Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica)

by Aphrodite Hunt

  Mansk’s guarded eyes gravitate toward the closed door. I wonder if Greta is out there listening in. OK, I’m not used to this situation. It’s not good for anyone to be listening in, right?

  He says, “Is not easy. People who try to go . . . they get hunted down before they cross the border. Or after they cross border. That way the Great Leader makes sure nobody tries too hard.”

  This is dangerous territory to be wading in, I know.

  “But isn’t it worth it a try? If you stay here, who knows which member of your family they’re going to pick off next?”

  “My sister was a traitor.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  He purses his lips. “I tried to warn her, but she would not listen.”

  “I don’t know what it is she did . . . but I’m sure she was a good person who tried to conform to whatever she was required to conform to. But in the end, her beliefs in the greater cause won out.”

  I know this sounds generic and I have no right to be speculating about his sister, but he does not contradict me. This does not make me right either. I merely have more unanswered questions piled up.

  Mansk says, “Close your legs. We go now.”

  He shuts his mouth with a snap.

  He doesn’t look at me as he helps me off the table.

  *

  Mansk leads me out of the kitchen chamber, down corridors where sullen-faced women move straggly mops across the floor. They peer at my breasts and reddened pussy but do not say anything. I wonder where Gerta is. The corridors are cold despite the summer sun that blazes outside the windows. Now and again, we meet patrolling guards.

  “This place is a fortress,” I whisper to Mansk.

  He flashes me a knowing look but does not say anything.

  How long am I supposed to in Ursk again? Well, according to the contract, it’s a month tops. At least, that is what I read when I signed on the dotted line together with Max and Greg.

  I think I can weather a month. Maybe. If no one is too cruel for me.

  We ascend several flights of stairs. The third floor is considerably more palatial than military. Sheepskin rugs are strewn upon the floor. Actual tapestries cling to the walls. I study the scenes in these tapestries with interest. They are of Potchenko’s military conquests, with the Great Leader himself surrounded by a flaming halo, crushing the bodies of his enemies. The detail of the carnage is exquisite.

  “This way,” Mansk says, pushing apart double doors that are made of polished mahogany – the color of my hair.

  Inside, several grooms – and I take it they are servants here, not slaves – as well as uniformed guards are getting several other naked men and women ready. The entire room is large enough to host several contraptions which are either hanging from the high ceiling or placed in well-lighted locations across the floor. And yet, it is intimate enough not to feel like a hall.

  I marvel at the contraptions. They are circus apparatuses.

  There are both swinging and fixed trapezes, horizontal bars, parallel bars, suspended hoops, slings, cords dangling from hooks in the ceiling, trampolines, as well as various multicolored balls and skillets. The room is festooned with balloons and gay ribbons.

  The grooms are dressed up as clowns. Their violently colorful makeup is more scary than garish.

  I spy Max in one section. Thank goodness he is all right. Two grooms are hoisting him upside down and tying his legs apart to a suspended hoop. His cock and balls succumb to the pull of gravity. I’m not sure if he sees me. Other naked slaves are similarly tethered to bars and cords in various complicated positions – all involving the display of their genitals to the greatest advantage.

  When they have finished securing Max to the hoop, he is in a ‘Y’ position. His knees and legs are threaded through the hoop and his dangling arms are tied with corded ropes. He finally spots me and attempts an upside down smile. But when one of the grooms takes a huge juggling club and shoves the slimmer end up – or should I say down – his rectum, he stops smiling.

  I want to say something to him . . . to send him my love, but we are very far apart.

  Two clown grooms drag me to a silver apparatus that comprises of two horizontal bars – one above the other. Greg is being similarly brought toward us.

  “Greg!” I cry in relief.

  “Thank God you’re OK,” he says as soon as he approaches, breaking out into a wide smile. His shining eyes hold complicated emotions. Emotions I’m not ready to acknowledge or face . . . as yet.

  Mansk says, “Is this one your boyfriend?”

  I say, “No, it’s the other one. The blond. Max.”

  Mansk nods to the clowns and says something in Urskan. Then he turns to me. “Everything is correct. String them both up.”

  He moves away without as much as a backward glance.

  At first, I am bewildered. The grooms/clowns/whatever grab my arms and upend me as if I’m a ragdoll. My balance is completely disrupted. My hair shivers and trails to the floor like seaweed. Rough hands grab the flesh of my thighs, my legs, brushing against my pussy and buttocks interminably. The groom before me squeezes them. His painted face leers very close to mine – so close that I can smell the fruity, chemical paste of his gaudy makeup.

  Hands grab my ankles and tie them with ropes to one of the horizontal bars. I’m in a precarious position – wrong side up and secured to the flimsy bar by only my feet at either end of the silver rod. My arms are left free.

  Someone pinches my clit, and a spool of cream unearths from the recesses of my pussy. Because I am upside down, it pools at the mouth of my cervix.

  My grooms are certainly taking liberties with my body, unlike so many of the grooms who have attended to me back in America – including Greg. Fingers prize open my pussy lips, stroke my clit, worm themselves ‘accidentally’ into my holes. Pincer grips tweak my nipples. Hands slide into my clefts. My juices begin to pool and pool, because I am excited despite my apprehension . . . or maybe because of it.

  I desperately long to be fucked. I can sense it – this hollowness permeating my vagina, spreading all the way to my anus. I long to be fucked in both holes – invaded and penetrated so wonderfully and deeply that I can almost feel the towers of flesh inside me right now.

  What is happening to me? Am I turning into a nymphomaniac in any circumstance – even one fraught with uncertainty and danger?

  When they have finished with me, I feel like an acrobat. A bound acrobat. My pussy is a pink flower – just begging to be played with and despoiled.

  They are doing something to Greg on the other horizontal bar. He’s not being put upside down. His wrists are tied to the bar in pretty much the same way my ankles are. His muscles flex and gleam beautifully. His eyes arrest mine – full of stark meaning. They hoist the bar up and his legs trail toward the floor. His cock is stiff and upright at three quarter mast, pointing directly at me.

  They manipulate the trapeze bars so we are parallel to and facing each other. Closer . . . closer . . . so that Greg’s warm body is pressed against mine, and his cock nudges my belly. Greg smells of clean soap and shampoo. He probably has been washed spanking clean in pretty much the same way as I have.

  One clown says something to another. I can see the sly grin on his face – a rictus of a leer. He seizes Greg’s penis, which is extremely hard and upright, and maneuvers it into my open pussy. It’s a feat that requires a certain amount of adjustment due to my precarious position.

  I close my eyes as Greg’s abdomen slithers across mine – taut flesh rubbing taut flesh, spiking my arousal.

  The spear of his cock enters my glistening vulva. It’s a rush of hard tissue into my soft, velvety passage, which is already oh-so-moist and oh-so-ready. I hold my breath to savor it. My greedy little nether mouth sucks him in – deeper and deeper, until the crown of his penis is butting against my closeted innermost mouth. My walls stretch further and further apart.

  Ohhhhh.

  “You OK, Gina?” Greg m
urmurs.

  “Yes. Are you OK?”

  “Obviously.”

  “What did they do to you last night?”

  His expression turns guarded. “It’s of no consequence. What matters is that we’re all OK.”

  I suppose he’s right. No use dwelling on yesterday. Or today either, come to think of it.

  One of the grooms raps Greg on the buttocks. I take it that it means ‘No talking’. Greg and I are hoisted up, up, up – until we are about eight feet from the floor. I can see the cream and mauve tiles and my semi-reflection upon them. My arms trail helplessly down. If my ropes were to tear in any way, I would be heading for a very nasty bump.

  But at the same time, Greg’s penis is snug and heated inside my vagina, and even if his movements are encumbered, it’s a glorious sensation of being possessed and filled. He moves his hips against mine, massages his groin into me to give me more pleasure.

  Mansk moves towards us again. Down there on the floor, he’s oddly smaller than life. He looks up at us ominously.

  “Do not come by any means or there will be punishment,” he warns Greg.

  I did predict it wasn’t all fun and games.

  Music begins to play – a European techno beat which is strangely contagious and makes me want to bump and grind my hips. But we were given a warning. Do not come. And here, the punishments may be worse than a slap on the knuckles.

  Our trapezes begin to sway, buoyed by some hidden mechanism up in the ceiling. I gasp in fear. I am rapidly losing my equilibrium – my sense of self. The floor arcs below me maddeningly. Any moment, I am afraid my ankle ropes would unwind from their precarious moorings and send me plunging onto the hard, hard tiles.

  Meanwhile, Greg’s cock inches in and out of my pussy with each roll of the pendulum. It is not a vigorous movement. His pillar of flesh contracts and expands within me in mere centimeters – but it is enough to make me extremely aware of his cock being there . . . and the fact it is by no means a tether to keep me attached to the bars.

  Everyone else is also in motion one way or another. Max’s hoop is spinning slowly. Every time his ass rotates towards me, I can see the club sticking out of his ass.

  A commotion buzzes through the grooms and the guards on the floor. The doors open to admit Potchenko, more bodyguards and a girl who can’t have been more than nineteen, which makes her essentially my age. She wears pigtails. She wears a flouncy pink dress with sequins and ruffles, like a circus performer. Her rosebud mouth is curled in a petulant little pout.

  Something tells me that this dark-haired vixen is important . . . and that she is going to cause us a whole lot of havoc.

  The grooms are all bowing and scraping as the little entourage weaves their way across the floor. The girl chats to Potchenko in their own language, pointing at everything and gesticulating excitedly.

  “Who is that?” I ask Mansk in a low voice. I’m not sure he can hear me over the din. It’s strange to be speaking to someone when you are swinging in arcs.

  “That is the Great Leader’s only daughter, Aimelie. He spoils her . . . as you Americans say it . . . like a rotten egg.”

  I hear Mansk’s lowered voice in undulations. Louder when our arc traverses towards him, and receding when we are away.

  “I don’t think we add in the egg. Where’s his wife?”

  “His wife died in childbirth. He had a Western doctor fly all the way from England because he did not trust doctors here. Most of our doctors are quicks anyway.”

  “You mean quacks.”

  Mansk ignores this. “But she still died of many blood loss. He blame the doctor and had him beheaded. It was a hush hush incident.”

  The horror bubbles in my gut again, threatening to run up my esophagus.

  “But surely the doctor didn’t mean for it to happen?”

  “He did not have the necessary equipment. But the Great Leader was the son of the then Great Leader, his father, and there were conspiracy arguments of assassination by the West. We will never know. But be aware of Aimelie.”

  His tone is guarded, as if he too has to beware of her.

  “Why?” I am amazed that I am having such a long conversation with Mansk amid so many prying eyes and ears. But maybe he’s feeling unnaturally loquacious after his sister’s execution.

  “She is not . . . how do you say it? Right in the head. The Great Leader knows it too. Got her the best doctors, but her mind is not normal. And in spite of that, what she wants, he gives.”

  Oh? So he spoils his deranged daughter silly. Despite me telling myself that everything is going to be OK, the alarm bells of premonition clang.

  Something is going to happen to us, I can feel it.

  “Gina?” Greg’s soothing voice reaches me. “Don’t think about it. It’s going to be OK. We’re all protected by laws of the contract.”

  “I’m sure the good English doctor was protected too,” I say bitterly.

  Greg keeps silent. His cock shifts inside my vagina.

  Potchenko and Aimelie approach us. They look up at our joined bodies. Up close, Potchenko is as handsome as ever with his stern mustache. I feel a tremor of apprehension.

  “The American slaves,” Potchenko says in English, possibly for our benefit. “You can practice your English with them, yes, my darling?”

  Aimelie claps her hands in delight. “Yes, father. Can we see them closer? Can you cut them down?”

  And just when they had gone through the elaborate do to put us up there.

  Nevertheless, what Aimelie wants, Aimelie gets. She observes us in shining-eyed wonder as the grooms lower the trapezes and dislodge both me and Greg. I feel a pang of regret when Greg’s cock slips out of my vagina. This time, the clowns take good care not to molest me. No surreptitious stroking of my clit. No pinching of my pussy lips. No sly plunges into either my vulva or asshole.

  Max too is taken out of his hoop and dragged toward us. The clowns unkindly left the club in his ass. He is disheveled, sweaty and beautiful. Both my boys are beautiful, with their gleaming muscled bodies and huge erect penises, standing at attention for the newcomer’s perusal.

  The moment she lays eyes on Max, Aimelie’s stare goes wide. Astonishment flits across her face, and then a zealous, almost religious fervor comes into her eyes.

  She squeals and utters something to her father in her own tongue.

  “English, Aimelie, please. You need practice,” her father chides her indulgently.

  Part of me wonders if we have been purchased to also be English teachers to Aimelie. Stranger things have occurred.

  “Father, he is beautiful.” Aimelie goes up to Max. She starts to caress his face, his golden hair. Her actions are reverent, in awe. “He is an angel.”

  A cold foreboding washes through me.

  Aimelie’s hands wander down my boyfriend’s chest, pausing at his nipples. Then she slowly slides her way down his abs – rock hard and solid – the way I like to touch him. She gropes his stiff prick, so straight and tumescent, and plays with it – rubbing its head this way and that, running her fingers over his corona and the compressible vein that runs up his shaft. She cups his firm balls.

  Max’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say or reveal anything. His eyes are justifiably wary.

  Aimelie turns to her father, still squeezing Max’s balls. Her face is shining. “Oh father, can I keep him?”

  “He is ours on loan for a month.”

  “No. I mean . . . can I really, really keep him here? Like in forever?”

  In dread, I study the earnestness on her features. She’s dead serious.

  Her father looks at us and says, once more in that loving, fatherly tone that no one outside this castle has probably heard:

  “Yes, my darling.”

  5

  Max says tersely. “You have no right to keep us here beyond our contract.”

  I’m wondering if I’m in a nightmare myself. Then again, Potchenko may be trying to humor her as though she is a child who will b
e promised a dangerous toy to keep her quiet – which will then at the final minute be taken away before she can put it into her mouth.

  I’m desperately praying that will be the case. I need to talk to Mansk. Mansk knows this motley family of crazies intimately.

  Mansk strides up to Max and backhands his face. ‘Speak to the Great Leader only when spoken to, cur.”

  A red splotch appears on Max’s right cheek. He doesn’t raise a hand to it. He’s too stunned . . . and not from the physical blow.

  Greg steps forward.

  “Wait,” he cautions Max. He’s probably thinking the same thing I’m thinking.

  Humor her.

  But a large part of me can’t help feeling scared. We’re not in America, where our rights are majorly protected by laws even though we may gripe and moan about our government. This is frontier land, or at least, it feels unexplored by the Western world – where anything and everything can happen at the whims of the Great Leader.

  And his daughter.

  Aimelie studies me as she would an insect. She comes up to me and prods one of my nipples.

  She says, “What is your name?”

  “Gina.”

  “And this is Max . . . and Greg,” Mansk puts in.

  “What is their tie . . . no, what do you call it . . . ?”

  “Relationship?” her father interrupts.

  “Yes . . . to each other?” She forwards this question to me.

  My heart is thudding very hard against my ribcage. No good will come out of this, but I’m compelled to answer anyway.

  “We are college mates . . . Max and I. Greg is a friend.”

  Mansk says, “Gina and Max are lovers. Greg is engaged to be married to Max’s sister.”

  Oh, so he’s updated on our relationship status. I don’t recall befriending him on my Facebook. I try to catch Mansk’s eye – to mutely question him on how we should play this. But he studiously avoids my gaze.

  Around us, trapeze bars, hoops and ribbons swing and rotate – the players seemingly oblivious to our plight. Or perhaps they are too relieved at not having been singled out. They know something we don’t.