Just A Little More Time

Boris Chekhov could be a man of patience when it suited him and it this moment it did. He let the golden beauty ponder her choices and then as she slowly edged towards the fire blazing on the hearth he knew the stunning little beauty had made her choice. His discreetly raised hand stilled Serge from correcting the wayward little vixen.

“Come here Jennie and rest your head on my knee as you warm yourself.”

His voice had soften and it still had that haunting quality of being felt as much as it was heard. Yet even now in those softly velvet tones there was an edge, softer perhaps but still and edge of command, a command that it was clear Boris Chekhov expected to be obeyed.

Jennie hesitated for a moment before sliding over a few more inches towards Boris’s chair, turning so the fire heated her stiff back. She winced as the corset’s stiff edges cut into her hips, wishing to have the uncomfortable thing off. Knees up to her chest, Jennie hugged her legs and wished for more clothes. She had never been the sort of free spirit type to wear little or no clothes, not like some of the people she had seen on the beaches in summer. It had always seemed indecent to her, especially when the sun was out and everyone else was wearing hats and sunscreen. Jennie’s pale skin burned more than tanned anyways, so t shirts and a pair of shorts were all she usually wore during warm weather.

The heat of the fire started to make her feel sleepy, pleasant after being cold and awake so long. Jennie rested her chin on her knees, wondering if Boris was going to go watch the auction. It was almost an alien thought that he was responsible for such an event. She wondered where it would take place. Surely not here, even in the dead of night the cars and noise would attract attention. It was probably out on the outskirts somewhere, well away from prying eyes. Jennie felt her eyelids begin to drift closed. Maybe Boris would take her back to where he lived…..

Boris smiled as his little concubine edged closer. Her fair complexion her delicate beauty would make Miss Jennie Taylor worth her weight in gold if he put her on the auction block. But then again what a waste not to sample and enjoy such a tasty morsel. For now he would keep her.

As the delicate beauty succumbed to the heat of the fire at her back and the mental terror of her situation her golden head came to rest on Chekhov knee just as he had commanded. He let his fingers run through her silken tresses, let them drip from his finger tips as if her hair was liquid gold he watched as the highlights of the fire danced in those tawny golden tresses.

“ Jennie you look uncomfortable stand and remove your corset”

Jennie had apparently made her decision when she came to him now Boris Chekhov intended to see just how serious this stunning young beauty was and if she would in fact show him she meant to keep her devil’s bargain.

Sluggishly, Jennie stood a little behind Boris’s chair, trying to figure out how to unclasp the damned thing without completely unlacing it.

“Can I have a shirt then? It’s still cold.”

She didn’t see the harm in asking. All he would have to do was say no. Jennie wasn’t comfortable being so naked in front of anyone. At home, she certainly wasn’t a prude, but it had been a long time since anyone else saw her without anything on.

Finally, her fingers found a row of clasps running down the front of the corset. After a moment she had unhooked them all and tossed the garment aside with a sigh of relief. Stitch marks and the pattern of the laces still clearly showed on her back and sides, imprinted on the skin. She winced and rubbed at the lace pattern on her back as she sat back down, knees bent and tucked to the side. The fire’s heat felt pleasant on her bare skin, almost making up for her nakedness. She lay down, one arm beneath her head. Chekhov stirred in his chair, turning to face her, but Jennie was too tired to do anything but lie still and let the heat ease the ache in her back.

It had not escaped Boris’ notice that his little concubine had only sluggishly rose at his softly spoken command or that she had stood behind the chair hiding her perfection from him as if she were a shy little schoolgirl. For the moment Chekhov chose to indulge his newest acquisition. After all she , as yet, was not accustomed to a life were her highest ambition would be to please her Lord and Master.

“Can I have a shirt then? It’s still cold.”

Boris’s silence was eloquent in his denial of her simple request. His eyes smiled into hers at Jennie’s sigh of relief whispered across her ruby ripe lips. The stitch marks and the pattern of the laces still clearly showing on her back and sides, imprinted on the silken skin gave testimony that Serge had done his work well. She winced and rubbed at the lace pattern on her back as she sat back down, knees bent and tucked to the side. Boris wondered if Jennie knew how very sensual and seductive she was. How her shy lingering innocence made her the most desirable of creatures. He loved her wild firry spirit as well, a spirit if properly bent, would make her a most desirable possession, one he might come to cherish.

Laying there with one arm beneath her head, her golden hair framing her angelic face like a hallo of spun gold, Chekhov turned in his chair an let his robe slip open . The eyes of the bestiary tattooed on his body seemed to be alive, to be watching the adorable little beauty as she lay like an innocent child at his feet, her head pillowed on her arm.

“Come to me Jennie and please me with your body.”

He did not tell her how, but rather left the choice to her. Left it to Miss Jennie Taylor to prove to him she truly had made her choice to become his concubine.

Jennie glanced up at the whisper of silk as Boris’s robe slipped open. Couldn’t he see that she was tired and just wanted to sleep? She curled up tighter, wincing at the sharp pain in her back.

“What do you want then?”

Everyone had their limits, and Jennie had just about reached hers. She was cold, tired, hungry and running a serious risk of pregnancy. Her hips and back ached from the rough fucking the two men had given her. What clothing she had been given had been hideously uncomfortable. She wasn’t even really sure what she was getting herself into. Did he intend to keep her captive for the rest of her life or until her debt was repaid? How much of what she owed would be paid off per day? What, exactly, would she be expected to do? The pampered life of a personal, well, the correct term was slave, was a charming ideal, but Jennie knew it would likely be very far from her reality. Jennie shuddered. Would she have to serve him his dinner, do his laundry? Surely a man of his tastes would host a private party or two. What would she have to do for those?

She closed her eyes, for a moment entertaining the fantasy that this was all a bad dream. Perhaps when she opened them again all this would be gone.

“What do you want then?”

The girl was tired, exhausted, and had endured a harsh awakening to her new reality to her new life. The almost childish petulance in her voice told him that what little discretion Jennie had exercised so far was close to snapping. He saw a thousand questions flash in her stunning eyes as to what her life was to become and for how long she must abide by the devil’s choice she had made. He saw in those eyes also unspoken fears, perhaps childish hopes that she might be pampered as an adored pet. He watched as those stunning eyes fluttered closed as a bemused little smile just barely bowed her ripe moist lips. A little smile as if she were hoping or praying. Boris was not quite sure which. His own lips bowed into a smile, it was as if could almost guess what Jennie Taylor’s prayer might be,

” Oh dear God let me wake……..let it all be nothing but a nightmare….Oh please dear God.”

Yet when those striking eyes fluttered open the little smile that had bowed Jennie’s lips faded for those stunning eyes beheld Boris Chekhov and she knew that it was no dream.

“ You are a very intelligent young woman Jennie. One possessed of an agile and active mind I believe. I gave you but a simple command to please me with your body the choice was yours as how to do that Jennie but No, you throw that gift back in my face. Do you really want be to chose for you Jennie after the day you have had so far.”

Chekhov held out his hand to the hapless young beauty and then drew her to her feet and into his arms.

“You shall come to my bed now Miss Taylor and by the time we get their you shall chose or I will.”

Boris’s voice was firm dark and yet softly haunting, almost a physical caress. His lips brushed Jennie’s in a softly seductive kiss so sensual it seemed to have a life unto its self. He swept the exhausted beauty up into his arms and her body crushed to his. He carried her to a bedroom. It was every bit as opulent as Chekov’s study, a fire blazed on the hearth, and there was a bed that could easily accommodate several couples at once.


“Well Jennie.”

Boris asked as he set her down and reclined on the bed, his eyes and those of the hundreds of inked beasts leisurely took in the girls’ naked perfection. Jennie’s time to chose was rapidly running out, soon Boris would chose. Those inked beasts seemed to slither and move as they waited to feel her body pressed to theirs.

“I don’t know.”

Jennie turned over on the bed, deeply tempted to crawl under the covers and sleep. She was exhausted, worn out from fighting against Yuri and Boris. He had been gentle enough carrying her down the hall to the bedroom, but this demand that she pleasure him was too much. All the other times she’d been with a man they had taken charge, panting and sweating over top of her. She had never done any of the sexually adventurous things her friends had talked about. Sex in cars, handjobs, getting the guy off with her mouth.

She felt an itch prickle at the back of her head and absentmindedly reached around to scratch it. There was something thick and crusty caked on her scalp. She gripped the edge of one flake and pulled. Sharp pain made her wince. There was a deep tear in her scalp. Jennie thought back to how Boris had gripped her hair, pulling hard to stop her frightened flight. She had probably been too amped on her own adrenaline to feel her scalp tearing. Feeling around the edges of the place where the flake ripped off she felt something wet and warm quickly soak her fingers. She pulled her hand out from under her hair. It was blood.

“I don’t know.”

The young beauty sobbed. Chekhov was not sure if it was from frustration or that this young innocent truly did not know how to please a man with her body. The stunning young beauty ran her fingers through her tawny golden hair, a little gesture of her frustration and at that moment Boris realized just how innocent this gorgeous creature was. She pulled at her hair now in her frustration. Jennie winched her stunning soft eyes shimmered with unshed tears and when her hand came away it was covered in blood.

“What have you done Miss Taylor?”

Boris Chekhov’s voice was a mixture of agitation and concern. As he drew the young beauty to him.

“Let me see Miss Taylor!”

His hands were firm but gentle as he examined the little tear in her scalp. Boris slipped from his bed and scooped Jennie up in to his powerful arms. He carried her to the adjoining bathroom, a marble place so decadent, erotic, and sensual in its appointments. He sat the young girl on the edge of the little pool that was the bathing area. Nude male and female figures entwined in perverse sexual acts looked down on the chaste young beauty. He left her side but soon returned with medical supplies.

“You will needs a couple of stitches and your wound must be cleaned Jennie. “

Boris’s voice had softened as if he were truly concerned about her.

“This is going to sting Jennie .”

As he spoke he gently swabbed her wound with a disinfectant, he knew would burn like fires of hell.

“I am sorry you were hurt Jennie, but you should not have run.”

That was as close to an apology that Chekhov could manage, for he did see it as her own fault for not accepting her fate. Accepting ones fate, with good grace, was almost an act of faith for Russians like Chekhov. Boris applied a butterfly suture and held the inured beauty in the security of his arms.

Jennie’s body bucked and kicked as Boris dripped something into the open wound. It stung and burned intensely, and she felt a pair of hands close around her ankles while Chekhov firmly held her shoulders to the lip of the tub. Eventually the pain subsided and the torn skin went numb. Chekhov sat down on the tub above her head, a tray of gauze, needles and a pair of scissors on a table nearby. The pair of hands turned into a weight pressing down hard on her back, hands holding her shoulders still. Slowly, carefully, Boris stitched the wound shut, pausing every so often to blot away the blood that ran in a slow trickle down her neck.

She stared at a mural on the wall opposite the tub. Men and women lay twined together in suggestive poses, men against women more often than not. What that was Boris wanted of her? It would explain his insistence that she either be naked or provocatively clothed. Same for his decision to shave her, and his sexual attentions in the other rooms.

Finally, she felt Boris sit back, peeling off the rubber gloves red with her blood. He sat her up and wrapped gauze around her head, careful to keep the rest of her hair out of the way. When he was done, he carried her back to the bedroom and tucked her under the covers. She turned over on her side, taking pressure off the back of her head. Chekhov moved behind her, then the bed creaked slightly as he joined her. She felt something sting briefly on her arm. The world slowly faded into blackness.

What a little wildcat Boris Chekhov thought as Jennie struggled even as he tried to tend to her wounded scalp. He wondered if this little golden beauty was worth all the trouble that she was causing him. Even when he had tried to be gentler with her, give her a chance to ease into her new life, she had fought tooth and nail. Damn these American girls why could they not simply accept their fate like Russian girls. Theses were the random thoughts that when through Chekhov mind as he prepared the sedative and syringe. A little pinch of Jennie’s bicep , a pin-prick sting, then the black dreamless sleep of Morpheus.


When Jennie Taylor’s eyes fluttered open brilliant sunlight was streaming through the window. The bed where she lay snuggled under the covers, seemed familiar, but some how different, perhaps more sturdy, more permanent. The room was furnished in the same opulent style, a rich decadent erotic style, that apparently was part of Boris Chekhov very nature. The widow across the room from where Jennie lay looked out over the Carpathian Mountains of Eastern Europe. A dark foreboding area simply known as Transylvania.

Not only did Miss Jennie Taylor find herself across the mountains, but also across the seas, in a country where she could not even speak the language. She awoke just as she had been, naked as the day she was borne. The room was not locked for where would she flee to? There were voices coming from the adjoining room. Voices that belonged to the brut Yuri, the high pitch, almost feminine voice of the eunuch Serge, and the dark sensual voice that could be none other than Boris Chekhov.

The door slowly swung open and Yuri was silhouetted in it. An evil grin twisting his face into a semblance of a smile as he patted his belly reminding the headstrong young beauty of his threat.

“Boris your little Tart is finally awake.”

Yuri slowly drew back as Chekhov entered.

“Feeling better Miss Taylor?”

Alone and in a strange land, the only thing that stood between Yuri’s threat and Jennie was Boris Chekhov.

Muffled voices woke Jennie from sleep. She was laid on her side, covered in warm blankets. A strip of medical bandage wound around her head, hair neatly braided to keep it out of the way. It had stopped hurting, and the gauze felt dry against her skin. Chekhov’s grainy voice drifted through a wall to her right. She sat up carefully.

Jennie’s eyes widened, gazing about the room in shock. This wasn’t 69 Mayfair place, not anymore. The room was different, the bed smaller though the covers and walls were of the same style as the rooms of 69 Mayfair. A window at the foot of her bed showed… mountains? Her ears hurt, popping as she yawned. The room was furnished with a four-poster bed, dresser, bedside table and desk. An open door across the room showed a large porcelain tub and sink.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, her door opening moments later. Jennie shrank back in the bed as Yuri grinned at her from the doorway. He called over his shoulder and a few seconds later Boris entered. He looked like he had had a shower and shave, dressed in fresh clothes and probably had a bite to eat.

“Feeling better Miss Taylor?”

Jennie nodded. For once, she did feel better.

“Yes….. But where am I? What’s going on?”

“You are in my home Miss Taylor”

Boris paused as he saw the confusion in Jennie’s eyes.

“But enough questions for now. I am sure you must be hungry and in need of a bath.”

There was a disarming charm to Boris Chekhov when it suited him.

“The door by the bed will lead to the bath and a dressing room as I am sure you will want to dress before you come down to eat.”

With that Boris turn on his heel to leave Jennie to bath and dress. He would love to see the express on the prim and so very proper young Miss’s face when she discovered that the clothing she could choose from was of a rather daring if not scandalous nature designed to accentuate her charms rather than hide them. And when she was ready Serge would conduct her to the dinning room. Like the 69 Mayfair Place bathroom, a marble palace, so decadent, erotic, and sensual in its appointments. Again the sensually erotic mosaic of men and women laying entwined together in suggestive poses, men against women more often than not.

Jennie slipped out of bed as the two men left, her legs were still shaky as they met the deep plush carpet, and she had to grip the bedpost to keep from falling from dizziness. She still felt weak from whatever Chekhov had slipped her. What had happened, exactly? Jennie’s brow furrowed in concentration as she made her way to the bathroom. She remembered the he had treated the cut on her scalp and carried her back to the bed. After that things got fuzzy. She remembered muffled talk, a sharp sting on the vein in her arm…. Jennie turned on the taps and slowly eased herself into the tub, sighing as hot water crept up her body. A dim memory floated to the surface of her mind, something about being laid out flat while thick straps zigzagged over her body. Something must have happened to shake the plane and wake her up a little. At least she assumed it had been a plane. Anything else would have taken too long and required Boris to re-administer whatever had put her out. Jennie reached for the soap and washed herself slowly and carefully.

When Jennie climbed out of the tub she took a warmed bath towel from a rack and went into the dressing room. There wasn’t much that could be done about her hair with the bandage still wrapped snugly around her head, so he just pulled it back into a high ponytail. The strip of white cloth had been wrapped to fit mostly like a headband, albeit a rather odd looking one.

She blushed when she saw the dress Boris had laid out on a hanger by the door. The dress was bright red with a very low neckline and short skirt. Jennie slipped it on and tentatively looked at herself in the mirror. The dress pushed her breasts up and out, easily adding another two cup sizes while the skirt fell only a few inches below the start of her leg. The dressing room door creaked open and Serge stepped through, clapping a hand to her nearly-bare shoulder.

“Come along. They’ve been waiting long enough.”

He led her out into the hall, gripping one shoulder and wrist tight in his powerful hands. Jennie walked without protest,

Boris was setting at a large walnut table that could easily seat twenty to thirty guests. A place had been set intimately close to his. There was a chaste silver coffee pot and service close to hand and French door opened out on to a sunny veranda that gave breathing views of the Carpathian Mountains and the valley that lay far below. A river ran through that valley and yet from the veranda, the river nothing more than silver ribbon far below.

At Serge’s discreet cough Boris Chekhov lifted his bald head to be greeted by the image of a barefooted Miss Jennie Taylor. The scarlet red dress complemented Jennie’s fair complexion superbly. Chekhov let his eyes leisurely take in the overall effect . The way it clung to her body, the plunging neck line, the way the fabric caressed and lifted her firm young breast and called the viewer’s eye to their sensually seductive perfection. It barely covered Jennie’s pale pink rosebud nipples. He loved that scandalous little skirt that fell only a few inches below the sensual curve of the girl’s firm little derrière and showed her long sculptured legs to perfection.

“You must be hungry Miss Taylor, and have a million questions I am sure you will soon be demanding answers for.”

There was a hint of a teasing gleam in his steel gray eyes.

“Just tell Serge what you desire and he will bring it for you…..Coffee Miss Taylor?”

Boris lifted the chaste silver coffee pot in invitation. He waited till Jennie had told Serge what she desired.

“And now to your questions Miss Taylor,…Jennie”

Jennie held out the fine china coffee cup by her table setting, barely remembering to smile a thanks. She wrapped her hands around the cup, savouring the heat easing its way into her hands.

“ I… I guess my first question is what you want…”

She was surprised to be treated with such civility from a man she had thought to be so brutal. He had, after all effectively kidnapped her. Before, Boris seemed hardly to care whether she was cold, hurt or hungry. Now, she was seated across the table from him, coffee burning its heat into her belly and food on the way. Still, there were questions pressing at the back of her mind. How did Boris get her here? Surely the airport authorities would be suspicious of three men loading an unconscious girl onto a plane. There was no way for them to get her passport, so the local authorities probably didn’t know she was there. She didn’t even know what country she was in.

Jennie nearly jumped out of her skin as Serge’s hand closed on her shoulder. The man leaned in and carefully set a plate in front of her. Jennie’s stomach rumbled, enticed by the delicious smell of the food. Omelettes, a few pancakes, a small but divine-smelling steak, and a large serving of scalloped potatoes. She didn’t bother to wait for Boris’s approval, tucking in while still remembering her manners.

“ I… I guess my first question is what you want…”

Chekhov studied the young beauty over the rim of his coffee cup slowly he put in down his cold steel gray eyes seemed just a bit warmer as he spoke.

“ As I said Miss Taylor….”

A smile bowed his lips as he corrected himself.

“….Jennie like I said you will be my concubine , you will please me with your body, and your imagination.”

Boris saw the unspoken questions as he took another sip of coffee as the young girl devoured her breakfast.

“You are quite right Jennie you are no longer in your country but in one more suited to my business interests….”

Another sip of coffee. He could lie to the ravishing young beauty but saw no purpose to it or to insult her intelligence.

“As you may have suspected my business goes well beyond the mere loaning of money. I am, as the sign said at 69 Mayfair Place, an importer and exported. The merchandise Jennie I import and export are attractive young beauties like yourself for very discriminating customers. “

Again Boris paused letting the full extent of what he said sink in to Jennie’s quick, fertile and active mind as she realized that Chekhov was speaking of international white slavery.

“ You arrived her on a plane in a shipping container with all the proper export and import seals Jennie, listed on the custom manifests as a work of art. No one knows that you are no longer in America, and no one knows you are here. You have just disappeared like a puff of smoke into my world Jennie”

Boris slowly rose from his chair he stood behind Jennie his hands resting on her shoulders.

“ At times I shall require you to Entertain some of my business associates.”

Chekhov brushed away the hair from her neck. The stray wisps of hair at the nape of her neck danced in his hot moist breath as his lips brushed her soft silken skin.

“I believe the last time we spoke you were going to please me with your body Jennie and I gave you the choice of how you would do it. So Jennie…..”

Boris’s voice trailed off as he once more took his seat at the table.

Jennie’s eyes narrowed in displeasure. After one question he expected her to just roll over and serve his needs?

“I’m not done. Where the hell am I?”

The food was good, surprisingly so for what Jennie could only assume was a remote home in the mountains. She finished the steak and turned to the omelette, pleased to discover it was stuffed with ham and cheese. Boris began to visibly bristle at the head of the table, leaning forward and gripping his coffee cup so hard his knuckles turned white. Jennie spoke in a rush.

“And what about letting me go? What’re you going to do when they find my car? As far as I know it’s still parked outside 69 Mayfair. Someone will report it, and if I don’t show up for work……”

Jennie knew that it was a lot harder then it seemed to make a person completely disappear. There were Social Insurance numbers, passports, police services and tons of other records that had been designed to be difficult to cheat out of. Even her health records could be traced if she ever needed urgent care. That was, of course, assuming Boris cared whether she lived through such an event. Seeing as the man had drugged her and shipped her out of the country in a packing crate, Jennie didn’t think it was all that likely that he would risk being found out just to save her life.

“For that matter, what about the rest of my life? People are going to start noticing I’m missing. You have a lot to answer for. “

“I’m not done. Where the hell am I?”

Boris’s grip on his coffee cup became ever titer as Miss Jennie Taylor foolishly pushed Chekhov as if he were some foolish little shop boy at work. His eyes grew ever darker as Jennie continued to rant and rave against the injustice that this unexpected turn in her young life had taken. Yet even as his anger grew and the dark storm in those steel gray eyes built, the proud little American beauty did not see the danger she was in.

“For that matter, what about the rest of my life? People are going to start noticing I’m missing. You have a lot to answer for. “

The coffee cup Boris was holding suddenly shattered. That shattering cup like the distant peal of thunder which heralded a summer’s storm. Suddenly his hand flashed swift as lightening. That sudden flash of Chekhov’s hand caught Jennie’s cheek with a resounding clap like the thunder of the breaking storm. His hand print blazed crimson on the girl’s alabaster cheek. Boris gripped Miss Jennie Taylor’s wrist, an iron grip, and dragged Jennie bodily across the polish walnut table and on to his lap.

He held the struggling little blonde beauty there despite her desperate struggles, flipped up her scandalous little skirt, bearing her sweet little heart shaped ass to him.


SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

Three times his hand fell in rapid succession . Jennie’s tight little ass now blazing with Chekhov’s hand print.

“Your life Miss Taylor is what I decide it will be!”

His voice hauntingly controlled and cold and unyielding as steel.


SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

“If your body pleases me I shall keep you!”

SMACK, SMACK, SMACK


“ If not I shall sell you to the highest bidder to settle your debt. “

His hand was posed high above the struggling girl’s hot little ass . He waited let Jennie’s anticipation of what was to come build and then with a diabolical suddenness his hand once more descended.


SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

Jennie barely jumped as Boris’s coffee cup exploded in his hands. Small explosions were a commonplace occurrence at work, and Jennie had virtually eliminated her startle response through years of working around volatile chemicals. Before she could think of a way to diffuse the situation Boris’s slap snapped her head back. A hand closed on her wrist and dragged her kitty-corner around the table and facedown onto his lap. One hand gripped her wrists and pulled them painfully up and away from her body. Jennie tried to squirm but Boris simply pushed her arms up higher, the pain forcing her to stop moving.

She barely felt his first three strokes, so stunned from being slapped and dragged about like a ragdoll. Slowly it dawned on her what was happening. Jennie kicked and squirmed wildly but her feet found no purchase and Boris was too strong for her, pinning her down with one strong forearm. By the end of her beating she hung limp over Boris’s leg. There was no real point in struggling further. She was alone in an unknown country where she probably didn’t speak the language, didn’t have any way of legally proving her identity, and given what little she’d seen of the house virtually no chance of escape.

Boris gripped her shoulder and tossed Jennie onto the carpet, one hand gripping her hair. He tugged and twisted her hair until Jennie knelt approximately beside his chair. She didn’t dare move as tears splashed on her bare legs. It wasnt pain so much as shock and shame that made her tear up.

Boris Chekhov demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would no longer tolerate Jennie’s attitude and that it was high time that she learn her place in his household and just who was the Master here. Gripping the young beauty by her shoulder he tossed the stunned young girl onto the carpet, were she lay prostrate at his feet. Boris’s hand gripped her hair, tugged and twisted her hair until Jennie knelt approximately beside his chair.

“When I call for you Miss Taylor you shall come drooped to your knees and assume this position.”

Chekhov forcibly posed Jennie with her hands clasped at the small of her back, her shoulders back, then he snapped her head up.


“You shall keep your eyes lowered to the floor but your head held high.”

Chekhov studied the young beauty kneeling at his feet , how her breasts were thrust up and out as if an offering for his pleasure, her supple young body displayed to perfection . His eyes were cold impassive as tears streamed down Jennie’s flawless cheeks.

“Remain kneeling Miss Taylor and slip the dress from your shoulders.”


Though Boris’s voice had soften ever so slightly, yet there was no mistaking the edge of command it. Jennie now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what defiance would bring.

Jennie’s skin prickled as Boris put her hands behind her back and ordered her not to move. He wasn’t gentle, bending her wrist at a painful angle when it moved stiffly. His hands felt rougher than before, callouses scraping unpleasantly against her wrist. She winced as he gripped her jaw and forced her head up, squeezing painfully hard against her teeth. She fought the urge to pull free and bite him. Nobody had ever done anything like that to her, not even her parents in anger. She felt lightheaded and trembly from the shock of being treated like a disobedient dog. Jennie held the position, not daring to move.

At Boris’s order Jennie reluctantly reached up and slid the shoulder straps of the dress off, grimacing as the dress inched down her body a fraction of an inch. The neckline was dangerously close to exposing a nipple. Not that Boris cared; he could get her naked anytime he wanted. She began to think over the things he had said. He DID have total control over her now, there was no denying that. Even if Boris had the foresight to send someone to collect her passport and other paperwork there was little chance she could find them. Her birth certificate, IDs and travel documents were either back in her apartment or in one of his safes somewhere. Without them it would prove very difficult to prove her identity to the authorities. Jennie felt her shoulders begin to quiver. He really did engage in the white slavery market. This man knew what he was doing, and heaven knew how many other girls had been in her position before him. With sick knots in her stomach Jennie decided to play along with him, if only to avoid being sold off.

Boris could feel the hatred radiating from Jennie. Hatred, love, all so very similar in their intensity. Who she gave her heart or not was her affair. However her obedience and her magnificent young body was his. He saw the reality of her situation slowly dawn on the stunning Miss Taylor. Boris watched as her body tensed, hesitated before she reached up and slid the shoulder straps of the dress off her shoulder. How adorably Jennie blushed as the dressed slipped down her body the scarlet material catching on her nipples and hanging their so very precariously. The slightest tremor or her body or a breath of air would leave the young beauty naked to the waist. He saw her shoulders slump ever so slightly and he knew that she had decided to submit , well at least for the moment.

“ Rise place your hands on the table Miss Taylor and spread your legs.”


He waited for the girl to obey, Boris looked forward to ripping the little scarlet dress form the proud American beauty and take her there bent over the table. The only question was whether he would have to force her or whether she would obey.

Slowly, Jennie rose and did as she was told, moving smoothly so as not to make the dress slide any lower. It was still quite firmly attached to her, thanks to its overall tightness and rigid stays built into the bodice. Her ass still tingled from the spanking she had received, and though Jennie didn’t turn to look she knew his handprints were glowing bright red. She hunched her back, stretching for a moment before putting her fingertips on the table and standing straight in a dignified manner.

The table was covered in spilled coffee and shards of coffee cup. For a moment she stared at the mess. Jennie wondered who would clean it up. Boris couldn’t possibly have maids, not paid ones. Perhaps Yuri or Serge tended the house. Maybe he had other women he had trapped like Jennie to cook and clean for him. Or maybe she would be forced to clean up. Jennie wasn’t much of a chef, but years of chemical engineering had taught her the best way to clean different substances. Jennie’s plate lay at her place, still half-covered in food. She wished she hadn’t asked so many questions. Boris planned to make her pay. He grinned as he rose and moved behind her, sliding an arm around her waist. She instinctively straightened, waiting.

Boris was pleased as Jennie rose and did as she was told. He was amazed at the fluid sensual grace of the young beauty as she stretched for a moment like a little tigress, before putting her fingertips on the table, standing straight and with an almost feline pride, yes Miss Jennie Taylor was a tigress that needed to learn to be a kitten.

Chekhov arm snaked around Jennie’s waist he felt the young girl instinctively straightened, her body tense in anticipation what was to come. Boris held Jennie there as the soft metallic whisper of his zipper decanting caressed her ears. He drew her back to him, let her feel the warmth of her body pressed to him and the hard length of his aroused manhood. His hands slid up the sensual curves of her torso. His hands gripped the red dress and violently ripped it form Jennie’s body. His hands cupped her breast as he thrust his hips to hers.