Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3, Book 3)

(BOOK THREE OF THE INITIATION 3 SERIES)

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt

Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords

1

It comes to me sometime during my second week
in Ursk that Aimelie Potchenko is not only soft in the head, but
that she is utterly and truly evil.

She has decided that she wants to wrest my
boyfriend from me. And not only does she wish to do this, she wants
to humiliate and torture me as much as possible like the icing on
her proverbial cake. She wants me to savor every moment of her
comeuppance and triumph over me.

Take today for instance.

Aimelie has ordered her guards to have me
brought to her chambers. I am naked and unwilling, but my contract
as a sex slave stipulates that I must obey her anyway. So when they
come to me, I obediently allow them to clasp my arms behind my back
with heavy iron chains. The two guards in their mud green uniforms
collar me in studded iron and attach me to a leash.

As they do all this, their hands brush
repeatedly against my breasts, nipples and private parts. Their
faces are hungry and sly. It is as if they have not had the chance
to grope a woman in a long time, something that is fairly possible
in this place, I reckon. But their gestures are also gentle. One of
them lifts my hair and artfully arranges it around my shoulders in
a marvelous spill. The other strokes my cheek longingly.

They speak to each other in their guttural,
sometimes harmonious language – none of which I can understand. But
their tone is admiring, and their lips are moist with desire.

“What is she going to do to me?” I
whisper.

If they understood me, they give no sign of
it.

“
Tarqoay
,” one of them says to me.

“What?”

“
Tarqoay
,” the other one repeats.

Whatever this
Tarqoay
means, I decide,
it surely won’t bode well for me. It’s only a matter of how much
humiliation I can take.

They lead me up, up and up the stairs of a
strange tower to Aimelie’s bedchamber. It’s almost like a fairytale
tower – Gothic with steep, steep stone steps and a blast of wind
coming down from the slit windows. I think we must have climbed
five stories. My thighs are already aching when we get to the
top.

OK, so I’m not that fit, although my body is
a wet dream to these two guys, seemingly.

We arrive at a pair of wooden doors strapped
with iron. The guards knock once, and then push the doors apart.
They bade me to enter.

I step into the chamber, the apprehension
churning my gut once again. I’m in a constant flux of turmoil in
this place. I can’t sleep properly. The food isn’t exactly Michelin
three-star. Everywhere I go, I have to surreptitiously look over my
shoulder – expecting something awful to happen, like another
beheading or some other awfully creative method of execution.

The doors open into a spacious lounge. In
contrast to what I was expecting, it is filled with modern
minimalist and extremely colorful furniture that looks suspiciously
as though it has been packed, sealed and delivered from Ikea.

Uh . . .

Well, I’m flummoxed. This completely throws
me off guard.

The guard behind me prods my shoulders. I
take a tentative step forward to where he is gesturing – the open
doorway leading to the bedroom. Even before I move towards it, the
sounds that assail me are ominous. Gasps, moans and groans permeate
the air as I enter, and with dread, I recognize at least some of
them.

In the circular tower bedroom, Aimelie and
Max are entwined in some sort of passion play. Max has been strung
to the four bedposts with tight ropes. He is spread-eagled, his
beautiful body stretched upon his cushiony rack. Aimelie too is
naked and riding him. She gaily turns as I come in, her pixie
features open and laughing, her breasts flouncing and bobbing up
and down.

My heart sinks.

So she wants me to watch.

I have seen Max fuck a whole host of other
women before, of course. And he has seen me fuck a whole lot of
men, including his own father – who made him guide the paternal
penis into my own vagina in some sort of pagan offering symbol. So
if anyone has a right to be psychologically damaged, it’s Max.
Though my own psyche is pretty much at the tip of its iceberg.

Aimelie says something to the guards in
Urskan. Her voice is singsong and her face is radiant. For all I
know, she could have been commenting on the weather, which is
turning into the color of slate. Aimelie escalates her vigorous
humping of my boyfriend’s cock as the guards seize my bound arms
and shoulders.

“Aimelie,” Max’s ragged and breathless voice
breaks through, “please, don’t hurt her.” His eyes are tired. There
are worry creases upon his forehead, but he has never looked more
beautiful; or more worn down.

“Ah yes, you still love the beautiful Gina,
no? Soon, you will be forgetting her.”

Aimelie fucks him so hard that the headboard
slams against the papered wall, shining with décor highlights.
Above the bed is a framed portrait of her father, Vladimir
Potchenko, the dictator of Ursk. He looks down gravely at all of us
as his precious daughter screws the hell out of my beautiful blond
boyfriend.

Up, down, rotate, oscillate. It’s as though
she’s trying to screw all his feelings for me out of the window
while I’m still watching.

The guards make me squat against the far wall
from the bed, where I have a good view of Aimelie’s ass bouncing on
top of my boyfriend’s well-muscled hips. They release by chains and
make me hold my arms horizontally at my sides. They disengage the
lariat, but still keep the iron collar around my neck as a mark of
servitude.

Aimelie half-turns and says something to the
guards. They nod gleefully.

As I stay still, the guards drag a box filled
with saucers towards me. They don’t have to tell me not to move a
muscle when they start piling the plates upon my arms, shoulders,
and strained and bent thighs. I have basically become a human
smorgasbord. The saucers are delicate. I recognize the hallmark of
extremely fine china beneath the rose patterned design, and it goes
to say that I am forbidden to drop any of them.

“Break one, and I will have you severely
whipped,” Aimelie says, still in that teenage singsong voice of
hers. Is it just me, or has her English improved? And it has just
been one week of practicing periodically to Max, I suppose, when
their language is not colored by ‘fuck’ or ‘suck’ or ‘lick’.

“Aimelie, please,” Max says. I can see the
desperation on his flushed face. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything
you want.”

“You are already doing anything I tell you
to. Do not try to bargain with me for her hide. It does not become
you. Back in America, you were lovers. But here, you are
mine
.” She says that last with a feverish possessiveness
that sends alarm bells ringing in my head.

I am afraid to breathe. My thighs already
bear the strain of squatting. My pussy is wet and exposed. My arms
tremble slightly, and I rue the fact that I scarcely have had the
time to tone them. They are weak and ill-suited for duress. The
iron collar is heavy around my neck.

But that is not all Aimelie has in store for
me.

She says something else to the guards. One of
them goes to a drawer in a plain white chest (Ikea, naturally) and
takes out a large black dildo. It is so thick and huge that I
cringe. Normally, I would be able to take such a dildo in one of my
orifices – no problem. But right now, I am unsteady and emotionally
wrenched. My flesh is a hotbed of burgeoning pins and needles. I
don’t think I can take much more than my current forced
posture.

The guard comes back and squats behind
me.

He says something to me which I interpret as
“Don’t move.” Without lube, he posits the glistening dildo at the
rim of my asshole.

I’m getting frantic. My breathing
quickens.

The dildo eases into my anus, and I
immediately feel the stretch of my tight sphincter. The synthetic
rod navigates my snug little circle, overcomes the momentary
resistance, and plows through to the open canal. I have to use
every ounce of my strength to keep still. I squeal as the dildo
pushes apart my rectal walls. The saucers quiver dangerously.

The guard says something soothing against the
back of my neck. I think he is trying to reassure me.
Breathe
deeply, beautiful girl. Do not scream.

The dildo penetrates me slowly, allowing me
to adjust to its girth with every inch that it claims inside my
rectum. I feel it creep up – deeper and deeper. I have to suck in
my breath to maintain absolutely stillness.

Please
, I whimper soundlessly,
please don’t let me drop anything.
I’m not sure I want to
incur Aimelie’s dubious wrath. I can only pray that she doesn’t
decide to ask the guard to fuck my ass with the dildo. I will not
be able to withstand it.

My asshole clenches around the tool,
contracting like a closing fist. My arms tremble and the saucers
shiver precariously.

Aimelie turns to watch me. She laughs and
says something. Then she slides off Max’s gleaming cock. Max’s
impressive member stands like a flagpole, streaked with her cud. He
eyes me helplessly. Aimelie rotates her body so that she is now
facing me instead of the headboard. She hovers on all fours over
the prostate and bound body of Max. She is smiling as she gazes at
me.

She lowers her unshaven pussy onto Max’s
stiff cock so that I can get a proper eyeful. She does this in slow
motion, relishing the fact that I am thus encumbered in my
torturous position – subject to her whims and unable to move. Once
again, her pussy sheaths him to the very hilt until her perineum
and the base of her buttocks is quashed against his loins. Her
pussy lips rub against the shoal-like curvature of his balls.

She laughs as she begins to hump him again,
the bed creaking with her vigorous movements. Tears come into my
eyes and I blink them away. Yes, I know Max is a slave. I
understand intellectually that he has been fucked by more men and
women in my absence that I care to count. As have I. But what
Aimelie is doing reeks of psychological manipulation. She’s
manipulating our feelings, our emotions, and our open fears of
incarceration in this terrifying country.

Behind me, I sense movement again. The guard
has returned. This time, he carries what I can only glimpse as a
glass candle holder. Possibly from Ikea. I sense this affinity that
Aimelie seems to have for Ikea instead of far more expensive
furniture – which I’m sure Daddy would readily indulge her. It is
one of her strange affectations.

Oh, oh, but the candle is lighted.

The guard carefully places it on top of my
head. And really, there is no recourse for me now. The dildo
stuffed up my ass, making its presence felt very loudly, is already
marginalizing my attention. As are the saucers on my arms and
thighs. My limbs are rapidly transcending into a fatigued
stage.

And now with this abomination on top of my
skull.

Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .

I shriek as the candle holder and its flame
comes cascading down, striking my flexed shoulder on its way and
causing my right arm to shudder and spill everything upon it. The
saucers come tumbling off to smash upon the stony floor.

As a result, I rapidly become
defragmented.

Everything else crashes around me, and I
scream and scream and scream – much more from the shock and sheer
terror of what Aimelie would do to me than from any real pain. I
think I have become hysterical. My own screams ring in my ears as I
collapse, my limbs folding in on me as I fall onto the floor. I
curl myself up in a ball upon the scattered shards. I scream and
scream, unable to stop my voice box from splintering like a
banshee’s.

To say that I’m an awful mess would be to
mention that the ocean is a little bit salty.

There’s a commotion around me. The guards are
trying to pick me up from the floor. I can hear Aimelie’s voice
shouting above the din.

I stop screaming, but only because I’m out of
breath. My sobs choke in my throat and my chest is a pumping
bellows. Hands pull me up and succor my waist. I find myself
disheveled and standing amid the debris of my unraveling. The dildo
has fallen out of my asshole. My soles tread saucer shards. I’m too
frizzled out to feel or hear anything above the thunderous roar of
blood in my ears.