"Please, sir," I beg him. "I’m sorry I failed you. Please don't punish her again."
"Since you genuinely tried to obey me, I will give you the choice. Shall I punish you, or her?”
Oh, thank God.
"Me, sir,” I moan. “Please punish me.”
“Follow me into my bedroom.”
I stumble after him, tripping over my own feet, clumsy with pain and exhaustion. When we get there, he makes me slide my panties down to my ankles, and then bend over the bed, face down.
He kicks my ankles apart, spreading my legs wide. Then I feel something warm being massaged onto my tight, puckered rear entrance. He’s lubing me up. I instinctively tense. He’s used small dildos on me back there, and it always stings.
“Relax,” he says pleasantly.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble into the mattress.
Something presses against my rectum, and then I feel a stretching. I grit my teeth as he pushes harder and harder. He’s stretching me, painfully, and fire lances up my rear tunnel.
He moves it in and out a few times, working it, and I gasp with each hard thrust. It’s stretching me so badly I fear I might tear open. “It’s too big,” I plead. “I can’t...”
“Stand up,” he orders sternly.
I obey him, a little slowly, because I’m just about on my last legs.
He slaps my breast, and I squeal in pain.
“You’re slacking, Anya.”
“Sorry, sir,” I mumble.
“I can take the butt plug out any time. Do you know what that will mean?”
“Yes, sir,” I say miserably. “You’ll punish Raisa instead, sir.”
“Exactly. Now, I’m going to take you to the photography studio. You’ll do your makeup and put on a nice dress. We have a guest coming for lunch.”
“Yes, sir.”
I limp with every step I take. The pain in my rear tunnel fades to a dull ache.
When we get to the studio, I make my way over to the rack of dresses. Kostya leaves Aleksandr standing by the door to guard me.
Why did I ever think I had even the slightest chance of defeating this man?
It's one thing to be strong and defiant, to plan escape, when you're well rested and well fed. But right now a strong breeze could knock me over.
I select a black slinky dress with plunging cleavage, and change into it. When I sit at the vanity, the butt plug is pushed further up inside me, and I can’t help but cry out in pain. But I paint on my makeup as best I can, because I don’t dare anger Kostya.
A short while later, I’m led to the dining room, where Kostya is already seated. There’s a silver-haired man in an expensive, ill-fitting suit sitting to his left, and I realize that I’ve seen him before. He’s a U.S. senator. Roger Hill.
Kostya gestures at me. “Lift your dress. Turn around.”
“Yes, sir.” My face burns in humiliation as I turn around, displaying my bare nether regions and the handle of the butt plug nestled between my cheeks.
He points at the floor by his feet. I sink to my knees, eyes cast downward.
Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. Every day, a fresh humiliation. I can’t believe he wants other men to see me like this. If the old Kostya that I loved is still in there somewhere, he’s buried so deep that I’m terrified I’ll never find him.
“She’s very nice.” The senator’s voice floats over my head. “How much?” Fear floods me. No, he can’t let this man put his old, wrinkly hands on me, please, no...
“Would you like to service this man, Anya?”
“If you say so, sir.” My voice trembles a little, and tears bead on my lashes. If Kostya lets this man molest me, I’ll have to fight him. I just won’t be able to force myself to submit to it. And Raisa will pay the price.
"She’s a well-trained little thing, isn’t she?” Kostya chuckles with amusement. “But this one isn’t available until she’s put up for auction, I’m afraid.”
I swallow a sob of relief.
“A shame. Let me know if you change your mind.”
They sit there, chatting about international news, sports, and a new restaurant that just opened, as I kneel and try not to think about the dull throbbing in my rectum.
The rich, meaty smell of stew drifts down to me, and my stomach rumbles. I ate an early, meager breakfast, and then Aleksandr made me run on a treadmill for an hour. I’m famished.
Finally, Kostya’s chair scrapes back as he stands up. He walks the senator to the door, and returns to fetch me.
“Get up,” he says coolly. “You behaved very well. You’ve earned lunch.”
I hurry to obey, but I stand up too quickly, and all the blood rushes from my head. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me, and the table rushes towards my face. Kostya’s shout rings in my ears. The last thing I remember is an explosion of pain as my skull smashes into the wood, and then, mercifully, I am swallowed by darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
Anya
When I wake up, I am lying on a soft mattress. Someone is dabbing something on my forehead, and it stings. I jerk away, and blink until the darkness clears.
Ugly reality crashes down on me. I’m still here. The butt plug has been removed, but my head aches and my stomach is hollow with hunger, and I’m trapped in hell, and so is Raisa.
I wish I’d never woken up. Then I realize I said it out loud, and Kostya is peering down at me. He winces at my words.
Good. He should know the depths of despair he’s pushed me to.
“Sit up,” he says, and his voice is gruff, but I can hear compassion and worry as well. He leans down and puts his arm around my shoulders and helps me struggle to a sitting position. I realize I’m in Kostya’s bedroom, not my own.
An older man is there. He’s wearing a navy blazer and slacks with a sharp crease in them, and he has a stethoscope slung around his neck. He shines a small flashlight in my right eye, then my left eye. Then he nods.
"Her pupils are dilating normally. I'd just keep an eye on her."
He leaves the room, and I glare at his retreating back. So he’s a doctor, or some other licensed medical professional, and he’s fine with being called in to provide medical treatment for sex slaves. What an evil bastard.
“It’s my fault you fainted. I pushed you too hard,” Kostya says.
I don’t bother to reply. I’m too weary and hungry and soul-sick to play the part of submissive, eager to please sex slave. That probably means more punishment, both for me and for Raisa. I’ve tried for days to be what Kostya wanted, and I’ve failed. These men do this for a living. I’ll always lose; the deck is stacked against me. The knowledge settles over me with a sickening, filthy feel, like rolling in a scum-encrusted pond.
Kostya reaches for the night table by the bed and I flinch, my eyes darting nervously to see what instrument of torture he’ll choose. Instead, I see a tray full of food there.
He grabs a bowl of stew, and begins feeding it to me, bite by bite. He dips bread in it, and feeds me that too, along with a glass of orange juice. I should be grateful, but I’m just numb.
Then he takes me into the bathroom and washes me off in the shower, and for once, he doesn’t ask me to do a single thing for him. When we’re done, he gives me pink flannel pajamas and brings me back to his bed with him.
“Lie down with me,” he says, and holds his arms out. We sink down onto the bed together, and I nestle in his arms, pressed up against his broad, muscular chest. Just like in my dreams.
“How long was I out?” I ask. I don’t say “sir”. The dynamic has shifted between us for the moment, and I want to stretch it out as long as I can.
“Not that long,” he sighs. “It’s mid-afternoon. We can take a nap, though. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I know you didn’t either.”
Yes, because he sent his men in to wake me up again and again.
He hugs me to him, stroking my back. “You feeling better?”
I struggle to form words that aren’t bitte
r or sarcastic. Am I feeling better after you and your men abused me for days until I finally passed out from hunger and exhaustion?
The silence stretches out uncomfortably, and finally I shrug. “I’ll never be better, Kostya. Never in my life, which is going to be short, painful, and horrible. You’re selling me and my friend off to be raped.”
The ugly words sail through the air like flung knives, and hit their target. He stiffens, and his hand drops as he moves away from me. I don’t want that. I crave his comfort, his kindness, even if it’s just for a few minutes. But I also want to hurt him in any way that I can, to slice him open with my sharp tongue and watch him bleed out on his silky comforter.
“You know I don’t have any choice. You know what my stepfather would do to my mother and sister if I-”
I dare to interrupt him. “Stop. You keep saying that. You keep trying to justify your horrible, unforgiveable, evil actions. You could find a way to save them if you wanted to. You could stop doing this to women. I see how your men treat you, you have their respect and loyalty, if you went up against your stepfather, you could find a way to make them back you. But you choose not to, because you might have to give up being Bratva. Your prestige and your position with the Bratva are more important to you than your very soul. You’re not worthy of your sister, Kostya, and she would die a thousand deaths if she ever knew what you were doing. She’d jump off a freaking bridge if she knew how you used her to justify your actions.”
“I deserve every word of that.” His voice is thick with misery and despair. His muscles are strung tight now, and he rolls on to his side, gazing down into my face. His light brown eyes are beacons of sorrow. Despite everything he’s done to me, my heart aches for him. I actually want to comfort him, to reassure him. I bite down on my lip, because he doesn’t deserve my kindness.
“You deserve much worse than my words.”
“Yes. I do. But it’s not as easy as you think. There is no way for me to get my mother and stepsister out of that house. It’s locked down like a fortress, and the Bratva own the cops, and the prosecutors, and the media. I truly have no choice in the matter. And it’s killing me, all right? I’m dying every day. I make myself sick. I have nightmares, and I deserve them. I am drinking myself into an early grave, and I deserve that too.”
I can feel his heart thumping in his chest, and the anguish in his voice radiates out and soaks the two of us in a thick fog.
Then he looks down at me, with a tender and puzzled expression, and strokes a lock of hair from my face.
“You don’t have nightmares. I watch you when you sleep, and often you smile. What do you dream of?”
“You.” I stare into his eyes. “When I fall asleep, I dream of you. We’re back in Russia, I don’t know where exactly, and you’re holding me in your arms and telling me that you love me. You’re telling me that you’ll never let me go.”
“That’s...that’s a beautiful dream.” He chokes on the words, his voice thick with emotions. “I wish I could make it come true for you.”
“You could,” I say hotly, glaring up at him. “You chose not to. Every minute of every day.”
He flops down on his back as if weighed down by the harsh truths I’m piling on him. I don’t say a word. He thinks he has no other choice, and I will be sold because there is nothing I can say to persuade him otherwise.
“Anya.” He whispers my name with shocking tenderness. “I have no right to ask this, but I want to kiss you. I just want to know what it would feel like, if you were really mine.”
I can feel my resistance melting away like Moscow snow in the spring. “I want to know that too.” My voice is thick with unshed tears.
Soon enough I’ll be back in my dark little chamber of horrors, chained to the bed, and then...God knows what. For now, while he’s being kind, I want to lose myself in him. When he slides on top of me, I welcome his heavy weight.
He cradles my face with his hands, and brushes his lips over mine. My lips part, and his tongue slides in, caressing, probing. I moan into his mouth, my arm circling his waist.
Slowly, he pulls away, and I stifle a whimper. Don’t stop, don’t ever stop. He kisses my neck, gently, and heat floods my body and pools between my legs.
“Yes,” I murmur. He moves down to cup my breast in his hands and suckles my nipple. He peppers my stomach with kisses. His full lips are soft as a butterfly’s wings.
He moves down between my legs and places his strong hands on my thighs, spreading them wide. “So sweet,” he breathes, and strokes me with his tongue.
“Oh.” I squirm, and spread my legs wider. He laps at me as if I’m made of honey, sucking my nectar. Slowly, he strokes my clitoris, and I groan. I want more. I need friction, I need release. But he won’t be rushed. He takes his time, by turns kissing, licking and biting my sensitive flesh.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Anya?”
“Oh, God, yes. So much,” I moan.
He sits up and leans over, sliding open the nightstand drawer, and grabs a condom.
“In case you’re worried, I haven’t actually had sex with a woman in more than a year,” he says as he rolls it onto his enormous member. At my disbelieving look, he shakes his head. “I know you have no reason to believe this about me, but forcing myself on a woman isn’t my thing. I teach them how to behave for their owners. That doesn’t mean I have sex with them.”
“You haven’t even had sex with me until now. Why?” I wonder.
He slides up until he’s lying on top of me, his thick cock pressing up against my entrance. Then he grabs my wrists, and pins them over my head, holding them with one hand.
And yet, right now I know I hold all the power. I could tell him no, and he’d stop. This isn’t training; this is desire. “Because I was afraid that if I did it once, I’d be addicted.” His eyes are deep, stormy pools, his voice husky with need. “I’d never let you go.”
And with one quick thrust, he’s partway inside me. He’s so big that I gasp, tensing.
“Too rough?”
“I like it rough,” I pant. “I like it when you take me right to the edge.”
He grins fiercely, and thrusts again, forcing himself all the way in. He pumps his hips, keeping me pinned in place, and my eyes drift close.
“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, Anya.” My eyes fly open and he stares down at me, his gaze holding me prisoner. I can’t move, I can’t look away, and every time he slams into me, pain and pleasure shoot through my core. I push back, urging him on, as my need grows hotter and hotter. My orgasm crashes down on my suddenly, a shocking explosion of pleasure, and I cry out, arching my back. In response he picks up speed, pumping into me as my sheath spasm. Soon he’s panting with release, his cock jerking inside me.
He stays inside of me until my shuddering finally stills, and then slides out very slowly. One brawny arm loops around me, and he presses me up against his sweat-drenched chest.
“I’ve dreamed of this ever since I laid eyes on you at my father’s luncheon that day.” If circumstances were different, such sweet, romantic talk would melt my heart. Instead, sorrow settles over me in a dark, heavy cloud, chilling the post-lovemaking afterglow.
“Me too,” I murmur.
His lips quirk in a sad smile. “When I saw you that summer, all grown up, I dreamed I’d be your first.”
A small explosion detonates inside my heart. “Those days are past now.” I bite my lip, and my gaze slides away. “We can never get them back.”
Kostya sighs, his brow furrowing. “There’s a lot that I don’t remember from back then. I was drinking pretty heavily. Is there anything that I should know?”
Yes, there is. I wonder how much he’s guessed. He couldn’t know, could he? But either way, I’m not going to say the words out loud. I have secrets, and they are mine alone, to weigh me down and drag me to my death someday.
A flare of spite burns through me. If he’d been willing to fight for me back then, none
of this would be happening. So much needless suffering and death could have been avoided. I squirm out of his arms, and he doesn’t try to stop me. “Figure it out yourself, if it matters so much to you.” My voice has gone hard and distant. “But you won’t. You always see just what you want to see.” I roll over, turning my back to him. He moves closer, and wraps his arms around me again, burying his face in my hair and breathing deeply.
I drift off like that, exactly like I’d dreamed of years ago. Except no, not exactly like it – because in my dreams, I wore his wedding ring, and knew that I’d wake up next to him every day of my life.
Chapter Fourteen
Anya
I doze again, enjoying the uninterrupted sleep. Kostya brings me dinner in the evening, and sits with me at a small table by his bedroom window. The window has bars on it, but he has opened the shutters and at least I can gaze out at the night sky. I probably won’t get to see too many more starlit vistas again in my life, so I try to commit it to memory, my eyes lingering on every white twinkle.
Silently, he serves me beef stroganoff, and sweet and sour cabbage. We sit side by side and for once I get to eat without gulping down my dinner so fast that I choke. He’s even bought a bottle of excellent cabernet for us. Just like a date.
When I’m full, I push my empty plate away. “Not bad,” I say. Actually, it’s excellent, but he doesn’t deserve compliments. “Cook it yourself?”
“I did not. If I did, you’d be chewing charcoal briquets.” He smiles, and I smile back. A little.
“More wine?” he asks.
“Please.” He refills my glass, and then his own. He’s more sober than I’ve seen him in quite some time.
“Do you like to cook?” he asks. “I can’t remember.”
I drain half my wine glass and then set it down on the table so hard that the wine sloshes over the edge and splashes on the table cloth. I look him right in the eye. “Do I like to cook?” I echo him mockingly. “Does it matter? When will I ever get the chance to cook again? When will I ever get the chance to do anything that I enjoy, again?”
Kostya A Dark Bratva Hate Story Page 10