Iskra
The edge of the belt bit into my neck, but I could still breathe. Barely, but enough.
The Pakhan was a sore loser and he knew it. That malicious demon peered out from behind his pale blue eyes—the one that came out when things didn’t go exactly as he had planned, when something slipped outside the neat boundaries of his control.
Good.
He flicked the button open and pulled the zip down. His hand disappeared beneath the grey boxers and he dragged his cock out with the unhurried ease of a man who owned the room. I tugged the boxers down myself—barely controlled fury in every movement—and his heavy balls emerged, hanging low.
I ducked my head and swirled my tongue around one, slow and deliberate, then opened wide and sucked it into my mouth, bathing it thoroughly.
His sharp intake of breath was immediate.
The yank on my belt followed—an attempt to pull me off, to reassert the terms of this. I sucked harder and didn’t move.
He could change the game all he wanted.
He could send twenty-four minute deadlines and drag me up from the kitchen floor and loop his belt around my neck.
I hadn’t willingly walked into his world.
I hadn’t willingly walked to that altar.
But I was here now—and if I was going to be here, I was going to make it cost him something every single time.
With a deliberate smack of my lips I released him and moved to the other one. His hand had begun working his cock, his breathing already less steady than he wanted it to be.
“My dirty little suka,” he rasped.
He didn’t try to pull me away this time.
I was certain he had something up his sleeve—he always did—but it didn’t stop me from tugging gently as I sucked, cupping the other one in my palm and working it slowly between my fingers.
“Blyad,” he cursed, and pushed my head back as I slurped.
Then he yanked—fingers tight in my hair, head pulled back, the belt shifting against my throat—and guided his cock toward my mouth.
I stuck my tongue out and opened as wide as I could.
I stared straight into his eyes.
He used my tongue like a runway and slid himself in, thick and unhurried, watching me take him. I held his gaze and didn’t look away. I dared him to be the one to break it.
He wrapped the belt around his hand.
Once.
Twice.
Then pulled—using it like a leash, his other hand cradling the side of my head with fingers digging in close to my nape. I forced my throat to relax and breathed in deeply through my nose.
It happened so fast I didn’t register him plunging into my throat until my nose hit his pelvis.
The belt held me in place. He swung his hips back and forth, and each time my head bounced back the leather forced me forward again—a pendulum he controlled entirely, my body moving on his terms, my throat his to use.
The man was fucking diabolical.
So diabolical that when my thighs pressed together they were already damp.
My hair had come completely loose, falling lopsided around my face, dangling uselessly. It didn’t slow him down. He deep-throated me with the focused intensity of a man who had decided this was how the pirozhki situation was going to be resolved.
I made damn sure not to choke on him.
That was the only thing left that was mine to control.
“Da. Right there,” he groaned, pressing himself deep and holding — his hand flat against the back of my head, his hips rotating in slow grinding circles, working himself against my face.
I tried to blink back the tears. My eyes had their own opinion about that.
Just when I felt the first serious urge to tap out, he pulled back.
“You almost made me come,” he said, as though this were somehow my fault.
I dragged air into my lungs in desperate pulls, my chest heaving, my throat raw and grateful.
He pulled me to my feet and turned me to face the island. The belt hung loose around my neck. I didn’t remove it.
“Hands on the counter,” he said, and I heard the rustle of clothing behind me.
I placed my hands flat on the cold marble and glanced over my shoulder. His shirt and tie were already on the floor. He was stepping out of his trousers with the brisk efficiency of a man who had a plan and was moving toward it. He didn’t look particularly pleased with me.
I faced forward.
There was a large ornate clock on the wall directly ahead. Gold frame, Roman numerals, ticking with complete indifference to what was happening beneath it.
Note to self.
Text him back next time if running late.
Behind me the fridge opened. Rummaging. The fridge closed.
Was he stopping for a snack?
Something was placed beside my right hand.
A white ceramic butter dish.
And then, placed with equal deliberateness beside it—
A carrot.
I stared at both items.
The clock ticked.
I was still trying to work out what he intended to do with the carrot when he lifted the lid off the butter dish.
He scraped a generous chunk from the surface and I tracked every movement in my peripheral vision, hands still flat on the counter, heart rate doing something very unhelpful.
Then the cold butter met my asshole and I froze completely.
I stared at the carrot.
“Vadim,” I whimpered.
“What’s wrong, Iskra?” he hummed pleasantly, as though he were asking about the weather, as though his finger wasn’t currently pushing butter somewhere it had no business being.
I clenched down hard and squeezed my buttocks together with everything I had.
“You don’t want to do that,” he said, his voice carrying the patient tone of a man explaining something reasonable. “Not when I stick the carrot up your ass. Imagine going to the hospital if it breaks off inside your asshole.”
He chuckled.
“Oh God,” I cried. “What is wrong with you?”
He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear.
“Everything,” he whispered.
I closed my eyes.
Breathed.
And deliberately relaxed my muscles, allowing him access.
Like I had a choice.