Read Online Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) by Aphrodite Hunt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aphrodite Hunt
Tags: BDSM, hardcore, submission, bondage, domination, Erotic Romance, Billionaire, Multiple Partners, anal sex, spanking, sex slave, oral sex, dictator
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he’s coming
to beat Max up. I cringe in my corner, the coward that I am.
The door clatters and opens. I cower in
fright.
But it’s not the dictator himself, as Max
predicted. It’s one of the guards who brought us here. He is
swarthy in appearance. Clean-shaven, with a snakelike scar on his
chin which he probably got for taking a knife wound meant for the
dictator, or something equally heroic. He wears the green military
uniform of Ursk. His gun is apparent in his holster.
“What?” he says brusquely.
I think all my pee has just fled upwards
from my bladder.
Max stands his ground stoically. “The lady
here needs to use the bathroom.”
The guard says something in Ursk, which none
of us understand. My heart sinks. Oh dear, he doesn’t know what
we’re talking about. How the hell are we ever going to
communicate?
Then the guard surprises us by pointing at
me and saying, “Come.”
Greg helps me up to my wobbly feet.
“You two, stay,” the guard says. He grabs my
arm roughly. I cry out.
“Don’t hurt her.” Max’s stance is
challenging.
The guard reaches for his gun.
“No,” I say shakily to Max. I hold my hands
up. My heart is battering my ribcage. I’m just so afraid Max will
be injured in some way. “He isn’t hurting me. I’ll go alone with
him. I’ll be OK.”
“Gina . . . ”
“Max, it’s going to happen sooner or later.
He’s going to want to see me alone . . . or one of you alone. We
can’t always be together.”
Oh, listen to myself, the voice of reason.
If only I am truly as calm as I try to sound!
Max and Greg look on helplessly as the guard
slams the door in their faces. He turns to me and grabs my arm
again.
I lied. His grip squeezes all the
circulation out of my arm, and so it hurts.
His eyes are lascivious as he gazes at my
bare tits and pussy.
“Come,” he says in a husky tone.
I have no choice but to be led by him down
the narrow airplane corridor. My trepidation rises with each step.
I have a feeling I’m not going to like what he does to me. But what
choice do I have as a lowly sex slave?
If only I knew then what he was going to do
to me.
It is nothing like what I have come to
expect.
It is far, far worse.
2
He leads me to the toilet at the back of the
plane. The plane is fairly large – a modified Airbus, I think. I
haven’t flown in enough planes to be able to tell the difference
between one or the other. He holds the toilet door open for me as I
walk in. I am barefoot and self-conscious. The toilet is spacious –
obviously modified for guests – and he squeezes in with me.
He latches the door and the overhead light
comes on.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing at the
latrine.
So he means to watch me pee. OK, I can live
with that. Plenty of people have seen me piss before. They actually
get hard from it, and I have never questioned what goes on in their
demented little minds. Whatever rocks their boat. But then I’m
demented in my own way too, so I have no right to judge anyone
else.
I seat my buttocks on the toilet seat. I
keep my legs demurely closed, but he gestures to them.
“Open,” he says in his Eastern European
accent.
I part my thighs obediently. My bladder is
so full that I cannot hold it in anymore, and so I let my urine
flow, rejoicing in the pleasurable release of tension. Urination, I
have always conceded, is one of life’s natural joys.
The guard’s eyes are on my pussy, watching
my steady stream of clear liquid. I flush despite myself. He makes
no move to touch me, which I find perplexing. I thought he would be
caressing my breasts by now. Most of my minders often do. I am as
pliant and welcoming a sex slave as they make them and my entire
ripe body invites abuse.
Does he not find me beautiful? The way his
hungry eyes take me in seems to suggest he does. And yet he’s not
acting on it. What gives?
Naturally, I do not wish him to act upon it.
He is not unattractive, but I’d rather be fucked by Max and Greg
any day.
I
to beat Max up. I cringe in my corner, the coward that I am.
The door clatters and opens. I cower in
fright.
But it’s not the dictator himself, as Max
predicted. It’s one of the guards who brought us here. He is
swarthy in appearance. Clean-shaven, with a snakelike scar on his
chin which he probably got for taking a knife wound meant for the
dictator, or something equally heroic. He wears the green military
uniform of Ursk. His gun is apparent in his holster.
“What?” he says brusquely.
I think all my pee has just fled upwards
from my bladder.
Max stands his ground stoically. “The lady
here needs to use the bathroom.”
The guard says something in Ursk, which none
of us understand. My heart sinks. Oh dear, he doesn’t know what
we’re talking about. How the hell are we ever going to
communicate?
Then the guard surprises us by pointing at
me and saying, “Come.”
Greg helps me up to my wobbly feet.
“You two, stay,” the guard says. He grabs my
arm roughly. I cry out.
“Don’t hurt her.” Max’s stance is
challenging.
The guard reaches for his gun.
“No,” I say shakily to Max. I hold my hands
up. My heart is battering my ribcage. I’m just so afraid Max will
be injured in some way. “He isn’t hurting me. I’ll go alone with
him. I’ll be OK.”
“Gina . . . ”
“Max, it’s going to happen sooner or later.
He’s going to want to see me alone . . . or one of you alone. We
can’t always be together.”
Oh, listen to myself, the voice of reason.
If only I am truly as calm as I try to sound!
Max and Greg look on helplessly as the guard
slams the door in their faces. He turns to me and grabs my arm
again.
I lied. His grip squeezes all the
circulation out of my arm, and so it hurts.
His eyes are lascivious as he gazes at my
bare tits and pussy.
“Come,” he says in a husky tone.
I have no choice but to be led by him down
the narrow airplane corridor. My trepidation rises with each step.
I have a feeling I’m not going to like what he does to me. But what
choice do I have as a lowly sex slave?
If only I knew then what he was going to do
to me.
It is nothing like what I have come to
expect.
It is far, far worse.
2
He leads me to the toilet at the back of the
plane. The plane is fairly large – a modified Airbus, I think. I
haven’t flown in enough planes to be able to tell the difference
between one or the other. He holds the toilet door open for me as I
walk in. I am barefoot and self-conscious. The toilet is spacious –
obviously modified for guests – and he squeezes in with me.
He latches the door and the overhead light
comes on.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing at the
latrine.
So he means to watch me pee. OK, I can live
with that. Plenty of people have seen me piss before. They actually
get hard from it, and I have never questioned what goes on in their
demented little minds. Whatever rocks their boat. But then I’m
demented in my own way too, so I have no right to judge anyone
else.
I seat my buttocks on the toilet seat. I
keep my legs demurely closed, but he gestures to them.
“Open,” he says in his Eastern European
accent.
I part my thighs obediently. My bladder is
so full that I cannot hold it in anymore, and so I let my urine
flow, rejoicing in the pleasurable release of tension. Urination, I
have always conceded, is one of life’s natural joys.
The guard’s eyes are on my pussy, watching
my steady stream of clear liquid. I flush despite myself. He makes
no move to touch me, which I find perplexing. I thought he would be
caressing my breasts by now. Most of my minders often do. I am as
pliant and welcoming a sex slave as they make them and my entire
ripe body invites abuse.
Does he not find me beautiful? The way his
hungry eyes take me in seems to suggest he does. And yet he’s not
acting on it. What gives?
Naturally, I do not wish him to act upon it.
He is not unattractive, but I’d rather be fucked by Max and Greg
any day.
I
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