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)
“Ivan… please…” I begged, through my sobs of fear and shame and every kind of pain.
“Master,” he said in a voice like stone, still looking only at my backside and started to bring the knout down.
CHAPTER 17
Heather
Ivan whipped me six times. It hurt much more than the lashes from Pyotr, but all the resistance had fled from my body, and my mind had traveled far, far away. I clung to the punishment bench, shuddering with each terrible impact and crying out automatically as the agony coursed through my nervous system.
My hips jerked in time with my master’s rhythm, and I rode the bench shamelessly in search of some relief from the fire in my rear end. I heard Misha and Grisha laughing at my lewd display. Another henchman yelled out, after the third lash, “That’s it, boss. Whip that ass!”
Ivan brought the knout down slowly and steadily, and by the time he delivered the final one I had lost count of how many times the leather had cracked across my bottom and my thighs, seeking out even the tenderest place between my legs.
The place that belongs to him, I thought, somewhere in the distance, so he gets to do whatever he wants with it.
“Get her off the bench,” I heard my master say to his horrible butler. “Give her her coat and shoes and bring her to the limo. I’ll send her to Boris naked, so that he sees immediately how well disciplined she is.”
So I wouldn’t have any chance to talk to Ivan, to tell him that Belkonov had meant to kidnap me. The hope that had risen when I had heard Misha and Grisha talking about that had faded; if Ivan intended to give me to Boris Belkonov, how much difference would it make that the head of the power plant had intended to take me for himself?
But Ivan Antonov, I knew, was a very complicated man. To an alpha male like him, I suspected a gift like a bed girl only worked as a preemptive gesture. As I whimpered with every step, following Pyotr from the dining hall to the foyer, I wondered if maybe I could find a way just to say one thing—he meant to kidnap me!—to my master before all was lost.
I didn’t have any faith that the Pretorian Guard would find a way to get me out of Belkonov’s house if I ended up there, either. If they did, I imagined, it wouldn’t be unscathed. None of that mattered, including my mission, though, compared to the coldness in Ivan’s face and the conflict and confusion inside me over whether that icy demeanor showed his real feelings or the hard facade he adopted to run a dangerous empire.
I heard Pyotr speaking, as if from a long way away, and for a moment I panicked, thinking I would have to respond though I hadn’t really heard the words. Only after several seconds of terror did I realize that he had spoken in Russian, to a maid, telling her to fetch shoes for me from my room.
I felt my face twisted into a woeful mixture of emotions as I understood that only the sheer mind-stealing pain, sadness, and horror of my situation had saved me from giving myself away: so terrible was the agony in my bottom and thighs, and so great my fear, that I had almost said, in Russian, something like, “I’m so very sorry, sir, but what did you say?”
Pyotr had the coat, and the maid had the shoes: my gorgeous white pumps, the ones Ivan had given me the night he had dressed me like a princess and fucked me like a little whore, as I screamed out orgasm after orgasm over the table in his private dining room. The mere sight of them drew a racking sob from deep in my chest.
I slipped into the shoes, feeling as always—despite the pain from my backside at every movement of those muscles—the extreme naughtiness of wearing heels and nothing else. Pyotr stood by the enormous oak door of the palace’s grand entrance, holding the coat for me as if I were an honored guest departing for their own grand abode.
I didn’t mean to look him in the face, because I felt sure he wore a look of triumph at my downfall. Something in me demanded to see that expression, though—something dark and perverse, seeking further abasement. I glanced upward from the coat to the butler, and I had the unexpected satisfaction of seeing not a sneer but a look of cold anger: Pyotr had counted on fucking me.
“Aww,” I said, locking eyes with the man in a way I had never dared, figuring that I might allow myself the indulgence since everything had already come apart. “Are you still hard, Pyotr? I’m sorry you’ll have to go to your room and jerk off into a tissue. If it helps, let me tell you that your little old cock could never satisfy a girl like me.”