by Henry, Jane
Bedrooms? As in, plural? I observe every detail but at first, I only see one room with a massive bed. I blink. There are, indeed, two rooms, though the second is darkened.
“You will spend the night in the second room,” he says. “Go, now.”
For some reason, foreboding pools in my belly. Why is there a second bedroom? Will I actually have privacy from him? I try to mentally prepare myself for what I see when I pass the doorway, but I can’t, and it hits me so hard, a cold shiver of dread trickles down my spine.
Unlike the opulent rooms that lead to this one, this is sparsely furnished. A large bed with just a sheet and one plain white comforter. A leather chair. No windows or closets. It’s as perfectly clean as the last room, but this room has the air of a prison. There’s a side table with drawers and literally nothing else, though an open door leads to a bathroom. In the corner of the room is a cage with gleaming metal bars, but large enough for… for someone about my size. My stomach clenches.
And then it hits me what this room looks like. It’s barely more than a prison cell with a bed.
I’m his prisoner and this is my cell.
I can’t get out or contact anyone. We’re alone so that no one would hear a sound I made, and they all obey his command anyway, so what good would it do to scream?
And I don’t want to escape, not really. I don’t want to subject Calina to any potential danger.
The people caring for her have been instructed to cut and dye her hair, so she doesn’t look like my identical twin anymore. I’m glad a part of me wanted to hold onto what connected us, and I haven’t altered my own appearance much. Now it’ll be crucial to keep her safe.
But I’m not sure if complete compliance is the way for me to handle this, either. I’m going over my options, standing in the middle of the sparse room when he comes in to see me. “This is where you’ll stay unless I give you the privilege of sleeping in my bed.”
The privilege. How nice.
“Clothes off,” he snaps. I turn to look at him in surprise. I blink, watching him grab the hem of his shirt and yank it over his head. He stands in front of me in his socked feet, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. I can’t help but notice how strong and fit he is, like an athlete. A boxer, maybe. He looks like he could step foot into a ring, with the stance and body of a fighter. Broad, muscled shoulders and neck, his arms and torso covered in the black tattoos Calina mentioned. A light smattering of hair covers his muscled chest, giving way to a trim midsection and defined abs.
I look at his tats. A skull on one shoulder, a provocative, naked woman sitting with her legs spread apart and breasts pushed forward on another. Two spiders creep along his neck, and on the upper part of his back, a rose with a dagger. These mean something, but I have no idea what. I have some vague idea that the tattoos symbolize something with the Bratva.
I want to ask him, but I’m not sure—
And then it hits me. Calina was in a mental institution. For now… I’m Calina.
He thinks I’m mentally ill in some capacity, and why not use that to my advantage?
I can’t overpower him, for he’s twice my size and far stronger. I may be little and lithe, which would come in handy in a chase, but there’s nowhere to run or hide. I can’t escape him, even if I wanted to.
Perhaps setting him off kilter is my only power play. If he suspects I’m unpredictable and crazed, I could hold a little control in this.
It’s worth a shot.
I muster up a coy smile and bite my lip. “Oooh,” I say, toeing the ground as if I’m bashful. “What do the tattoos mean?” I blink my eyes rapidly, hoping I look somewhere between interested and slightly deranged. If he thinks I’m unpredictable, it could give me some power here.
A muscle tenses in his jaw.
“Your tattoos. It makes you look so badass,” I drawl, my stomach tumbling with the effort to play this part. “Can you tell me about them?”
But he ignores my question entirely.
“There’s a laundry basket in the corner of your bathroom. Cleaners come daily to gather laundry and clean the rooms. You’ll be allowed to dress when we leave these rooms, and we’ll do that often, since you’re to be my public mistress.”
What?
“Aw, you’re not going to tell me what they mean?”
He walks my way, and I don’t realize I’m backing up until my knees brush the corner of the bed.
“Small talk, Calina? No.” He reaches for the bedside table and opens a drawer, removing a slim wooden stick thing. “I’ll tell you what this means, though.”
He swings the stick through the air and smacks his palm with it, and though he doesn’t flinch, a red line colors his skin. “This is a cane, which I’ll apply to your disobedient little ass before you sleep tonight, if you don’t do as you’re told.”
Turning to face me, he crosses his arms across his chest, the ominous-looking thing sticking out from his fist.
I laugh, at first softly. I’m not amused, and the effort to act irrational makes me uneasy. But I do enjoy the surprise that flickers through his gaze while I undress. As I remove my clothes, my laughter increases in volume until I hit a maniacal pitch.
Maybe it’s the liquor. Maybe it’s the insanity of this situation. But somehow, I find pretending to be mentally unstable is a little easier than I initially thought.
I take off my clothes as if they don’t matter, and let them fall into a rumpled heap on the floor. I’m vividly aware that I stand before him naked and he’s holding that thing—the cane, he called it?—in his hand. I have no doubt he won’t hesitate to apply it.
“In the hamper,” he orders, pointing to the pile of clothes with the cane. With a twisted smile on my face, I singsong to myself.
“To the hamper,” in a little voice, singing as if it’s a nursery rhyme. I feel both silly and scared. How will he react to my crazed reactions? “In we go, little dirty clothes.” I gather them up like this is a game, then trot to the bathroom and toss them in.
“Get some sleep,” he says, still watching me warily. So it appears my first “shift” won’t be tonight after all.
“Yes, sir,” I parrot, then I flop on the bed like a little kid. “Oh, this is comfortable. It looks like a prison bed, which I imagine to be quite stiff, but…” I let my voice trail off. “Wait. Is it dark in here, though? If it’s dark, I’ll need a night light.”
I don’t, but pretending to have a phobia of the dark might work. I sit up, feigning panic, all humor gone. “It isn’t dark, is it? Oh, God. Sir. Tell me it isn’t dark, please!”
At first he doesn’t respond. His narrow eyes on me make my heart skip erratically in my chest. He’s thinking about how to react, and it unnerves me. And when he walks toward me, cane still held in hand, it’s slow and methodical, and I move back on the bed until my back hits the headboard.
“Does this seem like child’s play to you, Calina? Do you think this is a game?”
My heart races when he reaches for my hair and grasps it in his hand, tangling it through his fingers and yanking my head back. I shake my head erratically, whimpering.
“No,” I tell him. “You’re hurting me.”
“Hurting you?” he repeats, as if surprised. With one quick tug, he flips his hand to my shoulder and spins my body so that I’m belly down on the bed on all fours. There’s a swishing sound before a line of fire lights up my naked ass. “Oh, isn’t that a shame.”
“Ow!” I pant. “Stop!”
But he doesn’t stop. With one hand on my back, he presses me down and swings the cane with a soft swish and thud. It hurts so much I squirm, trying to get away, but he grabs my hair and pushes me face down on the bed. I can’t even think past the blinding line of pain. Holding me down with a hand on my lower back, he brings it down firmly on my ass. I can’t speak or protest, frozen to the spot and breathless. Bright lines of pain paint my upper thighs and backside.
“Enough of this foolish chatter,” he snaps in
his thick accent. “Unless you want to spend the night in handcuffs, which I assure you would not be a difficult thing for me to do, you will close your mouth and obey. I want you in bed and silent.” Another line of fire across my backside leaves me whimpering and squirming, involuntarily trying to get out of the way.
“Do I need to cane you further?” he asks, like a disapproving school teacher scolding an errant child.
“No,” I gasp.
With his powerful grip on my hips, he flips me over so I’m flat on my back. The very tip of the cane glides between my legs before he taps my pussy. I’m still mired in pain, I hold my breath when he whips my most vulnerable, sensitive parts.
“You are my property, Calina. My plaything. You haven’t even begun to repay your debt, and already you grow too free?” The tip of the cane nudges my folds. “Every inch of you belongs to me,” he says, drawing the cane across me like a magician’s wand. I freeze when it glides along my mouth. “I own these lips,” he begins, then I gasp when he returns to my pussy and parts my folds with the tip of the cane. “And these lips, too.” His mirthless laughter sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow hard.
With his massive hand on my ankles, he easily lifts my legs in the air. “This ass is mine,” he continues, dragging the cane along my backside and giving me another vicious smack that makes tears spring to my eyes. Dropping my legs back down, he continues the relentless exploration of my body with the cane. “These full, beautiful breasts belong to me.” He teases my nipples before he raps the underside of each of my breasts with the cane. Little circles of pain flare to life. I yelp before my voice fades to a whimper.
“Now, tell me, Calina,” he says. “I can make you howl in pain, or I can make you purr like the little kitten you are. Are you going to sass me?”
Swish.
I sob when another smack of the cane hits the fullest part of my thigh.
“No,” I choke. “No, sir.”
“Are you going to giggle like a silly girl instead of obeying me?”
Swish.
Another stroke on the other side.
“No, sir,” I whimper. My cheeks are wet with tears of frustration and pain.
“Will you obey me?”
I nod, bracing myself for another lash. I tremble, but he doesn’t strike me again. Instead, he leans in so close to me I feel has chest on mine, and despite my fear, despite our roles, the scent of whiskey and raw masculinity pervades my senses. Leaning in, he pulls my ear lobe into his mouth, causing me to shiver, before he whispers in my ear. “Good girl,” he says with condescension. “You’ll learn, kisa. One lesson at a time.”
Chapter 4
I pretend to go about occupying myself, but I’m really observing her. As I straighten up my bedroom, which honestly needs no tidying, the door to her room is left open.
I’d planned on sending her to bed used and punished tonight. And I will eventually have her in my bed, but tonight, I’m tired. I don’t want to wonder what she’ll do in the middle of the night or have to deal with any of her outbursts. As it is, she has me on edge. When I look into her eyes, I don’t see a woman plagued with mental illness, but a bright, clever one instead. However, the way she laughed when she undressed… the childish way she chattered about nightlights and not liking the dark… it unsettled me. I wondered what it was she was playing at. The spanking I gave her sobered her, so perhaps what she’s in need of is firm training.
My gut instinct says she knows full well what she’s doing, and her reaction to the cane confirmed my suspicions. Still, I’m not a patient man. I don’t show mercy to my enemies. And I know I’ve been more lenient with her than I should have been.
Today when on my way to get her, I had the men that work for me prepare this room. It’s always been an office of sorts, but I had them take the furniture out and bring the bed in, then strip it. I wasn’t sure what to expect of her, and I like the idea of having her all to myself under lock and key. I had them install a security camera in the bathroom and main bedroom. I open the drawer next to my bed and take out the monitor. I flick it on, and watch her sleep.
I watch her fidget on the bed, careful to sleep on her belly. Good. She’s been subdued by the spanking I gave her and won’t need the threat of the cage I’ve brought here yet. Finally, her incessant fidgeting stops, and her breathing becomes steadier. She’s fallen asleep, I think.
She’s kicked off the blanket, though it’s still tangled about her legs, and even on the small screen of the monitor I can see the slight curve of her small backside, striped beautifully with my cane. My dick throbs at the sight. What I want to do to that girl… a caning to subdue her is the very tip of the iceberg. As I watch her sleep, I take the length of my cock in hand and stroke it. Imagining plunging into her tight, hot pussy. That gorgeous mouth. Her tight little asshole. I groan when my cock swells and tightens, and roll out of bed, heading toward the shower with the surveillance camera still in hand.
I crank on the shower and wait until steam rises. Placing the monitor on the countertop, I keep the shower curtain open enough that I can watch her sleep while I stroke myself off.
I imagine her on her knees before me, purring ‘yes, sir’ with that gorgeous mouth of hers. I jerk my hips and stroke my cock, getting harder, the need to come racing through my veins as I chase my release. I groan, jerking off to the thought of fucking her pretty mouth, then slump against the wall of the shower. I quickly clean myself off, then towel dry. She’s still fast asleep. One arm is up over her head, the blanket falling off her to reveal her perfect, pert breasts.
I’ll lick and bite those nipples and master every ounce of pleasure I grant her.
If she behaves. Time will tell.
She could be a feisty little kitten who needs to be trained, or a more complacent one that purrs when pleasured.
I toss the towel in the hamper in the bathroom, exhaustion suffusing my limbs. I go to her door, shut it quietly, then slide the lock in place. With no other exit or window in her room, she’s well-hidden and her room is little more than a prison.
Momentarily sated, I climb into my own bed, and pull the covers up over me. I’m particular about the way I want my room, my entire home. The other private rooms are on the top floor, apart from where we hold our meetings and the more social parts of our jobs, like when we entertain. As the pakhan, I occupy an entire suite.
Soon, I must decide who will become the next brigadier. Several have served the role since our brother Kazimir left the country, but the time has come for me to choose the next in authority. I roll over and close my eyes. Perhaps I will put it up to a vote.
My mind wanders to the upcoming gala we need to attend. I’ve gone to many, and never alone, but this time I’ll go with Calina. To our associates, a married couple within our organization holds more sway than those who are not married. I will have to feign love or at least affection for Calina. That I can do, and it’s almost a sort of game I can play with myself.
I’ll make it clear to her that if she behaves in front of those we socialize with, she’ll earn a little freedom when we return.
If she does not, she will be punished.
A part of me hopes she doesn’t. The part of me that yearns to punish her again.
Exhaustion takes over, and I’m pulled under into deep sleep. I toss and turn, bits and pieces of dreams flitting through my subconscious. A ball in the city square. Calina, dressed in a regal gown, beautiful, though her eyes look at me with deranged glee. In my dream, I snap a collar on her neck in front of all of them, and fasten metal cuffs around her slim wrists.
Then I’m no longer a man, but a boy. I stumble out of my room one morning, waking up to find my mother on her knees clutching her precious rosary beads. My father despised anything to do with the Orthodox church, but my mother clung to anything she could. Icons. Her beads. Songs she’d sing in his absence.
“Why do you hold those beads, mama?” I asked. She would only smile sadly, unable to mask her blackened eye and swo
llen lip.
I despised my father. Even as a child, I would imagine the day I was big enough to beat him with my own two hands, but when that day came, it was far less satisfying than I’d imagined. It isn’t pleasant to assault the man who should have protected you. Who should have taught you how to be a man yourself, even if I sought revenge for how he treated my mother.
It was satisfying that he never rose a fist to her again.
When he died, we declined any official services, claiming poverty, and though I knew we were poor, we could have likely found the money with relatives or the church to give him a proper burial.
But monsters don’t deserve a proper burial. I’m not a religious man, but I do enjoy the thought of his lack of a proper funeral dooming him to eternal restlessness or damnation.
Monsters deserve to rot in hell, and that’s the only consolation my mother’s faith ever gave me, the knowledge that retribution exists for those who deserve it.
I wake in a sweat, just before the sun rises outside my window. I shake my head, and draw a hand across my brow. My head pounds as if I drank too much the night before.
I push myself out of bed and grip my head. The bathroom is through the second room, a strange construction I approved of when I thought that second room would serve as an office. It has never functioned as a bedroom, until Calina.
I look at the monitor before I open the door, pleased to see she’s still fast asleep. I open the door and she wakes with a start, sitting up in bed.
“It’s just me,” I tell her, as if the knowledge the man who abducted her and caned her is less threatening than another. “Lie back down.”
I walk to the bathroom and open the cabinet, withdrawing a small bottle of pain relievers. I shake a few into my hand, toss them into my mouth, then cup some water in my hand and swallow them down. She watches from the bed. Without bothering to shut the door so I can keep an eye on her, I relieve myself. Though she wrinkles up her nose, she doesn’t speak.