Analiese
Analiese
I won’t let him. What a terrible thing for him to assume.
Vasily.
He’s an ogre of a man, at least a foot taller than my admittedly petite five-two and probably twice as wide. His goons were all menacing in their own right, but he is . . .
Impossible.
I do my best to keep from hyperventilating as he robs me of my sight. My entire life, I’ve dreaded how I might one day be the consequence of my brother’s actions. I’ve always lived in his shadow, have always been told that he would one day decide my fate. The words were always sugar-coated by lofty speeches about family and pride and loyalty and purity , but I knew what that all really meant.
My bile tastes like regret. My opportunities to escape or at least defy my brother have been rare, but I should have taken advantage of them. I was always too afraid of how my brother— or, if I did escape, God— would punish me.
Once more, I pray to God, hoping He’ll ignore the errant thought that I should have had sex with Alonso that time he sneaked into my bedroom at my brother’s twenty-fourth birthday party. I’m sure He’ll understand, though, and I make a note to confess that tomorrow at church.
But what will be the point?
I take one last look at the mountain of a man before me, with his pale skin and white-blond hair, his bloodshot eyes and face so angular it could be chiseled out of marble, before he covers my eyes, just so I can commit the monster’s face to my memory. But honestly?
They’re all monsters. They’re all demons. I’ll never escape. How can you escape the devil?
He lifts my coverup over my head once I’m blinded. His fingers trace the band of my top around to my back, to the clip. I shiver at the rough pads of his fingertips.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, and now there’s a finger on my lips as though to silence me.
I inhale, holding back a gag at the stench of tobacco on his fingertips. I’ve been trying to escape the stale, rancid odor since walking into this place.
This strip club.
“I take care of you,” Vasily promises again in his thick, dark accent, his scant English. I’ve never hated myself as much as I do in this moment, because I like it. I crave it. What he says, it’s the one thing I knew better than to hope for. I’ve only ever been a trinket. My value has never been about me but about the price others put on me. I’m not a nail; nails are useful. I’m a diamond. A Faberge egg. A vintage baseball card.
Vasily is a hammer. He has no reason to take care of me, no reason to promise me that. It’s weak and shameful of me to beg my enemy, a Russian , to do what no other man in my life has ever done, but I take his giant hand between my small hands and tilt my head up to where I imagine I’d be looking into his black, bloodshot eyes as I whimper, “Please help me. Please?”
He brings that hand back to my face, to rub my cheek. The calloused thumb is warm and alive against my soft, pampered flesh. “Poor ovechka, ” he says. I can’t possibly know what the pet name means, but he doesn’t say it in an insulting way. “I can only help you one way. I take care of you, yes?”
For all his faults, Tony has been good to me since our father’s passing. He’s kept his promises. I’ve never once felt anything less than safe despite what I know my family does.
I was just finishing up my daily swim when I was nabbed and gagged by these Bratva goons for the trip to frigid Flagstaff, but Tony would have made sure I was bundled up in an angora sweater, my Burberry coat, and my lambskin boots if they’d given us the time. I should be in my Saturday Shakespeare class at the state college right now, a privilege most of my friends in la famiglia didn’t get. They don’t teach you how to be a wife and raise kids and keep your vision tunneled away from your husband’s activities in college, after all.
I’ve followed the rules. I get great grades. I spend an hour every day making sure my hair, make-up, and outfit are perfect so my future husband won’t be embarrassed or punish me for looking slovenly in photos. I go to church at least twice a week and volunteer whenever I can.
I don’t deserve this.
But I can’t say that. I know what happens to petulant girls. They get slapped across the face, and then they have to spend an extra half hour every day getting their makeup just right to cover the bruise.
I’m a good girl, so I have no choice but to nod.
Heat on my face, a touch I think is a soft, uncalloused finger, but then I feel his breath. Vasily is kissing me gently, a brush at the corner of my lips. Then his thumb slides fully across them as he says, “Everyone out!”
I hear the scuff of chairs on the tile floor and feet shuffling out, and I give Vasily a heartfelt ‘thank you.’ I’m not going to enjoy this, but bad things aren’t quite as bad when you don’t fight them. I’ve most recently learned this from my best friend, Camilla, who was married off before she could even finish high school.
I’ve also learned from her how valuable being the good girl has been. I’m so unimpeachable that I’m the only unmarried friend Camilla’s still allowed to have. Because I’ve been such a good girl, I don’t need the birth control pills I’ve been palming over to her for last two years.
I haven’t needed them until now.
Hopefully Tony believes me when I ask him for a morning-after pill tomorrow just to be ‘safe.’
“I undress you now,” Vasily says, and again, it strikes me that he’s about to do this terrible thing to me, but he isn’t manhandling me. He’s done nothing to spook me since whatever menacing thing he said in Russian as he walked in.
He could have bent me over, pulled my swim bottoms down, and taken me while I was cuffed to that stripper pole. Instead, he’s being gentle and letting me touch him, not complaining about how I’m mangling his shirt, a surprisingly soft linen button-down. Odd for the season and the temperature, but now I’m wishing I noticed what color it was. Light. Blue, maybe, but maybe mint or lavender. Buttoned not so high, so his white undershirt is visible.
“ Da , you undress me if so wish,” he says encouragingly, and I realize I’ve relaxed my grip on his shirt to study it. “You may touch.”
I recoil. Immediately, I regret it. There was so much comfort in his warm, solid chest and soft, casual shirt.
“Whatever you like,” he murmurs, unoffended, as his hands finally move back to my top and unfasten it. He doesn’t pull it away immediately, instead touching my wrists and tracing up my arms, letting me feel his movements as he makes his way to my shoulders to pull the straps down.
We’re too close for him to see my body as his hands run down my back to my bottoms, pressing into my skin to slide under the spandex to cup my rear and squeeze.
I whimper.
“You like that,” he says. Again, nothing more than an observation, although I shake my head vehemently.
The squeeze turns into a massage, something I’ve had probably hundreds of times, spa days being a popular way to keep the women occupied while the men are doing their work. But this one is more intrusive, more intimate, and I’m not sure if it’s because the way he digs into me forces me to lean into him or if it’s because I’m standing and gravity is simply shifting my body differently.
Or if he’s being more intimate with the way he lifts and parts my cheeks, playing at exposing me but beneath my bathing suit.
“No shame here,” he says, and I swear his accent has gone thicker, his voice deeper. “Your body knows touch. Likes touch. Is biology.”
His fingers fan out past my bikini and to my thighs, still digging in and making circles. The motion is slow but broad, making my inner thighs gape on each pass, forceful enough that I stumble slightly and have to lean into him as one of my feet steps out.
His body is mostly solid and flat, his muscles defined but only faint ripples through his clothes.
Pressed against my stomach is a thick, long rod.
I swallow at the new fear striking me with that. My father and brother have been so obsessed with my virginity that I’m not even allowed tampons. I’ve watched a couple pornos at Camilla’s insistence to know that this will work, it is basic biology, but—
“I can’t do this.”
His lips press down on the top of my head. Although his hands continue the circles that now move everything, not just my butt and thighs but the more sensitive flesh in between, he now moves one of his middle fingers in, tracing over the seam.
I shiver against him as my breath catches and my hands clench his shirt again.
“You can. Already aroused.”
“I’m not!” But I hear it in my voice. I shouldn’t be. This is shameful. “I don’t want this!”
“Of course not. This not want. This biology.” His finger pushes in only a little, only to slide between the folds, making me cry out in shock and anger and, yes, pleasure. “So wet, so sensitive. I make you come.”
“I didn’t.”
“But I will. This happens whether want or not. Better to enjoy, yes? Unbutton my shirt, ovechka .”
It’s the first demand he’s made of me, at least where I have to participate, so I’m irritated that I should have to do anything. But then that finger stretches up to my clit and begins to circle it. I’m blind, running on touch and the sounds of our breathing, doing my best to fight the urges building within me, the sparkles in the darkness, but the buttons help my mind focus elsewhere.
“That’s it,” Vasily croons, “You’re doing such good job, Ana. You’ve got this.” But he doesn’t say those things at my whimpers or my clenches. He doesn’t say them at my whispered prayers. No, he praises me each time I get a button loosened. I get lost in it, especially when I become too overwhelmed to get the final couple buttons done, and he switches from the praise to encouragement, pushing me on with a task I can’t do but I know I can.
I’m so close.
Button through the hole. I can do this.
“No!” slips out of my mouth when another finger suddenly slides between my legs. Not to my clit, though. This one circles my pussy for just a second before delving in to the first knuckle.
“Buttons,” Vasily urges. “Think of buttons.”
I nod, but how can I? How can I when already that single digit, barely an inch into me, is so overwhelming? How can I when I feel his erection poking my belly and I can’t see it but I can feel it? How can I possibly do this?
“Buttons, Ana.”
I struggle to get my fingers moving again as he pushes deeper, to the second knuckle. More circles, this time inside me, and I can no longer control my sounds.
Somehow, blessedly, I get that button undone, and he says, “There it is.” But he’s pushed his finger in nearly all the way before coming to an abrupt stop, and what he says next confirms why he’s stopped. “Your body yours, but brother owns this. This, I take from him, not you.”
“Oh God.”
I can’t stand upright. I dig my forehead into his chest as I fight the mindlessness from his strokes and the terror of what’s to come. I don’t want this, not the pain nor the pleasure, but I can’t do anything about this. I can only think about the last button.
“You’re so close,” he coos. “You’re doing so well, and now you just finish, yeah? You finish for me?”
“Yeah,” I cry weakly into his chest. “I . . . I’ll finish.”
“Such a good girl. You’re such a good girl, Ana. Good girls finish.”
In that moment, it’s all too overwhelming. The buttons, the circles, the pressure within. My body detonates, the world going white behind the blindfold. As I swoon, he tightens his grip, and the pleasure tearing through me is punctuated by a sudden flash of pain, but the burn fades in an instant as I melt into him.
“There. I took from your brother. Now I give you reward.”
“No, please, stop!” I cry out, but honestly? I don’t even know what that means anymore.
I’ve hit a point where I’ve simply had too many orgasms to understand what anything means.
I’m pretty sure that point was after he laid me out on the floor so he could kiss me everywhere as his hands shifted focus from my clit to my pussy, using first one finger, then two, and finally three. I begged him to stop, both because it was too many fingers and I’d already come twice more, to which he said, in the most deliciously thick, husky voice, “For now.”
Then he flipped me onto my hands and knees.
My breaking point might have also been after he used the tip of his tongue on my clit to draw another orgasm out. Probably the point where he flattened that tongue against me and licked me from clit to pussy.
It wasn’t all tongue, either. It was also metal. His tongue is pierced.
Camilla says her husband only went down on her a couple times after their wedding, but it felt like more of an overture, a half-assed attempt to appreciate her, than anything he enjoyed. And from the circle of married women she’s in now, she hears a lot of the same. Few of the men put any effort into it.
Well, Vasily must be one of the few because he licks me to another orgasm, rolls me onto my back, and then draws one of my knees over his shoulder so I can feel his body rock and I can rock with him.
The soft rumble from him as I instinctively dig my fingers into his hair is enough to make me forget that this is anything but a sensual, forbidden dream, and that I’ve been forced into this.
I tell him to stop, I do. Over and over again. I beg him, I push him away. But nothing has any energy behind it or finesse. The tears that pool in my eyes and dampen my blindfold are from the guilt I feel over how little resistance or control I have.
I’ve never felt so good in my life.
But then he reaches up and takes hold of my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers with another one of those satisfied sounds he makes.
The tears sting with a different shame as he drags himself up to clasp the other nipple in his lips and lathes his tongue around it. I’m flat-chested as anything. It’s not some delusion, not a desperate attempt at modesty when I know I’m attractive. I have a pretty face and attractive hair and a fit body. But the only reason I wear my 30A bras is because they’ve got the foam in them so my clothes aren’t baggy up top. Whenever my college needs an actor to play a young character, male or female, I’m the one who’s cast. My brother’s offered to pay for implants, but I refuse. It’s not like whomever he marries me off to is going to expect a discount because I lost my boobs in the genetic lottery.
I’m usually confident about my shape, but it’s different now. I can’t say why exactly, it just is.
“Stop,” I whisper more softly and evenly, as clearly as I can, so he knows I’m serious this time.
The sound he makes is animalistic, a tiger growling as his body shifts. He’s prowling over me, up to my mouth to force it open so he can slide his tongue into it. The whole time, he keeps a hand on my breast, what little there is of it. “ Ovechka beautiful,” he purrs after his bruising kisses.
I nod, but the hand on my jaw traces the bob of my neck when I swallow.
“Beautiful,” he repeats.
“I am,” I say with more conviction.
He squeezes my nipple with equal intensity. “Beautiful tits.”
I swear I can feel him staring at me through the blindfold, so I turn my head away even though I can’t actually see him. “I–it doesn’t matter.”
He moves off me, or I think he does, but then his hand takes mine and drags it to the zipper of his jeans. “You are virgin, but understand this, yes?”
Yep, I can definitely understand that erection. I’m a virgin but not an idiot.
“So you know I think beautiful.”
I don’t, not really, but I again remind myself that there’s no point in arguing. I take the opportunity to undo the button on his pants. I’m not stupid enough to think this isn’t happening, so I’d rather get it over with.
His lips come down on mine, and I can’t imagine that what I feel from him is anything less than passion. I manage to get the button freed and the zipper pulled, but I can’t go any further. My gut is churning at this.
“Touch me,” Vasily urges. “You can.”
I shake my head, and blessedly, he doesn’t push further.
“Later, then.”
He sits up again, and I hear the rustling of his clothes, although I don’t think he stands. He must just push his pants and underwear down to his knees, and that bothers me for some reason, like I deserve some deeper level of intimacy for my first time, even if it’s being forced upon me.
He must pick up my distress on some level because he brings himself back down again, and with this kiss, I notice that he’s at least removed his shirt. I can touch his chest, the firm muscles and soft curls, the shiver that runs through him when I find one of his nipples.
He laughs against my cheek when I snatch my hand away, startled that he reacted every bit as much as I did when he touched my nipples.
And God help me, because I laugh, too.
“Take big breath for me, ovechka ,” he says, and I do. The darkness behind the blindfold is nearly as soothing as the warmth of his body over mine as his hand trails back down. He’s already between my legs, his cock bobbing at my slit leaving a streak of damp warmth, but again, it’s his fingers that breach me, first one then two. On “breathe out,” he forces a third in, and a sob leaks out with my breath.
“I can’t,” I whimper. It feels like so much.
“You already have, see?” He wiggles his fingers to prove his point, and my pelvis leaps right off the floor. “Which means you’re ready for my cock. Remember my promise?”
“That, umm, that you’re going to keep me safe?”
“That you will feel good. Now I want you to hold me.”
I do as he says, and he nods against my cheek in encouragement when I squeeze what might be too hard. This is what he wants from me. He wants me to brace myself for this.
His tip nudges at my entrance, and already my breath is hitching. He’s holding himself with one hand, but the other rubs my arm. A second later, he thrusts.
He doesn’t go deep. He doesn’t need to. The new stretch is enough of a jolt on its own, but there’s something else that alarms me enough to cry out, “What was that?”
“My cock, ovechka ,” he says, but his laugh is enough proof that he knows that’s not what I’m talking about.
Except I’ve never touched one in my life, certainly never felt one inside me. I’d almost believe my naivety was the cause of the surprise if not for that chuckle. There’s something strange about his . . . his cock , something that I’m now too embarrassed to say anything about after he was so polite about my breasts. What if it’s some deformity? Or some cocks are just weirdly lumpy and I’m being rude?
“Give hand. Here, touch.” He guides me to his shaft, still sunk partially into me, and wraps my fingers around it. On the underside of it, pressed into my palm, I feel a pattern of bars and hard balls.
I gasp and pull my hand away instinctively, only to reach for it again and explore it better with my fingertips.
“Why did you do this?” I whisper as it dawns on me that this is nothing medical. It’s a series of piercings. The long bars like I’ve seen in some of my classmates’ ears, but these are embedded just beneath the thin, surprisingly warm and supple layer of skin on his penis. They’re spaced about an inch apart, making rungs of a ladder. I count five of them, but he’s inside me.
“For you,” he says, his voice as tense as the rest of his body suddenly, and when I take a moment to pinch the lowest capture ball and spin, he grunts.
“For me?”
“For . . . for lovers,” he clarifies, but barely. His voice is tight.
I reach further to see if there are any others and, instead, brush his testicles, causing him to lurch forward and sink into me.
“Oh, God!” I cry out, and holy cow, I get it. I get what he means about it being for his lovers. I’m sure that unpierced is nice, but this?
I’m knocked thoughtless again for a moment.
Thankfully, Vasily is also still in that moment. He’s breathing hard, and the hand he had over mine tightens enough to force me to push the bars into him. “You . . . you like this too, though,” I gasp, not sure why I needed to say that.
“ Da ,” he says with another breathy laugh. “Is too much for you?”
“I’m holding a lot.” I feel so filled with him already, but I can still hold him.
“Then you take what you want.”
I don’t get how I can control this when he’s the one thrusting, but then he flips onto his back and drags me over him, straddling his hips. I have no idea what I’m doing, and the blindfold seems like an even bigger hindrance now. I anchor my hands on his chest, and one by one, he takes them and folds them at the elbow to rest my forearms on him instead. “That will be better,” he tells me as he once again guides his cock toward my entrance. “Now take more cock, one bar.”
I nod and do as he instructs, pleased to find I’ve already loosened enough that when the first piercing digs into my rim, it feels good.
“Now second.”
The second is just as easy.
“Now third.”
I begin to feel the fullness then. I take a breath to settle myself, knowing this isn’t so much and I’ll be expected to handle far more of this when I’m married. If nothing else, this will prepare me for that. Camilla had little good to say of her first time.
“There, is good,” Vasily says. “Now lift to first again, not too far, and take however much you want this time.”
I’m probably overly cautious not to lift up too high before I lower again, counting, “One, two, three . . . four.”
“Good girl,” Vasily rumbles, giving the encouragement I need to try it again.
And again.
And again.
It feels good. So good. And beneath me, Vasily still praises me, but his words flip between English and Russian, his pelvis rocks, his muscles flex beneath my arms. When I start taking five, he digs his fingers into my hair to drag me down for a kiss, but I think . . .
I think I’m the one kissing him.
And it feels good.
I can’t lose sight of the fact that I’ve been forced into this and I don’t know him and I’ll hopefully never see him again. This will ruin me. I’ve been robbed of my best bargaining chip, although it seems so stupid now. But we’re not married, and that’s something that was stolen from me, that I protected, that I cared about, even if I always knew my marriage was going to be arranged for me.
“So sweet,” Vasily groans at my next five .
“Vasily,” I whimper, frustration bubbling inside me as I work myself faster on him, attempting the sixth bar. It’s too much, but I’m not getting enough, either. “I–I can’t.”
“I understand. Let me.”
I want him to take over the thrusts somehow. I don’t know if that’s even possible when I’m on top of him, but I’m stuck and I don’t know what else to do. And although he does little more with his cock than move in rhythm with me so that I feel him everywhere, it’s his hand on my clit suddenly, the blindfold preventing me from knowing what he’s doing until the pressure is suddenly there, lighting everything up.
I shatter.
“You come on cock, ovechka ?” Vasily asks, going still beneath me.
My core clenches around his shaft in hard pulses that feel so different with him inside me that I’m scared if he does anything, I’ll fall apart again, but I’m pretty sure he’s still hard. He hasn’t finished. “Vasily?” I whisper, and every time I say his name, it’s easier.
Every time he rubs my back, as he does now, lightly brushing the base of my spine, it feels even better.
“How you feel, ovechka ?”
“Good.”
“You like thick Russian cock?”
I hate the way he says it, how crass it is, but I’m already damned. There’s no point in pretending I didn’t. “Yes.”
“ Da , very good. I like your tight American pussy.”
As pathetic as it is, I’m happy he said it that way. I get that his English isn’t great. I’m okay with filling in the blanks. But I needed that your .
He puts me back on my hands and knees, and this time when he slides in, he meets hardly any resistance. Those piercings of his, though, hit a different spot inside me, one that has me crying out and seizing up around him again.
Russian spews out from him as his fingers dig into my hips, drawing me back to meet him, and despite the speed at which he moves, I can tell I’m taking six. I can feel him going too far.
No, just far enough. I have to drop down to my elbows, but that makes it even better. I’m already coming again when he groans loudly. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or not, but I swear I feel his semen filling me.
He pulls out, and more of it splashes both my ass and belly.
He’s quiet after that. He rubs my back more and then the backs of my thighs. I laugh when I realize how similar the motion is to brushing down a horse after a long ride.
I feel like I’ve been on a long ride. My thighs certainly feel that way.
“You are happy, ovechka ?”
I laugh again at how ridiculous this all is. I should feel awful. I don’t know how I’m going to confess this tomorrow. Father Rossi is going to be so disappointed in me. “I guess I am.”
“You live with me then. Fifteen days.”
“What?” I croak out as I hear something scrape on the floor in front of us. I scrabble to remove the blindfold, but Vasily snatches my hand up.
“To settle debt. $150,000. Fifteen days sounds right.”
At that, he pulls the blindfold off for me, and there in front of me, not twenty feet away, staring at me like I’m the enemy now because Vasily’s semen leaks from between my thighs, is my brother.
He saw everything.
He watched me take Vasily’s cock. Enthusiastically.
He heard me beg for more.
He heard me laughing.
“How could you?” I sob, shocked that Vasily would make me think we were alone, although what do I know of him, really?
“You said this would settle it!” Tony spits out.
“This was the interest!” Vasily snarls back, the gentle, compassionate man of a moment ago gone. “You pay the 150,000 now, or she’s mine for fifteen days.”
The number sticks in my head this time. “You sold me? You sold my virginity for $150,000?” I screech at Tony. There’s hardly anything of weight in arms’ reach, so I hurl the handcuffs I was chained to a stripper pole with at him, missing him by a mile.
He glares at us both for another moment before he calmly stands and says, “I’ll see you in two weeks, Lacey. And don’t be such a slut. It’s undignified.”