Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
The upper hand, the enemy hand, gripped my skull so tightly I let out a little cry of discomfort, and then Belkonov thrust his rigid erection at full length into my mouth.
Somewhere in my fervid mind I had space for gratitude to Ivan, of a paradoxical and obscene kind. I thanked my true master for having a penis so much bigger than this horrid man’s little cock, and I thanked him for making me receive his hardness so often in that degrading way, so that I had learned to suppress my gag reflex and open my throat.
Two things came from that training in abject submission to my gospodin: I could think clearly, free from any panic, as my master’s enemy fucked my face in long strokes, and Belkonov immediately groaned in pleasure at my skill.
The man’s erection certainly wasn’t by any means small, objectively speaking. To my shame and helpless arousal I had served the penises of many men over the four months I had belonged to Ivan, so I had a fairly good idea of the range of sizes they came in. My gospodin’s was the biggest I had been made to please.
Belkonov’s fell somewhere in the middle, so my task in furnishing my mouth for his use involved enough challenge that the submissive noises I knew made a dominant man feel more dominant came easily enough. In the terrifying darkness of the hood, my face reduced to nothing but a hole for thrusting, at least I knew that one part of my task seemed successful: Belkonov’s reason would definitely suffer thanks to the level of arousal I could evoke in him.
“Are you going to fuck her?” he asked in Russian, his voice thick with his delight in my skill, over the wet rhythmic sounds of his rigid penis pumping in and out, the head going all the way to the back of my throat with each stroke. My nose, through the cloth of the hood, pressed against his belt buckle every time. I could breathe through the fabric, but I had to time my breaths correctly, and a tiny mote of panic came into my belly every time I nearly ran out of oxygen.
“No,” Ivan said flatly. “I’m done with her—I just want to see you use her properly.”
I tried not to let my body react, but I simply couldn’t help it. A sob broke free from my chest, and it upset the delicate balance of my breathing. I gagged on Belkonov’s hardness when he thrust in. Behind me my hands struggled desperately to try to free themselves so I could push him away, or even make some sign of my distress.
“No, slut,” he said in his horrible English, holding himself in deep. “I’m in charge.”
CHAPTER 22
Ivan
I could do nothing at all. Alpha rage seethed in my head and in my chest as I watched Heather, her lovely face covered in Belkonov’s hood—the hood I had told him to put on her—struggle to please him. The knowledge that I had trained her to yield her mouth that way, and the memory of how she had gradually learned to control her panic and her gag reflex, crowded into my brain.
She belongs to me, the dominant, animal instinct inside me said. Don’t you dare, you fucking asshole.
It hardly mattered that the man, it seemed, had planned to kidnap Heather as the first step in a coup of Klimatov’s little empire—my little empire. I would have felt just as much anger if I had shared my beloved concubine with my best friend, and he had held his cock inside her mouth that way, when Heather had made her distress entirely clear.
I had no choice: I had to keep my hands around her head, my thumbs pressing against the back of her skull through the jet-black fabric of the hood.
“That’s it,” Belkonov grunted, as Heather made distressed, desperate sounds around his cock, her body shaking and her arms trying fruitlessly to free themselves from the restraint of the cuffs on her wrists. “Just take it, you American whore.”
At the very moment I thought I would lose control and ruin the plan I had sworn to the agent from the Pretorian Guard I would carry out, Belkonov thrust Heather away from him. For a moment I held her suspended, on her knees but clearly disoriented and without any sense of balance.
It felt like a physical, bodily representation of the terrible tension in the moment. I wanted to keep the girl I loved upright; I wanted to move my arms to embrace her and raise her up and hold her until she felt better.
I couldn’t. I let go, and I gave her a gentle push to ensure that she toppled onto the padded floor, on her right side, breathing raggedly through her still open mouth, the only part of her beautiful face perceptible in the enveloping hood.