Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) by Aphrodite Hunt

Author:Aphrodite Hunt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: bdsm, domination, submission, bondage, sex slave, europe, prisoner, dictator, circus

4

Sometime during the next night, when I’m worried out of my skull about Max and Greg, Mansk makes an appearance in my little kitchen chamber. He carries a little black bag with him.

“Spread your legs,” he says, just like a doctor.

I study his face. His brow is lined and there are greyish bags under his eyes.

“Are you all right?” I say. The vivid specter of his sister standing before the Guillotine still haunts me, in spite of the fact that I cannot see her face. But I remember the fall of her dark hair clearly and the defeated slouch of her shoulders.

Anushya, he called her.

He pauses. His eyes rake mine, studying my face as intensely as I study his. Mansk is actually not bad-looking. He has a certain swarthy, masculine charm. I’m more into pretty boys myself – Max being the perfect case example – but I’m not averse to rugged men.

Mansk sighs. “We have to go on. That is what the Great Leader would say.”

Tentatively, I reach out with my hand to take his. I grasp it firmly. He raises his eyebrows in mild shock. OK, I know it’s presumptuous of me to touch him without being asked to, but I thought he needed a bit of touching – and not in a sexual way.

I say, “But surely family comes first. Were you and your sister close?”

That faraway look comes into his eyes again. “The earliest memory I had of her is . . . was . . . at our village in Praske. We play in the river. Tasha fall . . . trip over a rock. I reach out with my hand in time and grab her. Stop her from being carried away by the river.”

He looks away.

He adds, “I can’t stop her this time.”

I say, “I’m sorry.”

I tighten my grip.

He doesn’t say anything for a long while. Then he clears his throat. “I prepare you. For the Great Leader.”

Of course. It’s my night. The boys have probably been whipped and tied and fucked into submission already. A deep shudder courses down my legs. Please . . . don’t let him be too rough on me. I’ve been fragile lately. Emotionally more than anything else.

I go to the table and hike my hips up to sit on the edge. I open my thighs to show him my pussy. He takes out a rouge pot from his bag and starts to apply the red compressed powder onto my intimate lips.

“I thought you were a soldier, not a groom,” I remark.

“We do what we must when the times arise.”

The little brush which he applies onto my tender flesh tickles me and sends an exquisite spasm shooting across my loins. My womb and buttocks contract.

“Why do you stay here?” I say softly.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. If they . . . he . . . keeps on doing this to you and your family . . . then why do you stay here? Why don’t you seek asylum somewhere else?”

Mansk’s guarded eyes gravitate toward the closed door.

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