Iskra
The more my throat ached, the more it soothed some broken part of me.
The part that had been forced to accept its position in this world.
I kept my mouth open as wide as I could, giving him full access.
He slammed his hips forward and my pussy pulsed.
My nails dug into his muscles as I clung to him.
My eyes closed. My spit dribbled down the length of my face.
He released my breasts and I moaned in protest.
I kept swallowing around him as he held himself in my throat. Then his fingers edged beneath my waistband and my hips rose before I could stop them, my thighs falling open of their own accord.
I was past caring.
My lips gripped the base of his cock until he groaned.
“Da. Good little suka,” he said, and his fingers slipped beneath my underwear.
Wet and slippery, they moved over my pussy—circling my clit before stroking the full length of my opening. As though he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
He began to rock his hips. The pace was almost gentle, which was its own kind of cruelty. My hips followed the rhythm anyway, chasing the release my body had decided it was going to have regardless of what my pride thought about it.
“Now do you see?” he hummed. “It changes nothing.”
He pulled his hips back and uncovered my face.
I lay gasping, my face soaked, trying to blink my eyes open.
Hands gripped my shoulders and sat me upright.
He pushed me onto my hands and knees before peeling my pyjama bottoms down to my thighs.
Hands clamped on my hips and dragged me to the edge of the mattress.
“You’ll take my come where it always goes,” he murmured, pushing my underwear down.
I laid my cheek on the bed and felt him tug on the string of my tampon. My eyes closed as I heard him toss it in the bin. His hand pressed flat on my back. My legs were trapped beneath me. I curled my toes in anticipation.
“I want my cock nice and bloody,” he chuckled.
I smiled despite myself.
He had managed to degrade and elevate me at the same time.
The thick head moved into position. My hands gripped the bedding as he surged forward.
I cried out at the feel of him filling me—the stretch of it, that certain fullness that my body had learned to anticipate and was apparently incapable of being indifferent to.
My hands ached from tearing at the soft cotton beneath me.
The position left me unable to move, but he didn’t tease me.
He continued unhurried until I felt his pelvis meet my bare cheeks.
“Vadim,” I cried out, uncertain of what I was asking for but certain I didn’t want him to stop.
If he stopped I would have to think.
About the period that had arrived and the relief I hadn’t expected to feel.
About the fear underneath the relief—because relief meant another month, another cycle, another reprieve before the thing the contract required became real and irreversible.
A child. His child. Growing inside me whether I was ready or not.
Yet here I was, taking comfort in the very thing that would eventually be my undoing.
I stopped thinking and held on, choosing only to feel.
“Harder,” I moaned.
His rich laughter followed my demand, but his grip on my hips tightened. His pace quickened. The sound of our flesh slapping together filled the room. The feel of my warm blood and arousal coating him caused me to clench my muscles as his length pistoned in and out of me.
“Da. What a mess. A beautiful red mess,” he snarled.
His balls swung back and forth, slapping my pussy. His cock began to expand and twitch. My face and breasts dragged over the bed with each brutal thrust until the tension coiled so tight I couldn’t breathe.
I came apart, clawing at the bed and clamping down on his cock. His hands moved over my back, tugging strands of my hair as he held my shoulders while pressing himself deep inside of me. My muscles were still contracting around him when his seed spilled into me. The erratic rhythm slowed.
But as soon as the high began to ebb the same despondent thoughts latched on. My eyes shut just as the tears began to well.
I waited until he pulled out, ignoring the gush of come that seeped out of me. I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. The large wall mirror was there but I refused to look at it. Instead I reached into the cupboard and pulled out another tampon.
When I returned to the bedroom he was still there. Dressed in his black robe, standing exactly where I had left him as though he owned the space—which of course he did.
“Your bank card,” he said, nodding to the nightstand.
“Ah,” I said lightly, walking past him to the chest of drawers. “Payment for services rendered.”
I pulled out a fresh pair of underwear before opening another drawer for the spare pads I had packed before leaving home.
Home.
Neither there nor here. All of it temporary. Every place I had ever belonged to already gone or in the process of being taken.
I slipped my underwear on and secured the pad.
“I won’t come in the morning,” he said. “You can rest. If you need anything—for comfort—ask your byki.”
I focused on closing the drawers.
A quiet beat.
Then the click of the door.
I rested my hands on the chest of drawers and bowed my head.
This, plus nine months.
I wasn’t sure how I would survive it.
If I could survive it.
I dragged myself to the bed, flung the covers back and sank into the warmth. Pulled them over me and lay still.
Reality had crept up on me while I wasn’t looking.
Now I had to deal with it.
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After breakfast I dumped my plate in the sink and walked out of the kitchen. I snapped my fingers at my guard dog, who was stationed in the hallway.
“Get the car out of the garage. I need to pick up a few things,” I said without looking at him.
Radovan moved without a word.
I wandered back to my room to collect my purse and shoes. I didn’t opt for the safe comfortable ones. I picked up the black shiny ones with the three-inch heel — those and my wedding shoes were the only high heels I owned, which said something about the life I had been living before all of this.
I checked my purse for pads and tampons before making my way outside.
Radovan was already in the car. Spartak stood beside the rear passenger door, rubbing his hands together against the cold, his breath coming out in small clouds.
“Good morning, Mrs Dragunov,” he grinned, and opened the door.
I smiled and got in. The door slammed shut.
“I’d like Spartak to drive,” I said, looking out of the window.
Silence.
Then the front passenger door opened.
“You drive,” Radovan snapped.
“Sure.”
His grumbling could be heard all around the car. He only closed his fat snitching mouth when he dropped himself into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut with more force than was strictly necessary.
“I’d like a three-foot radius today,” I said, once they were both settled. “And for shopping in female sections—the pharmacy, lingerie shops—you are to remain beside the doors. Is that understood?”
Spartak stared at me in the rearview mirror with his mouth open.
“Da,” he said, once he had recovered.
Radovan was silent.
Spartak began to pull away.
“Stop.”
The brakes went on.
“We’re not going anywhere until he agrees. Or I get a replacement byki.”
Nobody moved.
I waited.
“Da,” Radovan spat out, as though the word had been extracted against his will.
I relaxed back into my seat.
Spartak pulled away.
The silence was deafening. I didn’t care.
It was time to make a dent in those cards he gave me.