Thirty Days of Hate

by Ginger Talbot

  And Sergei knows all that, which is why he’s letting me talk to her.

  “Yes, Sergei told Jasha and Jasha told me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to travel, though, with me being a big old pregnant whale. Damn the timing! If I can make it, I will, I promise. You must tell me what you want for a wedding gift, though.”

  Various snarky answers spring to mind. A bear trap for Sergei? A hand grenade? His and her matching cyanide pills?

  “Hold that thought. We’re still working things out. Sergei may be rushing things with that announcement.” I am sure the guard will tell Sergei I said that. Good.

  “I was surprised to hear that you guys got back together,” she replied. “And that you forgave him. So he isn’t married? I hope you gave him hell! Why did he tell you all that? Was he just scared of how you made him feel?”

  “He was scared like a little bitch,” I say, shooting the guard a defiant look. He pretends he’s not listening. “In fact, I made him cry. And I did give him hell. I will continue to give him hell.” I’m being wildly reckless saying things like that, but my desire to hurt Sergei in any way at all rides right over my common sense.

  “Well, if my doctor says I can’t go, then I want you to have a second wedding, here in the States,” she informs me. “Because you deserve to have your family at your wedding. And you guys will come to my baby’s christening, of course!”

  That follows with a few minutes of chatting about the kids – Yuri just won a science fair competition at school, Helenka is kicking and punching her way through various colored belts and she’s also taken up boxing.

  Finally I let her go, feeling an ache of loneliness. I do miss them. They didn’t want me to follow Sergei to Russia, and they don’t understand why I’m here.

  After Sergei dumped me, and after I spent three months lying around the house and steeping in sorrow, I just up and left.

  I lied and told them I couldn’t stay in that house when it held so many memories of Sergei. Well, that was partly true, but mostly a lie. The truth was, I needed to do something positive with my life or I’d go batshit crazy. I needed to stop being the heartbroken loser mourning over a man who was, I believed, fucking his way across the entire country of Russia and back again. And I needed to rewrite my history. I wouldn’t be Willow, the daughter of child-pimping monsters. I would be Willow, the girl who made the world a better place, even if it was just for a few lost souls.

  So I told them some vague stories about volunteering at an anti-trafficking organization in Russia, and that worried them enough. They thought I was just doing office work. They had no idea what I was really doing.

  The minute I hang up, the guard snatches the cell phone away from me

  Right. I’ve got no way to call the outside world.

  Message delivered.

  A little while later, I’m watching television when the guard returns with a shiny red gift box for me. “Sergei wanted me to let you know that he won’t be able to join you for dinner because he’s working late.” He leaves without another word.

  Well, well. Look at Sergei telling me about what he’s up to instead of leaving me in the dark. He’s trying to show that he’s changed. Sending me a pretty gift because he’s missing dinner. Pretending to be a good fiancé.

  At least, I think that’s what’s happening, until I set the box down on an end table and open it.

  There’s a butt plug in there, and a tube of lubricant.

  And a note.

  Someone’s going to be crying like a little bitch today, but it’s not going to be me. Go to our room immediately, put that inside you, and wait for me. Eat every bite of the dinner that’s served to you. Don’t make yourself come, or I will show you what pain really feels like.

  Fury and disbelief burn through me. He’s got to be effing kidding me!

  No, of course he isn’t.

  I crumple up the note and hurl it to the floor. Then I snatch up the box and stomp off to “our” room and slam the door.

  He said immediately. And I’m sure he’s watching me on some hidden camera. I want to stall. I want to go take a leisurely shower and then read a good book, just to thumb my nose at him, but then he’ll punish me twice as hard.

  I open the box and take out the plug. It’s got a handle on it. It looks as if it’s battery operated, and it looks uncomfortably large.

  Fear and arousal swirl inside me.

  When Sergei takes command of me, it turns me on like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It sends me to this strange otherworld, where pleasure is pain, where punishment is reward.

  If I say no, he’ll hurt me really badly.

  I have no choice. He’ll take me no matter what.

  That’s what I tell myself as I slowly slide my underwear off, and step out of my slacks.

  I open up the tube of lubricant and squeeze some onto the plug.

  Am I doing this because I’m afraid of Sergei, or because I want this to happen to me? I can’t tell anymore.

  Tears of resentment burn in my eyes as I reach behind myself and start working the butt plug in. It’s awkward, and painful.

  I thought I hated it when Sergei forced the butt plug into me, but this is worse. At least when he held me down and shoved the butt plug inside me, I could tell myself that he’d overpowered me and I had no choice.

  He’s doing this to humiliate me. To remind me who’s in charge, who’s always in charge.

  And the worst part of it is, I’m so turned on that I’m wet between my legs. My breasts are heavy and throbbing with need.

  The plug is fully inside me now, and I tug on my underwear, then my pants. It feels awkward and weird and it hurts. Not agony, but a dull discomfort, a sense of being stretched open wider than is natural.

  I’m slowly walking over to the couch when the plug starts vibrating.

  I let out a startled shriek. I can’t believe this! He was watching me the whole time – enjoying it – and he actually turned the butt plug on by remote control.

  It’s pulsing inside me, vibrating against the inner walls of my butt. It feels obscene, as if I’m being molested by a piece of machinery. And I’m not allowed to take it out.

  I spin around, trying to figure out where he’s placed the video camera that’s spying on me, but it’s hopeless.

  I won’t be able to concentrate on a book or a TV show. Until Sergei chooses to grace me with his presence, all I’m going to be able to think about is the burning, throbbing sensation in my ass and how much I crave the release only he can give me.

  I hobble over to the bed and lie face down. An hour passes by. An excruciatingly long hour. The seconds crawl by, impossibly slow. The buzz of the vibrator is loud in my ears.

  When the door opens, I gasp in relief – but it’s not who I hoped.

  A maid wheels in a tray with a covered silver dome on it. She’s heavy-set, with hair parted severely down the middle and pulled into a bun, and dressed in a classic black maid’s uniform with a white apron. And the dome is steaming.

  Dinner. I’d forgotten about dinner.

  I stand up, furious, and wait for her to leave, but she just stands there.

  “I have been instructed to stay here until you finish your meal,” she tells me calmly.

  Oh. My God. If I could kill Sergei right now… I cannot believe he’s doing this to me.

  Can she hear the vibrating buzzing inside me? If I can hear it, I’m sure she can hear it. I’m mortified. My cheeks flame red with embarrassment.

  I grab the dome off the tray and hurl it away from me.

  I pick the plate up, limp over to the desk and sit down. I am forced to lean forward awkwardly because of the handle protruding from the plug. I’m praying that she’ll just stay there by the door, but she walks over and stands there right next to me. She watches intently while I shovel bites into my mouth, finishing a juicy steak and a bowl of buttery mashed potatoes. I barely taste them, I’m so embarrassed and angry.

  She doesn’t leave until I’ve finished
the last bite. She picks up the silver plate cover on her way out. As soon as she’s gone, I spring to my feet. Sitting down is incredibly uncomfortable.

  And the plug never stops vibrating. I keep praying that the batteries will run out, but they don’t.

  Sergei comes in fifteen minutes later, and he’s got that sadistic gleam in his eyes that promises trouble.

  I glare at him.

  “Hello, sweetheart. Did you enjoy dinner? You seemed to have worked up quite an appetite.” He’s unbuttoning his shirt as he talks.

  I don’t take the bait. “Why did you tell Anastasia we’re getting married?”

  “Because we are. I’ve already picked out your engagement ring. It will be here tomorrow.” He strips the shirt off, tosses it onto a dresser. I’ve already looked through the drawers; sheets, pillowcases, no clothing, no useful weapons.

  I’m shifting from one foot to the other because of the throbbing discomfort. I’m desperate to pull out the butt plug, but it will come out when Sergei says and not a second before. And begging him will just make him stretch out the torment even longer. “You can’t force me to marry you.”

  Sergei laughs at that as his hungry gaze roves over my body. “Of course I can. Hello, I’m Sergei Volkov. I get whatever the fuck I want.”

  “You want Cataha gone, and he’s still there,” I snap.

  Probably not the smartest thing to say to him at this particular moment, but I’m so furious and humiliated and turned on that I can’t think straight.

  He points towards the bed. I walk over there, grimacing.

  He follows me. “You know how I always get what I want?” He is perfectly calm. “By being patient. By being strategic. By knowing exactly when is the right time to make a move. That’s how I got you. That’s how I’ll get him.”

  I lean against the bed, folding my arms across my chest. “Whatever you say. So. A forced marriage. How would that work exactly? The priest comes in, and I say I don’t, and he still marries us?”

  “The priest that I bring in will do that, yes.”

  Damn it! I’m sure he’s telling the truth. It infuriates me. Is absolutely everything and everyone for sale?

  And that damn plug is still vibrating inside me, sending spirals of hot desire corkscrewing up through my body.

  “Why…” I stop and draw in a breath. “Why would you want a forced marriage?”

  He ignores my question. “Turn around and bend over the bed, princess. Quickly.” His voice is a low, husky growl now, and there’s an answering stir in my loins.

  But this is my future we’re talking about now. I’m determined to fight.

  “No! Answer me, damn it!”

  Instead, he grabs me by the arm and spins me around so that my back is to him. Then his hand closes on the back of my neck and he forces me to bend over.

  “You could have been a good girl. You could have done it the easy way,” he says gently. A thrill of fear ripples through me. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about Sergei, it’s that his kindness is a steel fist in a velvet glove. The gentler his voice, the harsher the punishment that follows.

  He’s fumbling with something, and then I hear clicks. He’s cuffed my wrists together behind my back.

  Then I hear a snap.

  “That’s my belt,” he informs me. “Do you want to tell me how sorry you are for telling Anastasia that we might not get married?”

  “No!” I scream at him, and I try to straighten up, but he puts his hand on my back and pushes me back down again.

  The belt snaps down across my butt cheeks, and I cry out, jerking in pain. The thin fabric of my pants does nothing to protect me, and I am still sore from my earlier spanking.

  He hits me again, a line of fire criss-crossing the first. “Stop it! Stop!” I plead.

  “When I’m ready.”

  Another harsh, stinging slap burns my flesh, and I strangle on a scream.

  “Please! Stop! I’m sorry!” I cry, hating myself for giving in. Oh, God, I’m so weak. So pathetic. But it hurts so much.

  “Think about that before you run off at the mouth again.” Snap! I shriek, and my legs kick up involuntarily. I try to squirm away from him. I feel as if he’s set the skin of my butt on fire.

  He grabs my cuffed wrists and holds me in place. And one more smack for good measure. I howl in pain. “Noooo!”

  Tears drip down my face as he slides my pants and panties down to my ankles in one smooth move. “I love how stubborn you are. You have no idea how fucking hard it makes me.”

  Then he slides his fingers in between my legs. Stroking me, spreading my lips apart, rubbing on my swollen, throbbing clitoris.

  “Are you ready for me now, baby?”

  “Yes,” I sob shamefully, “yes.” I hear a crinkling sound as he tears open a condom wrapper, and then he rolls it on. There’s an urgent, hungry need, a pulsing between my legs. And when he pushes the thick head of his cock inside me, I push back against him.

  “Take out the butt plug…please….”

  He ignores me. He grasps my hips, pumping inside me, slowly at first. I’m so full inside, with his cock and the vibrating plug, that I think I’ll tear apart, but the pain is sending me over the edge into that netherworld where nothing exists but sensation. Where agony bleeds over into ecstasy.

  He picks up the pace, his fingers bruising me, and his balls are slapping against my pussy.

  “Yes,” I wail. His breath is quickening. I want him to come. I want to make him come. I’m moving with him, moaning wordlessly, and then I feel the explosion in my lower belly, flinging sparks throughout my whole body. My inner walls convulse, squeezing him again and again.

  He groans aloud, his body shaking with his climax. When he pulls out, he slides the condom off.

  Then he finally pulls out the butt plug and sets it on the nightstand, and I moan with relief.

  He unsnaps my handcuffs and crawls into bed with me. He kisses my neck. “You want to know why I’d force you to marry me? That’s why. Because with me, your no means yes. And because you love it when I force you.”

  I roll over slowly, gingerly, with my back and my rectum pulsing in pain, and curl up, hugging my legs. I’m furious…because he’s right.

  Chapter Nine

  Day two…

  SERGEI

  Willow sits in the living room, staring at the enormous sparkling ring on her finger. She doesn’t have the look that a normal newly engaged woman does – the look of joy and excitement.

  She’s got the look of an angry condemned prisoner.

  That’s okay. We’re not a normal couple. I am a man who doesn’t ask, he takes. I am dealing out good instead of evil for the first time in my life, but some things don’t change. I was born to conquer, and Willow is the sweetest prize of all.

  Willow is fighting this every step of the way, and I expected her to. I love her inner fire. She makes herself into a battle worth winning.

  She’ll come around, the way she always does. She’s still hurt, still angry, and it will take a while for her to be able to trust me, but I know that she loves me. And I know that no other man would ever satisfy her, love her or protect her like I will.

  So what if she thinks she doesn’t want to marry me? I don’t care at all. I’m giving her what she needs, not what she wants.

  This morning, before breakfast, when I presented her with the engagement ring, I didn’t say, “Will you marry me”? Because I knew what the answer would be. Instead, I gave her a different choice.

  I told her that she would either be wearing a ring on her finger, or she’d be wearing one on her pussy. I would have her strapped down, legs spread out, and her clitoral hood pierced, if she ever took my ring off. And I gave her five seconds to get that ring on her finger.

  The look she gave me would have burned the skin off a lesser man. I just stood there, basking in the warmth of her rage, and after she put the ring on her finger, I bent her over the dining room table and knelt down behind her. I tortu
red her with my tongue and my fingers, taking her to the brink and then pulling back, until she cried and begged me to take her.

  Her sweet pleas are my oxygen. My meat and drink. How can she be foolish enough to think I could ever live without them?

  When she’d begged enough, I fucked her so hard that the vases on the table fell over, and she screamed my name, pleading with me to go even harder.

  After breakfast, I bring in a makeup artist and hairdresser, and I have her styled like a Vogue model and dressed in a floor-length Baliencega gown. Her eyes are smoky, her lips pink and glossy, and her hair is styled in shining waves.

  I put on a tuxedo and march her into the drawing room, where a photographer is waiting to take our engagement pictures.

  “Got anything to say, sweetheart?” I taunt her, and she stabs me with a murderous gaze.

  “I’ll just let you do all the talking, since you know everything,” she says, through gritted teeth.

  We spend half an hour posing for pictures. I have one of my men take some pictures with a cell phone so we’ll have them right away. After the photographer leaves, I take Willow into the drawing room, hand her my cell phone, and make her send the pictures to her aunt and, for good measure, to Darya and Ludmilla.

  Since she was a good girl, aside from pouting and glaring when she thought I wasn’t looking, I let her call Darya, although I’m standing behind her chair and hovering over her the whole time.

  I listen to her silly gossip for a few minutes as the two of them chat about St. Petersburg, about Darya’s new apartment, about how Darya loves her new job and feels like she’s finally doing something worthwhile with her life. Darya is now a paid intern, being trained in multi-media journalism, creating video presentations for Reforma’s website. In a year they’ll put her on staff. I’m financing it.

  Willow, ever the sweetheart, begs Darya to send a text to her car mechanic friend, even if it’s just to let him down gently. Darya promises to think about it. So much sweetness between these two women, it could rot my teeth. All this caring about feelings. It’s moments like this that remind me that I’ll never really know what it is to be human. Being with Willow is as close as I get to experiencing normal human emotions.