Chapter Iskra
Iskra
He was a monster. A sick, depraved—
“No. I really need to go,” I gasped, suddenly regretting every cup of tea I’d had that morning.
“I know you do,” he crooned, rubbing my thighs with the unhurried patience of a man entirely unbothered by my predicament.
My muscles were beginning to ache from being pinned to the table.
“But I’m not stopping,” he said, pressing deeper.
The problem was that holding my bladder meant clenching every muscle in my lower body simultaneously. Which was not helping anyone. I winced as he forced the head of his cock inside.
“That hurts,” I hissed, glaring at him.
“You know what to do then,” he said, with a shrug.
“Your trousers,” I said, desperate to make him see sense.
“I have spare clothes down here.” He glanced toward the corner without breaking his rhythm. “Sergei could get messy too.”
The words registered somewhere. The horror grew because he said it so casually—the spare clothes, the drain, the whole arrangement—as though he had planned for every contingency. Which he had. Of course he had.
I clenched my jaw.
I was not going to piss myself.
The sudden stab of pain followed as he pushed deeper—radiating outward, blooming everywhere until I couldn’t locate a single point of origin.
“Vadim,” I implored, my voice dropping.
“You know this works for me,” he said. “It makes you so much tighter. It feels as though you’re trying to strangle my cock with your asshole.”
“I’m going to fucking—” I began, and then remembered. All of it. Every single thing he held over my head.
“What are you going to do to me, dorogaya?” he murmured, gripping my thighs.
The word stopped me cold.
Dorogaya. His beloved.
I had never heard him use it before. The shock of it was enough—I let my guard down for exactly one second and he thrust hard, embedding himself fully, and I felt the hot stream run down between my legs before I managed to clench again.
“Damn,” he breathed, eyes dropping to my pussy. “That’s hot. Do it again. Soak my dick.”
This was wrong. Depraved. Vile.
He pulled back and before I could register any relief he slammed forward—using his cock like a battering ram, hard enough to force me open, to make holding on impossible.
“Oh yeah,” he groaned. “Let it all out.”
I was still shaking my head when he began to move in earnest. I closed my eyes and let go. The sound of him, the feel of his trousers against my skin, the heat of it—I relieved myself. Thoroughly.
The only satisfaction I had was knowing his expensive trousers were ruined.
While I continued to urinate he grabbed the metal poles and began to swing his hips. This time there was no resistance left in me. I accepted every deep, filthy stroke. I ignored what my brain was screaming at me.
This was wrong.
But it had been so long since I’d felt him there. The feel of him opening me up as he drove deeper—the stretch of it, the fullness, the particular obscenity of being used this thoroughly in this room.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned. “I could fuck your ass for the next nine months.”
I closed my eyes against his words.
I couldn’t move even if I tried. Being held like this—pinned, spread, entirely his to use—wasn’t something I had expected to enjoy. Yet here I was.
“You love me fucking this tight little ass, don’t you?” he asked, ramming into me hard enough that his balls slapped against my cheeks and the air left my lungs entirely.
I gasped as he pulled back and repeated it.
Long, deep strokes. Each one more brutal than the last.
I opened my eyes.
Sergei lay dying on the cold basement floor. We were alive. Runa was safe upstairs.
I nodded.
Because I loved this insanity. Whatever it was.
“Stick it in my ass,” I growled, pushing myself open as he plunged in. “Harder.”
The taunt hit its mark.
His eyes darkened.
The devil emerged.
“Come in my asshole,” I said, with a smirk designed to finish him. “Give me every last drop, moy muzh.”
His jaw clenched—the muscle beneath visible, teeth ground together.
“My dirty little suka,” he spat, each word pushed out through clenched teeth.
His pace slowed. Deliberately. Methodically. He began to pull out completely before plunging back—all the way out, muscles relaxing, the sudden emptiness of it, then the heavy stretch of him forcing me open again. I groaned and cried at the change in sensation each time he withdrew and returned.
“You don’t tell me how to fuck this hole,” he drawled.
Blyad.
This may have backfired on me.
But he was the one standing there will my piss all over his clothes. I was also roaming free and not locked up in his basement.
“My apologies, Vadim,” I said with the utmost sincerity.
I may have sacrificed my ass for it, but it was worth every stroke to watch him lose control. I wished I had accounted for his stamina—he had already come once and showed no signs of being finished.
His hair fell over his forehead. I watched it move as he threw his full weight into each thrust, his cock driving deep with a dull bloom of pain that registered and faded and registered again. I kept myself open for him.
“Let me feel your hot come in there, Vadim,” I panted between strokes, holding his pale blue eyes with mine.
His lips tugged at the corners. His pace never faltered. He reached between my legs.
“You first, dorogaya,” he rasped.
The pressure against my clit made my muscles tense, pain blooming again alongside everything else.
My eyes fluttered as he worked both—filling me, rubbing me, the dull thuds slowing as the air thinned and I tried to find oxygen somewhere in the haze.
My body trembled as the tension coiled past the point of bearing.
“Now. Come for me. Come on my dick, little ass whore.”
His fingers pressed. Then circled.
My body shook from the force of it. His cock never stopped.
Somewhere in the haze he roared.
My head came to rest on the hard wooden table.
I savoured every last twitch and jerk as he emptied himself inside me—the heat of it, the finality of it, the precise satisfaction of a woman who had got exactly what she wanted while appearing to offer an apology.
Perhaps the Bratva wasn’t so bad in some aspects.