Only Pretend

by Nora Flite

  Carefully, so as not to drop my treasure, I carried the plates to Leonide. "Here, sir," I said, putting his in front of him. Without slowing, I set mine down and fell into a chair.

  His foot shot out, toppling me and the seat to the tile. Though I cried out, not one of the women stopped their tasks. Sprawled there, I gawked up at him, not hiding my fury. "Why did you—"

  "A good wife always asks if her husband—or anyone she serves—needs anything else before she sits down to stuff her fucking face," he snapped.

  Blood thumped in my temples. Slowly I stood, setting my chair back. Leonide sat with his back straight, and so help me, the threat in his body language was daunting. I cleared my throat. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

  He was up, his chair scraping. "You can get me a girl who listens." Though I managed a step back, my cuffs prevented speed. He didn't need the advantage; he was already quicker.

  I felt small, his hand forcing me to the floor. Still no one moved, no one once tried to step in and help. Like robots they worked; eyes down, minding their own business.

  Leonide was whispering in my ear, guttural as a rabid wolf. "I told you to obey, you fucking said you would, Celeste!"

  "I obeyed!" I whined, the tile hurting my chin. I was becoming acquainted with all of the floors in this house. "I did like you said, sir! I did it!"

  "Oh? You think your scalding sarcasm when you emphasized my title was obeying?" Kneeling on my shoulder blades, the rain of spankings on my sensitive ass was explosive. "Or did you think I was oblivious and wouldn't notice your tone? Was that it?" Every slap cracked my armor. "You think I'm slow, Celeste? Stupid? Am I stupid?"

  "No! No, you're not, you're not! Please stop, god, stop! Just stop, sir!" I couldn't control my babbling; the pain, the shame, it was too much.

  Releasing me, Leonide scoffed. "You're correct. I'm not. Get up, you reckless girl."

  Sniffling, I wiped my nose and knelt. He pulled me up the rest of the way, eliciting another whimper.

  Gripping my shoulders, Leonide looked down into my red-rimmed eyes, waited until he had my full attention. Softly, he rubbed the outside of my arms. "The answer I was going to give was that, no, I don't need anything else." He pulled out a napkin, dabbed the remaining wet smudges on my face. "Now. Sit down, eat, and don't make such a fuss."

  I had no grace left; I settled into my seat, cried out from the sting. I needed to eat, but embarrassment and scalding flesh ruined my hunger. The first forkful was pure effort. Strength. I shoveled more in. I need strength.

  Leonide banged the table, my fork falling in my distress. "Eat proper," he said crisply. "A lady doesn't cram it down her gullet. Small bites, dainty bites."

  It was actually a good call on his part. I didn't care about eating 'properly' but my belly wasn't ready to handle the speed. As I worked through the meal, I took the time to peek around.

  Sunlight streamed through a number of windows. It was a very white kitchen, peaceful and quaint. The women were still talking, cooking up a storm. Russian. Does that mean—no. Impossible. I covered my mouth, stared at the yellow bits on my empty plate. I couldn't be that far! I was in Vegas, how the hell could anyone get me from there to fucking Russia?

  Leonide must have a house with Russian servants, immigrants, that was all. That had to be all.

  "What are you thinking?"

  I crushed the utensil in my hand, not lifting my eyes. "Nothing, sir."

  "Don't lie to me."

  Fine. He wants to play mind reader? Squinting at him, I thumbed the fork. "I was wondering where we are."

  "Ah." Leonide pushed his plate away, most of it not eaten. "Easy. My home."

  "But where is your home, sir?"

  Even in the sunlight, his irises looked like pools of shadow. "You don't need to know that yet."

  Dropping the fork, I didn't drag out the argument. If he didn't plan to tell me, this wouldn't be the way to get the information. Let him feel superior. I'll learn where I am eventually.

  Sliding his chair back, the man stood and adjusted his jacket. "Come along. We have more to do."

  Copying him, I cast a curious look at the kitchen as we left. What were they making all that food for? There was so much I didn't know. Leonide was keeping me in the dark, his smile making it clear he enjoyed the power over me. I need to be patient. My gaze was stuck on the back of his neck, imagining the fork from breakfast stabbing in.

  I need to keep playing pretend.

  "This way." It was a winding hall, curving along until a row of pale purple doors appeared. Leonide waved me through one of them, shutting it softly behind us.

  It was a tall room, lit only by a number of lamps in the corners. Iron closets covered the walls, mirrors reflecting the sight of myself back to me. It felt... wrong. Seeing myself in lingerie, ankles chained, lit by the glow of yellow lights; my intuition rippled. "What is this room?"

  His first response was the hard click of the door lock. I spun, seeing him slip the key away in his pocket. "One of the many things my clients—future grooms—expect from the brides I produce is women who can dress well." His face was sharper, contrasted by the lamps as he approached. "Women who swing their hips, excite their husband and make other men jealous."

  My back hit one of the closets, the handles rattling like teeth. He makes dressing up sound so god damn obscene.

  "Let's get started," he said, pausing a foot from me. "Unless you like running around in just lingerie, my lovely girl."

  My eyes flicked to the exit. "Why did you lock us in?"

  "Because I don't trust you to behave."

  I couldn't argue his reason. Though showing him my back made me feel vulnerable, I opened the closet. Inside, the variety of colors and cuts was overwhelming. "What should I be putting on?"

  Leonide hovered close. I wondered if he could smell my perspiration. "Often, it will depend on who chooses you. However, to be safe, you should be able to pick a number of things. Choose something... sexy. How does that sound?"

  "Awful, sir," I admitted.

  His laugh was genuine. "Pick it anyway."

  One breath. Two breaths. I dug inside, wondering what to choose. The dress I'd taken to Vegas had been the sexiest thing I owned. Would something similar work? He did seem to like it on me—stop. I crushed my lids shut, buried the memory. I wouldn't think about Leonide, let alone that night.

  The silky dress I pulled into the light was deep blue. It was slit along the side, the back dipping even more than the plunging front. Too revealing. I went to hang it up; his hand on my arm froze me.

  "That one." It wasn't a plea.

  Stepping away, I lifted the garment high. Then, I looked pointedly at my chained and bare feet. "Will you be undoing those?"

  Crossing his arms, he shook his head. "As I said, I don't trust you. Slide the dress over your head." I moved to do so, he stopped me with a gesture. "Take off the lingerie first."

  "What?" In the mirrors, I saw my flushed face. "I can't just strip in front of you!"

  "You're forgetting your place again." He wound an arm around my waist. I became a statue, unsure what to do. "Remove them, or I'll do it for you."

  I worked my brain over, chasing an excuse. "But—but, sir, if I'm supposed to marry someone else, won't they be mad when they find out you saw me naked?"

  "It's my job to prepare you." His grip tightened, fingers snapping the waistband of my panties. "My clients know this. If you were a virgin, perhaps it would be worth it to have some modesty. But you, my sweet Celeste, are being billed as the quintessential American slut."

  Acid swam up my throat.

  "So," he went on, lifting goosebumps where he stroked, "quit stalling. Show off your naked body. I've already seen it, after all."

  Could I be any redder? Slipping back from him, I gave myself room. Holding the dress like a life-vest, I reached behind and unhooked my bra. Letting him do it for me might have been easier, taken the responsibility from myself. No. Take control, just get it over with.r />
  In the tepid air, my nipples were already firm. I saw myself, wished I didn't. "Your tits are fantastic," he murmured. Chewing my lip, I spotted the shape of his erection in his pants. The knowledge I was exciting him, it sank its fangs into my core and melted my thighs.

  I guess he was right. I do get turned on seeing men react to me. That didn't sound like me, though. Had I always been this way? I'm playing pretend. It's all pretend. Blaming my surge of arousal on the role I was playing was easier on my psyche.

  Bending deep, I pushed my underwear down. Instantly, the problem was clear. "They won't come off with these cuffs," I said.

  Crouching, his face far too close to my newly-shaved pussy, Leonide reached in his pocket. I would have scurried away; the knife, flashing in the light, locked me on the spot. Cloth tore like tissue paper. The remnants of my panties were scooped up, tossed aside to be forgotten. "There," he said, tucking the knife away. "Problem solved. Now stop clutching that dress like it's your safety blanket. That's the opposite of sexy."

  Pushing my legs together, I tried to hide as much of myself as I could while sliding the dress over my head. It slithered along, choking where it went. As revealing as it was, I felt confined by the thing. Because he told me to wear it. Tugging the hem low, I studied Leonide's eyes in the reflection. He commanded it. It's the same as the cuffs on my ankles.

  Everything he did to me just trapped me further.

  The blue material hung to mid thigh, the slit exposing creamy skin. There was no question that I wore no undergarments. Nothing could work with such an outfit. The ravine between my breasts, my spine exposed to the top of my ass... it was inappropriate for the public.

  Leonide's stare was glued to me. "You wear it well."

  My hands covered my chest, pressing the brail of my nipples. "I look like a stripper."

  "Strippers are often blonde, busty American sluts."

  Fuming, I wrapped my fingers in the slippery fabric. "I'm not a slut, sir."

  "Again with that!" Strangely, he didn't look mad. A heat flooded his gaze, black becoming fiery charcoal. Pushing me against the mirror, he forced my hands away. His strength was immense, overtaking me. In one fist he pinned my wrists, the other pawing over my hard nipples. "Tell me again what you're not, my little American whore."

  Grinding my molars, I jammed a knee at his balls. The cuffs gave me no leverage, the attack was telegraphed. Whipping me around, Leonide left me dizzy. I stumbled, but how lucky I was. He was there to hold me steady.

  Pressed against his chest, I was facing the mirror. "Look at yourself," he said to my ear. I felt the edges of his teeth. They slid into my lungs, stole my voice. "Tell me what you see in front of you."

  His arm curled around my belly, fondled my chest. He'd yanked my arms behind, crushing them in his vice like fingers. With my shoulders pulled back, breasts thrust high and lips parted as I panted... I knew exactly what I looked like.

  I'm not a whore!

  Through the thin dress, I felt his hard-on rubbing my thigh. My world was made from Leonide, his smell cloying and leaving me uncertain. He was magnetic, a pull that drew me in no matter how I wanted to claw up his smiling face.

  "Slut," he whispered, roughly thumbing a nipple.

  "No." Closing my eyes couldn't save me.

  "My pretty whore." His tongue ran up the shell of my ear, and fuck it, I moaned.

  I'm not, I told myself, hips rocking against him. It's pretend.

  It's all pretend.

  Moving with me, he swayed gently against the curve of my ass. "Open your eyes, Celeste."

  My head moved side to side.

  "Open." If my rejection to his commands excited him, it showed in how his heart beat. Through my shoulder blades, as if he were trying to shove it out and into me, his blood was doing jumping jacks.

  Fluttering my lashes, I gazed fearfully into the mirror. I knew what I would see. It still cut me deep, left a mark on my soul that screamed 'sinner' more than a fresh tattoo ever could. My lips were spread, ready to take in oxygen or a nice, thick cock. Through the dress, my nipples threatened to cut their way out. It was the way I was rubbing my ass, grinding my hips, that was worst of all.

  Brushing my blonde hair from my neck, Leonide spread his hand over my pale skin. His voice was a living cinder. "Lovely Celeste, a pretty little slut. Correct?"

  Swallowing, I saw his hand—felt his hand—as it rested where it could kill me. A simple motion, he'd snap my spinal cord or strangle me just as quick. In that room of pale lights, my words were a frail butterfly wing.

  "Yes, sir."

  - Chapter Four -

  Celeste

  Time was funny. It was like oil on water; if you reached into the pot you'd never be able to grab the slippery bits from the rest.

  Either way, whether I could make sense of it or not, it was always the same. Leonide took me from my room, made me serve him his meals every time—all but dinner. I never saw him at dinner. A woman who wouldn't look me in the eye would bring a plate to my room each evening.

  The rest of the days were spent being his doll.

  It was the worst of the 'training' as he called it. I felt so degraded, dressing as he decided, prancing for him while he judged my walk. He'd tell me to swing my hips more, shoulders back, show off my chest—my tits, he would declare.

  Leonide was vulgar. When he called my body parts such obscene words in that heavy accent of his, I always felt a rush of excitement. I was worried for my mental health.

  I'd gotten better at addressing him, being careful to not slip up. Even so, it was hard to bite my tongue. I suspected he was pushing me, prodding to test my resistance. Did he want me to rebel? Was that fun for the sick pervert?

  It surprised me that he hadn't tried to fuck me yet. I'd seen how excited he got with me, trousers straining to contain himself... but still, nothing. He was keen to drive me wild, leave me panting and soaked and then shoving me aside.

  By what I thought was the fourth—or fifth—day, my desire for release was making me antsy. It was late, hours after my dinner had arrived. In the darkened room, I tossed on my bed and felt my own sticky sweat.

  Masturbation was no stranger to me. My parents hadn't started shaming me, talking to me about how to 'properly' behave with boys, until well after I'd started exploring my own body. Doing it here, though, in this place... It feels wrong. Deriving pleasure in this house, letting Leonide get to me, it was like giving up without a fight.

  Chewing my thumb nail, I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling I couldn't see. Without the single light on, the room was pitch black. I hadn't been allowed to keep clothes in my room, only what Leonide left me with after each 'dress up' session. Today had been a white sundress, a thing I'd pulled off an hour ago as I sweltered in my own heat.

  He'd given me new lingerie, a lacy bra and matching ivory panties. Gliding my hand across my belly, I felt the dip of my muscles. No one will know. Lower, I flicked the hem of my underwear. He won't know.

  That was enough to justify going for it.

  Stroking over the top of my pussy was an electric spark. Days of being toyed with, of no release, I was sure this wouldn't take long.

  Pushing my face into my pillow to muffle any sounds, my fingers dipped under the cloth. My inner thighs were a mess, panties soaked through to being sheer. Brushing the swollen node of my clit, I purred.

  It had been far too long since my last time. When had that—No, fuck. That was Vegas. That was with... with him. I'd promised myself not to ever think of him. Not how his beard felt on my smooth skin, especially not how agile his fingers were when he explored my body.

  Squeezing my knees together sent ripples to my belly. Blood was rushing through my ears, deafening me to my own sounds. I was so close, on the verge of cumming and letting myself escape the torturous pressure building and building.

  The door swung open, louder than my squeak. "I knew it," Leonide said, flicking on the light. Scrambling to cover myself with the blanket,
I drew my knees to my chest. The cuffs jingled; he still hadn't removed them.

  Striding in further, he cornered me on the bed. I had no where to go, my body crunching into the angle of the two walls. All around, I could smell myself. The way he inhaled, smirking sharper than new knives, said he could, too. "Celeste, Celeste." He clicked his tongue. "Whatever were you thinking?"

  "I—this—I don't—"

  "Shh shh shh." Reaching for me, he gripped my chin tenderly. "Don't explain. It's not strange. American girls, you just can't help yourself, right?"

  I remained still. Maybe, if I said nothing—did nothing—he would go away.

  He tilted his head, looking at me from a new perspective. "It's just your nature. However, it's still rule breaking."

  Remaining mute wasn't happening. "What rule did I possibly break?"

  Nails dug into my chin, a bear trap that made me wince. "Wives aren't allowed to cum without permission. You're being very spoiled, trying to get an orgasm on your own like this."

  He spoke too comfortably about my human rights. He's sick, that's it.

  Leonide slid off the mattress, heading for the open door. "I'll be right back." It was the most ominous thing he could have said.

  Shoving off the bed, I looked around for protection. I didn't know what was going to happen. I only knew I was terrified.

  I slid the dress on, feeling less exposed. There was nothing else to grab a hold of.

  Nothing to do but wait.

  He didn't take long. There was some relief in that, not having to sit on my bed and imagine what he had planned. The truth was hardly better, in the end.

  "Celeste." My name was barbed wire to my ears. He lifted his hand, something dangling that looked crafted from belts and metal. "Come over here."

  I was sure I hadn't blinked for five minutes. Shivering, I inched to the edge of the mattress and stood. "What is that?" Lowering his eyebrows, he crooked a finger for me to step closer. Am I so weak already? My hands balled at my sides.