Read The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica) Online

Authors: Aphrodite Hunt

Tags: #orgy, #bdsm, #domination, #submission, #bondage, #multiple partners, #anal sex, #sex slave, #escape, #dictator, #execution, #capture, #triple penetration

The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SEX SLAVE’S FINAL PUNISHMENT

 

(BOOK FOUR OF THE INITIATION 3 SERIES)

 

By Aphrodite Hunt

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 2013 by Aphrodite Hunt

Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords

 

 

THE SEX SLAVE’S FINAL PUNISHMENT

 

1

 

We are caught trying to escape.

The worst has happened. Our doom is written
all over the Urskan stars as we are bodily hauled into state police
trucks – black, opaque and forbidding. Max, Greg and I – the
official sex slaves of Potchenko, the Urskan dictator – are put
into one truck, and Mansk and his family into another.

Before he vanishes, Mansk’s eyes hold mine.
There’s a resignation in them, and a finality. They seem to say:
We gambled . . . and lost
.

A painful pang scissors my chest.

I feel really bad for Mansk and his family. I
know we made a deal for their asylum in the States, but I’m
terrified for them now. His boys are only children. Suri, his wife,
is the warmest, kindest person I’ve ever known. What will Potchenko
and Aimelie do to them?

I picture the Guillotine blade falling upon
the slender neck of Mansk’s sister, and I shudder in dread.

This will be my probably fate too. And that
of Max and Greg. What must I do to bargain for their lives, if not
my own?

Some part of me whispers:
You’re an
American. They can’t really touch you.

And another part, a far larger one perching
on the other side of my shoulder, says:
They can do whatever
they want to you, and no one will be the wiser.

The dread pooling in the pit of my guts is
like a whirlpool, sucking me down into some infinitesimal
abyss.

The covered interior of the truck is dark and
musty. Two fixed benches line either side of the walls. Four burly
guards clamber in with us. Max, Greg and I huddle on one side while
they fill the other. The engine starts up. The sudden rocking of
the truck suggests that we are off to goodness-knows-where and
goodness-knows-what-they-will-do-to-us.

I feel ill. It’s not only because of the
rocking. The guards eye us with the intensity of wild dogs sizing
up their prey. We are fresh meat to them now. In captivity, all
conventions are thrown out of the window.

Max reaches for my left hand. I give it to
him, and he squeezes it hard. On my right, Greg does the same.
These gestures are not lost on the guards.

As the truck rumbles on, we vibrate. I have
to strain every ounce of my muscles just to stay where I am. Thank
goodness I am stuck between Max and Greg, whose warm bodies succor
and prop me up. We do not speak to one another. I don’t want to be
the brunt of some unwritten rule that political prisoners will be
strung up and beaten if they so much as uttered a foreign word.

I do not like the way the guards are looking
at me, as if I’m a particularly juicy piece of steak. Max and Greg
obviously feel the same from the way they are – with their tense
body language and strained body frames – protecting me. Max has his
hand gripped around my forearm in a possessive manner, while Greg
has my fist clenched tightly in his. If any of the guards wanted to
floor me and spread my legs, I don’t think either of them could
have done anything.

We travel for a long, long time like this.
There are no windows in the back of the truck, and the only light
is a solitary naked bulb that sways from the top. The back is
covered with a tarp. A sliver of light from outside peeks through,
and I realize it is morning.

The truck jerks to a stop. Are we there yet?
I don’t want to know where ‘there’ is. The Guillotine podium. The
public execution stage, all prepped for the glorious spectacle. My
chest is washed of all feeling and color, and my brain is as numb
as if I had run it through an overdose of poppers.

The trouble about worrying over something for
as long as I have is when the event actually comes to pass, you end
up feeling nothing. Just a big empty void. All the worrying and
anticipatory grief has been wrung out of you already and there’s no
sap left inside your casket of emotions to be squeezed out
anymore.

Can they do this to us? We are American
citizens! My indignation raises its cobra head again. Indignation
is good. It makes me proactive. Less like a victim.

I wonder . . . I just wonder . . .

The tarp at the back of the truck is lifted,
and sunlight streams through. I narrow my eyes in the sudden glare.
A couple of guards rasp something in Urskan. The four guards inside
get up. They gesture at us to get out.

We climb out, wincing in the bright daylight.
We are parked by the side of a country road in the middle of a
forest. The air is redolent with the scent of pine and freshness.
I’m guessing this is a midway point to wherever we will be taken.
Some of the guards disappear into the thickets of trees – probably
to relieve themselves.

I watch Mansk and his family being taken out
of the other truck. Mansk catches my eye. His expression is like
the gallows itself. His wife, Suri, is nowhere to be seen. Nor are
his children. My heart roils at the thought of what has happened to
them. I can only hope and pray that not much pain will be
administered to the children.

A guard beckons at me to follow him. I turn
around to look at Max and Greg, but they are being similarly
shepherded into the trees. Alarm shutters my stomach. What does the
guard want with me?

I follow him anyway. What am I but a slave to
everyone’s whims? I am already a dead girl walking. Perhaps if I am
obedient, he will be lenient with my friends.

He leads me to a cluster of trees. Then he
unzips his pants, whips out his slender cock, and proceeds to piss
against the bark of a tree. He cranes his neck to look at me as he
does this. I wonder if I can make a run for it through the trees.
But no, I can’t bear to leave Max and Greg behind. And Mansk too,
for the matter. I talked him into this, and now he will die like
his sister because of me.

The guard is looking at me again. He waggles
his penis. Two final drops of urine drip from it, and he tucks his
member back into his pants again.

I quail as he turns his attention to me. He
says something to me in Urskan. I shake my head fearfully, not
understanding. He makes some hand gestures, indicating the
tree.

Oh. He wants me to pee.

It is actually a good idea, seeing as we have
a long journey ahead. My bladder is surprisingly not full, and my
throat is parched. They gave me some water to drink in the truck,
but I didn’t dare take too much. Nausea was the main occupant in my
belly.

The guard does not move away. He’s plain and
nondescript. I wouldn’t have picked him out from a crowd, although
he’s young enough to be fairly attractive. He wants to watch me. I
know it is his job to literally watch me, but I am ill at ease,
despite being naked for so many people in my sojourn here. Perhaps
it’s the situation of impending doom that is getting to me.

I make myself undo the drawstrings of my worn
cotton pants. I am still in my peasant garb. I push the pants
halfway down my thighs, and proceed to squat before the tree. I am
not wearing any underwear. Suri did not give me any. It must have
been an Urskan custom not to don underwear. They are after all
quite medieval.

The guard never takes his eyes off my shaven
pussy. My stream begins to flow and flow copiously. My urine pools
on the ground, stirring dirt, until it becomes a puddle. I inch my
feet away so that my shoes would not get wet.

When I have finished, the guard motions me to
stand up. Some part of me challenges him to stop me as I pull my
pants up and do the drawstrings tightly. He doesn’t say or do
anything, and my relief is palpable.

We go back to the truck. Max and Greg are
with their minders. They are waiting for me.

I make to climb into the back of the truck,
but my guard stays my arm. He says something to me. When I don’t
move, he grabs my arm and jerks me to the direction of the truck’s
cab.

Max bridles and makes to come after us, but
two guards grab hold of his arms.

“Gina,” Max warns, “you don’t have to do
anything you don’t want to do.”

Do I have a choice?

I say steadily, “I’ll be OK, Max.”

He does not appear convinced, but all that is
lost to me as I vanish with the guard around the side of the truck.
The driver is already inside at the wheel.

The guard grins as he gestures to me to climb
into the passenger’s seat. The seat is high, and I have to clamber
in. I am aware he is looking at my butt. The driver’s eyes burn
holes into me. The guard behind me climbs in as well, and I am
sandwiched in between the two leering men.

The truck starts up and we are off again.

It is an extremely uncomfortable trip for me.
I keep my thighs closed. It is a tight fit for three people
upfront. My hands are folded upon my lap. Heat radiates from the
two men on either side of me, and I can hear their very audible
breathing above the roar of the old engine. The window on the
driver’s side is wound down, and a breeze wafts in to lift my
tresses.

The guard on my right takes a strand of my
hair and twirls it around his finger and thumb. I dare not meet his
eyes. He is the same guard who has inspected me so lasciviously
when I was taking a piss. I know what I will see on his face –
lust, opportunity, cruelty.

God.

I keep my eyes trained on the road and
landscape in front of me, not daring to blink. The sun is very
bright, and my eyes water. There are very few people on this road,
but I can see them toiling in the fields a distance away, their
wide-brimmed hats shielding them from the sun. Cows and sheep dot
the countryside. The scent of animals and manure waft in.

The guard’s hand strays to my lap. He starts
to stroke my thigh – all the way down from my hip to my
kneecap.

I hold my breath. I’m afraid to release it –
for fear that he would mistake it as desire. I am always ready to
be fucked at the drop of a hat, of course. But right now, I’m antsy
and sitting on thumbtacks and worried and numb – all at the same
time.

The guard is saying something to the driver,
and from their tone and lewd looks – which I surreptitiously
discern out of the corner of my eye – they are speaking about me.
His stroking continues, as lazily as a cat’s tail, except that his
groping and prodding are getting more restless. His fingers brush
against the shoal of my pubis. He gets more adventurous, dipping
further and kneading my mons and the top of my clit. The driver
laughs.

I am aroused despite myself, because his
ministrations are very careful and enticing. My clit fills with
blood. I can literally feel the wrinkled skin getting turgid and
warm. He senses this, and accelerates his sly rubbing of my clit. I
squirm in consternation. His other hand steadies my hip.

A few minutes of this, and he progresses to
the drawstring of my pants. I was expecting this, and so I brace
myself. I put up no resistance as he tugs at the string to loosen
my pants. I’m always afraid of repercussions to Max and Greg if I
disobey. When my pants spills around my hips, he makes me raise my
buttocks to slide them off my legs.

I am now naked from the waist down. My
peasant blouse is loose-fitting and not very long, but the hem of
it still covers my groin. Naturally, he is not happy with this, and
so he makes me lift my blouse up and tie the two sides of it into a
knot at the middle of my waistline.

This displays my pubic hair. My legs are
tightly shut.

The driver says something as he takes his
eyes off the road for a minute to stare at my pussy. The guard
answers back. I wish I could understand their infernal language. It
makes me so frustrated to be subject to their whims and unable to
do anything about it.

I get an inkling of what they are talking
about as the guard places his hand on my bare thigh. He lifts it
and pulls my right leg onto his clothed lap, so that my pussy is
displayed like an open anemone. The driver takes his hand off the
wheel long enough to do the same to my left leg.

I am now as open as an invitation card. Where
they want me to be. I am extremely aware of how I must look, with
my red pussy displayed to the windshield – zooming head on like a
bull to the elements beyond. A trickle of juice leaks from my
vagina to stain the seat. I flush. I wonder if they notice
this.

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