day?” I say mildly as I follow him out the door.

  “Do I seem like someone who’s interested in what normal people say and do?” he asks. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s not friendly either.

  “What about being interested in how I feel? Like not having someone bark orders at me like I’m a dog all the time?”

  He glances back at me. He arches an eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me, Willow, because it won’t end well. We both know that you love it when I give you orders. It makes your pussy wet for me. It makes your nipples hard.”

  I flush with embarrassment.

  “I like it when you give me orders under certain circumstances,” I say quietly. “But when we’re not having sex, I enjoy actual conversation.”

  “I don’t need to ask how your day was, because I know what you’re doing every second of every minute of the day. And where you are, and who you’re doing it with. And I’m not big on idle chit-chat to fill up dead space.”

  He stops, and I realize that we’re at the doorway of his playroom.

  He gestures impatiently, and I walk in, emotions roiling inside me. He’s given me so much pain and pleasure here. Just walking through the door makes my nipples harden in anticipation.

  It’s all as I remembered it – the big X-shaped thing with cuffs attached, the whips on a rack on the wall, the shelves of dildos and lubes, the cabinets full of toys, the bed, the structures whose functions I don’t even recognize. There’s a sink with a rolling cart of towels next to it, and a refrigerator.

  We stop in the middle of the room. I want to stall – because whatever he has in mind for me is going to hurt.

  “Well, how was your day? What have you been up to?” I say in a bright, perky voice, shifting from one foot to the other.

  And who the fuck is Ludmilla? I want to scream it at him, but I don’t want him to know I was eavesdropping. And I’m sure he won’t tell me anyway.

  “I have been conducting my business, and that’s all you need to know.” He starts taking off his shirt, which is a little startling.

  That’s not how we did things before. He would tear off my clothing or make me strip. If he condescended to have sex with me, he’d take off his pants eventually, when he was damn good and ready.

  I slide the sleeves of my dress off my shoulders, preparing to step out of it, and he fixes me with a look.

  “Did I tell you to take off your clothing?” He sets his shirt, cufflinks and tie down on top of a dresser.

  I look at him in confusion. “No. I just thought… What do you want me to do?”

  Whenever we walk into this room, I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. I only know that no matter how hard and how long he punishes me, and no matter how badly it hurts, I always crave more. The unpredictability of it, the fear pooling in my belly, are a twisted aphrodisiac.

  He gestures at the whips on the rack on the wall. “Pick one.”

  Now, this I’m familiar with.

  “You’re going to punish me,” he says.

  Wait, what?

  Chapter Nine

  Day two, midday…

  “You want me to punish you?” I gasp.

  “Do I stutter?”

  I take a step back. “Punish you for what?”

  “Do you really need to ask?” There’s a bite to his tone.

  “Well, actually, yes, because you’ve done so many godawful things to me, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  He gives me a grim smile. “You’ve got me there. Fine. You are punishing me for committing the one unpardonable sin. Hurting children. I did use them as pawns, and it was not fair to them. Understand, they were not abused or frightened or threatened in any way. They wore the finest clothing, and ate the best food, and they had entertainment all day long, and they were tutored during the day. But keeping them from you was wrong.”

  “So why did you do it?”

  There’s a flash of impatience in his eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter. Pick one of the whips, and let’s do this.”

  “I want to know why.”

  Sergei’s brows draw together, and his eyes spark with anger. “Don’t presume too much, Willow. I am in command here.”

  “I know that.” But I don’t move towards the whips. I am so tired of him shutting me out, I’m willing to run the risk that his mood might turn on a dime.

  He stares at me, his gaze burning into mine, and I don’t know if seconds or minutes or hours pass, but I refuse to drop my gaze or blink.

  Finally, he heaves a disgusted sigh and folds his arms across his broad chest.

>   “I was afraid that you were breaking down my walls, and I wanted you to stop. I was being an asshole so that you wouldn’t try to reach out to me anymore. You were making me look weak. I brought you here to humiliate your family, not take you on long walks in the moonlight.” He scowls. “Originally, I planned on sharing you with all of my men.”

  “You did?” I stared at him in horror.

  “Yes.” He shakes his head, angry at himself. “No. Not really. From the minute I first saw you at your uncle’s house, I wanted you. I manipulated you into offering yourself up as collateral for his debt. And I told myself about all the terrible things I would do to you once you got here, but I never went through with most of them.”

  “You did enough,” I say bitterly.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to say you’re sorry?”

  “That is not something I do, Willow. But I regret dragging your cousins, and Lukas, into this.”

  Damn the bastard. I want an apology. I deserve an apology. What kind of sick fuck beats up a woman because he’s angry with her family?

  Then again, what kind of sick loser craves that sick fuck with every cell in her body? What kind of weak, pathetic loser comes back for more, again and again?

  Angry, I grab a whip off the wall.

  He turns around, and when I see his back, the anger evaporates like a mist and horror washes over me.

  I’ve never looked at his naked back before. Now I realize that there are silvery lines slashing all across it. There isn’t an inch of unmarred flesh. There are also scattered circular scars that look too big to be cigarette burns, but could be from a car cigarette lighter or a cigar.

  Long ago, someone beat and burned him, again and again and again.

  For a moment, I hesitate.

  Then I draw back the whip, awkwardly, and slap at his back. At his scars. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound.

  I do it again.

  His bored voice taunts me. “I said hit me, not tickle me.”

  I slash at him again, and he actually laughs at me. “I forgot how weak you are. So weak you can’t even keep your family safe. Do you know how easy it was to find you? Your cousins used to cry at night when I brought them here last time, and you didn’t even bother to protect them when you left,” he sneers.

  Even though I know he’s provoking me on purpose, rage boils through my veins. I step back and focus on what I’m doing. I go more slowly this time. I make sure that I’m aiming, and I slash at him as hard as I can. When he flinches slightly, I feel a furious satisfaction.

  I hit him harder and harder, until he’s flinching and grunting in pain with each vicious slash. And it feels good. Too good. All that rage and hurt and fear and frustration that was bottled up inside me – it’s roaring through me like a bonfire.

  Is this what he feels when he hurts me?

  What has he done to me? How can I enjoy inflicting pain on another human being? Defending myself is fine; I have no problem with that. I wouldn’t have a problem killing someone if they were a threat to me or my family – but hurting someone for pleasure?

  But I don’t stop until I’m exhausted, panting for breath. I drop the whip. His back is criss-crossed with angry red weals.

  “That wasn’t even a tenth of what you actually deserve,” I say between gulps of air. I stagger a step backwards and catch myself. Whew. It turns out that whipping someone is a real workout, if you do it right.

  “I know.”

  Then he turns around. His face is flushed, and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. I hate myself for wanting to lick them off.

  “My turn,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I splutter.

  “My turn to punish you. You ran away.”

  I look at him warily. “You punished me back in the hotel room. Sir,” I add quickly, to try to get on his good side.

  It doesn’t work.

  “That?” he scoffs. “That was light foreplay. That was you stalling because you thought you were giving your family a chance to escape.”

  I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  Okay. He just admitted that he knew I was stalling. He’s given me a little information. Maybe I can coax him into giving me more.

  “How long did you know where we were?” If he tells me, maybe I can figure out what I did wrong.

  “You really think I’m going to answer that question?”

  I keep pushing for answers. “What ever happened to Jon?”

  “I’m sure you know.”

  There would only be one end for someone who betrayed him. That means he killed him. Brutally.

  Jon was a disgusting pig who threatened to rape me, so I’m not shedding too many tears for him, but still…knowing what Sergei is capable of, I feel faintly queasy at the thought of what Jon’s death must have been like.

  Sergei’s gaze is too cool, too controlled.

  “You knew he was my uncle’s man all along, didn’t you?”

  A smile twists his lips. “Of course.”

  “The counterfeit money.” It dawns on me. “That was you. My uncle sent real money, and you switched it out. There would have been no reason for my uncle to send counterfeit money.”

  The look in his eyes confirms it, and I want to cry with frustration.

  “I just want to know,” I plead. “Did you always know about the apartment in Columbus? Will you please tell me at least that much?” Had he let us all run there and then watched us for two months straight? Because it seems like he knew an awful lot about what we were up to there.

  He shook his head. “No, I will not. And now you’re about to find out what happens to people who break their agreements with me. You should never have left me, Willow.”

  Fear blooms inside my heart. His moods can change so quickly. His blue eyes have gone gray now, and his face is twisted into something ugly. He looks really, really angry. It’s like he stored away his anger in a vault until it was the right time to use it, and now is that time.

  “What if I just apologize?” I say weakly. “For leaving early? Can’t I just say I’m sorry?”

  “Trust me.” He grinds out the words. “You will be sorry.”

  “But you drove me away. You know that.”

  He steps towards me, merciless. That look in his eyes…it makes my heart stutter in my chest. “Doesn’t matter. You made me a promise. You broke that promise.”

  “I… I…” I’ve got nothing.

  “Strip,” he says coldly, and he doesn’t look at me while I shuck my dress, bra, panties and shoes. I leave them in a pile on the floor.

  He goes over to a cabinet to fetch his tools of torture. He returns with a string of silvery balls and a bottle of lube. He rubs the silky-soft lube on my rectum, then slides the balls up inside me and does something that makes them start vibrating. It hurts, but the vibration and the burn are strangely erotic.

  Then he leads me over to a device that looks likes sort of like a saw-horse, but with the middle board vertical instead of horizontal, with a planed edge sticking upward. There’s a chain with cuffs dangling from the ceiling right over the middle of it.

  He lifts me and sets me down so I’m straddling it, awkwardly, then chains my hand to the cuffs. I have to stand on my tiptoes if I don’t want the sharp edge of the wood to bite into my pussy lips.

  “You will stay there for an hour,” he says. “If you ask to come off it before then, I’ll move on to a punishment that will make you wish you’d never been born.”

  Oh, like being born with the last name of Toporov hasn’t done that already.

  And then he goes and fetches a book, and sits down in an armchair, and starts to read. Not even looking at me. I’m dismissed from his mind. And my back is to the only clock on the wall.

  I’ve been working out the entire time I was on the run. At first, I think it will be easy to use my upper body to keep me off that damn edge of wood. After a few minutes, my arms start to ache.

  Soon I’m bucking against the sh
arp edge of the wood. I sink down against it, but if I put my full weight on it, it’s agonizing, and I bounce back up. I try to shift, try to get more comfortable, but I can’t.

  I’m panting with effort.

  The vibrating balls distract me and drive me mad. If they were in my pussy, I could come. This is just sheer erotic torture. He’s dangling me over the brink, but not letting me have any satisfaction.

  The seconds stretch out like elastic. After a while, he glances up at me, his steely blue-gray eyes glinting with malice. “Having fun there, Willow?”

  “How long has it been?” I gasp. I’ve been trying to keep track, counting in my head.

  “About thirty seconds.”

  Panic billows through me. “No it hasn’t! You’re lying! I counted to at least five hundred, and that was a few minutes ago!”

  He shrugs, going back to his book. “Then why ask?” he says, staring at the pages, not me.

  “Because it really hurts!”

  “That’s the point.”

  I want to scream insults at him, threaten him, beg him…but I’m sure it will just amuse him. It certainly won’t make him let me down any faster.

  The minutes drag and drag and drag. I sing songs to myself inside my head. I curse myself for not having stronger arms. I bounce up and down, and my pussy is on fire now, and so are my arms. I am gasping and panting. And Sergei doesn’t even bother to look up at me.

  Finally, I start to cry. Sobs rack my body as I writhe on the wooden torture device. I hate the wood. I hate Sergei. I hate everything. And still he slowly flips the pages of his book.

  “Sir, please, it really, really hurts,” I sob.

  “Yes, I imagine it does.” He sets the book down and walks over to me, standing behind me.

  He leans in, and I feel his hot breath in my ear. “Do you still think it was a good idea to run away, Willow?”

  “No, sir,” I cry out.

  Calling him “sir” in here feels right. I missed it. I want this. I am desperate for relief from the pain, but this ritual of punishment and pleading…I crave it as much as I hate it.