From Moscow with love

Role filled. Enjoy!

Elena checked her make-up one last time in the small pocket mirror she pulled from her handbag. Her blue eyes shone under long, dark lashes. She wore an elegantly cut black evening dress that clung to her slim body in all the right places without looking vulgar, a silk scarf was loosely draped around her shoulders. Black lace and silken black stockings caressed her skin underneath the dress, and a pair of beautifully worked silver earrings dangled from ears. Turkish, probably. She was all set.

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Nice. Elena’s eyes met those of the driver in the rearview mirror and smiled. “Do you like this shade of red?” she whispered. He nodded. “Perfect”, he said with a thick, husky voice and the knuckles of his hands still holding the steering wheel whitened. Unfortunately for him, Alexei did not allow his staff to play with the merchandise. But the driver did have good taste. The dark red lipstick contrasted perfectly with her porcelain skin and her thick, raven black hair, cut at chin-length.

Ivan Becherikov, one of her regular clients and the president of one of the biggest real estate brokers in the country, loved to call her “my Snow White” when these ruby lips were wrapped around his cock. Elena smiled. Only a year ago, she had been forced to fuck the sad end of the Moscow underworld food chain – little drug dealers, petty thieves, cops. It had been the only way to feed herself after she had arrived in the capital from her hometown Grozny at the age of eighteen, and the two years in the service of her lowlife pimp Zaky had easily been the shittiest of her young life – which was saying much: after all, she had spent her whole childhood in a zone of a violent conflict.

Alexei Girgovich, as in Girgovich Industries and, more importantly as in Alexei Girgovich, the king of thieves, the Vory y Zakone, the boss of the bosses, had saved her from all that, quite literally riding to her rescue in a Mustang when she was running from her murderous pimp. Her fairytale prince had taken her in, and in the short time of one year, made her one the most expensive and most desired whores in all of Moscow.

When she put the mirror back, her fingers brushed against the small gun that Alexei had given her the day she had gone on her first job for him. “Just in case a client should feel tempted to break company rules.” They were simple enough: no permanent marks, no barebacking (a rule that applied only to clients), and nothing that ended with – accidentally or not – a maimed or dead whore.

So far, she had only experienced such a dealbreaker once, when one of Alexei’s business partners had, after one line too many, felt compelled to give Elena, “the fucking Chechen whore”, a lesson that left her almost bleeding to death, and a faint scar across her belly as a reminder of what assholes men generally were.

Kiril, Alexei’s lieutenant and younger brother-in-arms had been glad to reciprocate, and the business relation between Girgovich Industries and that coke-sniffing bastard had ended with his body floating in the river Moskva. Elena had always had a crush on Kiril, and there was no man who was as breathtaking, as deadly and as skilled with his cock as he was, except for maybe Alexei. And he, too, had a soft spot for Elena, the stray cat from Grozny.

Yes, she was without any doubt their favourite whore, and Elena trusted both Alexei and Kiril with her life. They had never let her down. But tonight...tonight was different. The young woman had no idea what to expect of her assignment, she did not know who her client – or her clients – would be, and what kind of entertainment she would be asked to provide. What she did know, however, was that this was apparently important to Alexei and that Alexei hated to be disappointed by those he entrusted with important jobs.

“My sweet, you will do anything that is asked of you tonight”, he had said with a smile.

His smile had not wavered when she did not reply immediately, but he had seen the hesitation in her eyes, even a glimmer of fear. He had kissed her, with that same mixture of care and force that had made her knees go weak from the very beginning.

“Don’t let me down, Elena”, he had whispered, and his smile had been gone then.

No, she did not intend to let him down. Her eyes lingered on the large neoclassical mansion, half hidden behind trees. Someone rich lived here, someone successful and, judging by what she could see from the car, someone with excellent taste. The driver’s fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. “Time to go”, he said with the same husky voice, and a thick Ukrainian accent.

Elena nodded. The car drove off as soon as the door had slammed shut again. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked up to the mansion. She took a deep breath as a tall man, a semi-automatic rifle nonchalantly slung over his shoulder, approached her. In lieu of asking, he raised both eyebrows, without even the hint of a smile.

“I am Elena”, she said, trying to make her voice sound firm. “Alexei sends me.”

*bump*

Sometimes the dark silence was all there was.

And then, light. The woman's voice, in accented Russian, crackled over the connection from the guard, and Alan, already waiting in the hallway, opened his eyes.

'I am Elena.' Yes, now Alan remembered the name.

Alexei had shown him photographs. In a public place, that bar he owned off Leninsky Prospekt where the videos played of such pretty, pretty women. And Alan saw, as Alexei spread the photographs out on the bar table, between the glasses of beer – what his brother already knew, but had evaded Alan till now – that it was possible. Possible to possess such a woman, such that you might show photographs of her, boastfully, to another man, naked photographs of her.

Over the intercom the woman and the guard were approaching the front door. The possessed woman. Was that what she was? Possessed? Owned? Alan had only ever rented till now.

Oh, of course there had been others, brazen women who believed themselves to be his equal. They had wanted him for his appearance, perhaps - for his height or his air of something, as he looked down at them, for the deadness in his green eyes that they had thought they might spark into life, for the shape of his cheekbones, for his false yet perfected smile - or for his money – ha! - or for his intellect? Who knew, who knew what women wanted?

The knocker sounded at the door. He had decided to wait for thirty seconds.

Be careful. This wasn't a woman you could keep in a kennel, and call Bitch, and discard when you tired of her, the sort his brother preferred. This was -

Elena.

Alan looked at himself in the tall mirror in the hallway. His prick was erect, just saying her name to himself. He pulled his dark blue dressing gown around his otherwise naked body, re-knotted the belt, ran his hand over his bald head. Smiled his smile. I shall be the charming Englishman speaking in his clumsy Russian. You must be Elena. Perhaps you would care for a drink before our business begins?

He opened the door.

Ah: although he had seen the photographs, how tawdry they already seemed: unexpectedly lovely she was.

A few moments passed, and Elena had already raised her hand to knock again when the door was finally opened, and a tall man appeared before her. Her eyes narrowed, taking in everything in: he looked distinctly foreign, well-groomed, and unexpectantly inoffensive.

She had to bite her lip not to smirk at the dressing gown – it gave him the appearance of an accountant who had dressed up as the playboy, but did not quite fit the part. These types were common: the sexually frustrated executives with wives who did not let them properly fuck them and for whom taking the thieves’ favourite whore was the height of imaginable thrills. They were businessmen too conservative or too introverted to live out their fantasies at home. And in Elena’s experience, this fantasy was quite simple: being Hugh Hefner, paying stunning women to woo them, and to breathlessly praise the size and skill of their cocks.

This one however did not look like he needed to pay a woman to want him. Fine features and stunning green eyes. His dressing gown seemed to hide a well-built chest and despite her height and shoes, he stood at least a head taller than her.

It was also clear that the man before her did not want to waste his time with unnecessary banter, with even an attempt at the polite foreplay that many of her other customers felt obliged to put on. And it occurred to Elena that this did put her in her place: she had come here to be consumed, not to be seduced. She had no problems with that.

Elena asked herself how this man had gotten in with the Vory and suddenly wondered if she was the reward or...the bait? Alexei’s operations were based solely on the assumption that all men could be corrupted, and that everything, and everyone, was up for sale, if only the price was right. He looked every inch the good citizen, but it was not her problem if he would choke on the piece he was about to bite off.

She had also learned – the hard way - that the most inconspicuous types were sometimes the most dangerous. Alexei’s warning still rang in the back of her mind, the edge of his voice - and there was something eerie about the man before her that she could not put her finger on. Maybe his eyes. There was something about his eyes.

All of this went through her mind in a couple of seconds, scanned like data in a routine programme. None of it reflected on her face when she extended a slender hand, with a gesture that could be reciprocated with a deferent kiss, a handshake, or a rope slung around her small wrist.

“Good evening, sir.” Her ruby lips curled into a smile as her eyes briefly flickered over the dressing gown that only barely concealed his erection. “I see you have been expecting me. May I come in?”

He laughed. Thank goodness, she had a sense of humour. Sometimes the Russian sense of humour -

Well, perhaps English irony didn't find enough common ground with those strange Russian jokes he didn't find funny. He shook her hand, firmly but briefly, looked her squarely in the eye, then began to guide her inside, and then immediately towards the drawing room with a hand on her back. 'Yes, I know I have dressed for the part, the part of the, the...roué,' he said in French, 'sorry I don't know the Russian for it, rather delightfully it means being broken on the wheel...'

She was looking at the prints in the hall: a couple of Hockneys, not originals, the blue light of Los Angeles' swimming pools trying to shine in the dim Moscow interior.

His hand liked the sensation of her back, with only the thin material of her dress between his hand and her skin. How pale she was: his suntanned skin seemed vibrant against hers.

'Have a seat, Elena, do.' The drawing room was cosy, quite small. There were prints of a past England, bucolic, on two walls. He gestured to a deep armchair and reluctantly removed his hand from her. There was a bottle of white wine chilling on the table between her chair and his, and he filled two glasses and handed one to her before sitting himself.

'I thought,' he said as he sat down, 'it would be good to have a little chat,' and then, repeating in English, 'a little chat, my brother only speaks English I'm afraid, can you manage that do you think? While you languish in our cellar and we break you on our wheel?' He kept smiling: that was the former diplomat in him, one should always say the deadliest things in a steady unremarkable tone. 'Please, if there's anything you'd like to ask, ask it now. There may not be much opportunity later on.'

It turned out that her first impression had been correct. He was a foreigner. An Englishman. His handshake was friendly, but emanated authority. She assumed that his choice of wardrobe stemmed from his confidence in being in charge, always. It must be an English thing, she thought, realising that she had never seen Alexei in a dressing gown, and probably never would.

'Yes, I know I have dressed for the part, the part of the, the...roué, sorry I don't know the Russian for it, rather delightfully it means being broken on the wheel...'

Elena raised an eyebrow and smiled at the double entendre. Nodded, but preferred to remain silent, very aware of his hand resting against her back. A gentle touch, and yet it felt like a threat. She shivered, suddenly very grateful that she had brought the gun. His house was tastefully decorated, but felt somewhat uninhabited. A bit cold, even.

'Have a seat, Elena, do.'

Draping her scarf over the backrest of the chair and placing her small handbag on the table she sat down, the glass in her hand. The Englishman had not introduced himself yet, and Elena never asked. She was sure that he would let her know how to address him in due time, they always did.

To be polite, Elena nipped on the wine, but did not drink. No alcohol on the job, no coke, no nothing. It was a rule she had established for herself while she had still been working for Zaky and it had proven the better choice on many occasions. She preferred to be aware, to be as much in control of herself as possible when with a client.

With a soft clink, she put the glass back on the table, listened to him switch from Russian to English, his confidence complete in either language. A pretty accent he had in both.

'I thought it would be good to have a little chat, a little chat, my brother only speaks English I'm afraid, can you manage that do you think? While you languish in our cellar and we break you on our wheel?'

Her expression did not betray her thoughts as he talked about what he wanted to do to her. Indeed, it was what they all wanted in the end. To lock her up. Own her. Break her. Elena tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her silver earring reflecting the diffuse light of the room. Did the knowledge that they never would edge them on? Or did it frustrate? Alexei once told her that it kept them pliable, on edge, the way he liked his business partners.

Brother? She looked around discreetly, wondering what ‘brother’ he was talking about. As far as she could see, they were the only two people in the room. Was somebody watching? The whole house seemed rather quiet, and she felt a soft tingle down her spine.

Her English was thickly accented, and she spoke it with a low, guttural purr. “If I am not mistaken, a roué also designates a debauched man.” The dark blue of her eyes shimmered as her gaze met his from under thick lashes. “A man with…many appetites.” As she crossed one leg over the other, the hem of her dress rode up to reveal the lace of her stocking, a hint only, a glimpse, before the dark silk covered her thigh again.

“Are you such a man?”

She had a style to her. More than a cut above their usual kind of plaything. He felt a surge of interest in her that did not merely excite his genitals. Perhaps she might talk of art and novels - while dressed, of course, in his rope and wounds.

'If I am not mistaken, a roué also designates a debauched man. A man with…many appetites. Are you such a man?'

She had no need of the drink for courage, or even to satisfy her own appetite. What was her own appetite, he wondered? To serve? To suffer? Was that all she wanted?

Or was she just another who believed she was investing for her own future?

'My dear Elena,' continuing in English, for he liked the way the consonants did battle in her mouth when she replied, 'I'm afraid I am a man with a somewhat narrow range of appetites.' With three discrete gulps he had finished his wine. Enough for now, man. Steady. 'It's necessary for a woman to enjoy suffering if she is to feel pleasure in satisfying my appetite. A sometimes melancholy situation. Here...'

He was standing, not merely taking her hand but actually, taking hold of her thin right wrist and pulling her up, until he seemed to remind himself of something, and recovered his smile, and took hold more gently of her fingers.

'My brother will be impatient for us. There are some rules. Here, take a look at yourself.'

To the back of the room was a door and a little to the right of it, a full length mirror, in a plain polished frame of some light wood. To the right of the mirror was a low walnut table, where a variety of items of leather and chain lay ready. To the left of the mirror was a laundry basket.

He let go of her fingers and looked at her in the mirror. He allowed his hand to rest in the small of her upper back again. 'Behind the mirror my brother watches. He can see you now, but will only hear us when we go to the cellar. You will take off each item of your clothing in turn, and hand it to me, and I will place it in the laundry basket. When you're naked, except for your shoes, which you will need to place back on, I will fasten various cuffs and a collar on you. You will look very beautiful, I can see. This is your last chance to ask any questions. But one word of warning: now or below, do not mention the name of any – any mutual acquaintance. When we use a camera, we expect others to monitor our shenanigans. Now...?'

“It's necessary for a woman to enjoy suffering if she is to feel pleasure in satisfying my appetite. A sometimes melancholy situation.”

“I can imagine.” Soft laughter. A roué, then, yes...” Her words trailed off, when he grabbed her wrist.

It did not really hurt when he suddenly pulled her up from her seat. It was not the physical sensation that made her gasp – but it was as if something had momentarily slipped, as if she had for a split second caught a glimpse of him, the real him. ‘While you languish in our cellar and we break you on our wheel.’ Her heartbeat accelerated. How ridiculous, she immediately cursed herself as he took her more gently by the hand and guided her to the end of the room.

Her reflection stared back from the mirror. Yes, beautiful she was. They both were. And the brother? Did he appreciate beauty? Elena listened to the man, nodded. Then...

A camera? She looked at him, frowning. That was out of the question. Very few whores she knew accepted being filmed, sometimes out of shame and fear of family reprisals, mostly though because of an understanding of, well, copyright, that did not include the unlimited and repeatable use of a performance without paying up. In her case, Alexei Girgovitch simply did not appreciate for other men to share at will what he rightfully thought to be his.

“No camera.” She had said this in Russian again, a bit too hasty maybe. Noticing the sharp undertone in her words, her gaze softened. “The last time a man filmed me”, she continued in English, “Our...mutual acquaintance broke both of his hands for stealing from a thief.”

Looking back at the mirror, she caressed the reflection with her fingertips. “Your brother and you will need to enjoy with your own senses tonight to remember.” She saw with a certain tinge of relief that none of the items placed on the table inspired fear, none of them hinted at appetites that she did not want to slake. His hand, still placed on the small of her back, did however not feel reassuring. No, she had no questions, but needed to set a few rules of her own.

There was a short moment of hesitation. This was always a delicate problem – if she was too harsh, she would spoil the mood and piss off the client. But if she was too compliant, too indulgent, her own limits would not be taken serious. Men too often mistook ‘whore’ for ‘fucktoy’ that could be used wilfully and without respect. And would he not prefer a strong woman that accepted his chains to a simpering doll? Hard to say, but she did not want to take any chances.

“You will not fuck me without one of these”, she opened her handbag and took out a condom, placing it next to the chains and the leather items, her voice still low, purring. Looking him directly in the eyes, she continued: “And should you, or your brother, leave so much as a scratch on my skin, you will pay with your lives.” Her thoughts went back to Alexei, his warning, and the shiver she felt at the Englishman’s gaze. She also thought of her handbag, her mobile, the gun, Kiril. Wondered if he would grant him the decency of a dressing gown before tossing his body into the river.

Then Elena tilted her head slightly, and stepped out of her shoes. She was ready for him. “I don’t have any more questions. Do you?”

An arrogant cunt. That made his smile deeper.

'No more questions,' he said, reverting to Russian for a moment, 'niet vapros,' speaking not to her but to her face in the mirror. 'I await the gift of your clothes, my dear.'

He took his hand from her back. He spread his palms, in a parody of a servant awaiting his mistress's clothing. Now he was looking at her. 'Whenever you're ready.'

Elena felt a pang of irritation. ‘Alright, I know now which category you fall under, svoloch’, she thought. He clearly found her threats highly amusing. That usually was not a good sign. He either assumed that she was bluffing, or for some reason was under the impression that Alexei would never touch him. Fuck. The young woman hesitated for a split second. Maybe he simply didn’t care. Maybe his appetites dominated everything else?

But short of walking out on him and facing the repercussions of having disappointed Alexei, there was not much she could do but trust that he had indeed understood, and would keep to the rules. Well, except for one little thing. A faint illusion of safety.

Returning his gaze in the reflection of the mirror, she picked up her purse and took out her mobile phone. “Just a moment”, she said softly while quickly typing the message. A short jingle interrupted the silence of the room when she pressed ‘send’. Kiril would at least be aware that there might be trouble.

With an apologetic shrug and a smile, she put the bag back on the table. “Simple precaution”, she said, but realised with annoyance that her fingers were shaking. Damn Elena, keep it together. But after what she had experienced, the anxiety had never quite vanished, never completely. Smelling bourbon on a man’s breath still sent her into fits of panic, because it reminded her of that bastard who had tried to gut her only six months ago. Damaged goods, a voice in her mind whispered viciously. Pull yourself together or Alexei might decide to get rid of you, too.

Well, then...Showtime. The Englishman was getting impatient.

Elena pulled her dress over her head and handed it to him, then she turned to the mirror again, knew that his brother was watching. Waiting. Did he like what he saw? A slender young woman, clad only in sheer black lace and silk stockings, confident in her own beauty, her nudity.

Now looking directly at the man behind her again in the mirror, she put her left foot up on the low wooden table and rolled down the stocking. When she was done, she turned and let the soft material drop into the waiting Englishman’s palm. Then she did the same with her other leg. Her toe nails were painted a dark burgundy, almost black.

Arching her back slightly, she unclasped her bra and gave it to him, too, then stepped out of her slip. Naked Snow White. A faint scar across her flat stomach was the only thing that blemished her immaculate pale skin; nothing else distracted the gaze of an onlooker, her moist red lips seemed like a perfectly placed, delicate blossom.

Finally, she put on both of her shoes again.

“I am all yours now.”

She was a little bleached for his taste. Perhaps Alexei could send her to the Caribbean for a bronzing. Had she been a common or garden woman he would said as much to her.

But he had no desire to insult her. She was lovely. Lovely, and with great dignity..

He took care not to touch her too soon. He placed her clothes in the laundry basket, re-folding the dress where it creased a little.

Finally he turned to her, his own dressing gown parted, discarded. He knew that his own trips to the Black Sea – ah, and those dutiful trips to the bicycle in the basement – showed. She glanced over his body. He took care not to move between her and the mirror. He went behind her, for the first cuff.

Only then, taking her thin right wrist in his hand again, did he touch her. It was almost comic, how instantly his prick moved. The cuff, like all the others, was leather, padded with lambswool, with a silver D-ring set into it. He buckled it firmly. He allowed himself to caress her pale right arm. No track marks. No bruises.

As he buckled the second cuff, just above her right elbow, from behind, he nuzzled the side of her head.

It was only with the third cuff, behind her, at her left wrist, that he spoke, softly, quite close to her ear: 'I won't disguise from you. You are probably the loveliest woman I've seen naked. Thank you.'

And then the fourth cuff, at her left elbow, quickly buckled.

He stood behind her, she would feel his prick, not between her legs, but against the small of her back. His arms around her, his palms just rested against her nipples. 'Lovely,' he said, 'don't you think?' - to the mirror.

The fingers of his right hand went down to trace the scar on her belly. So much sexier, a little scarring. She would look well with more. Livid wounds would become her.

He leant against her, inhaling, savouring her, keeping her on display...

The dressing gown discarded, Elena saw what she had expected to be true: that the beauty of his body matched that of his face.

When he fit the leather cuff around her wrist, she shifted, but did not move. Bound. The thought caused her pulse to quicken slightly. At his mercy. Elena shivered when he caressed her porcelain skin, ever so gently. A connoisseur who appreciated perfection. Why would he want to destroy it? But she felt the anticipation, the low throb of fear in the back of her mind.

She watched him in the mirror as he fixed the second cuff on her arm, felt his breath against the skin of her neck. The cuffs were not uncomfortable, did not hurt her, so why did she feel like a trap was slowly closing in on her?

'I won't disguise from you. You are probably the loveliest woman I've seen naked. Thank you.'

The honesty of his compliment made her smile. There. It seemed like he did appreciate that she was here. That she had stayed. That she had agreed. She turned her head slightly over her shoulder, taking in his scent, and the warmth of his skin.

When he fixed the last cuff on her, she slightly arched her back, but did not move otherwise. Held her breath for the length of a few heartbeats, as if wanting to make sure that he would not turn on her now. But there was only tenderness. Promises.

His sun-tanned skin contrasted deliciously with her own pallor, made her seem even more fragile in his hands.

'Lovely, don't you think?'

Her nipples stiffened at his touch. Yes, beautiful. When she felt him, his erect cock, pressing into her, her lips parted in a silent sigh.

Elena knew that his brother could not hear what was said in front of the mirror, but she imagined him looking at them. Wanting. Waiting. She wondered if his eyes were the same sparkling green, if they showed the same hunger.

But there was something else in his gaze as his fingers travelled from her breasts to caress her scar. She held her breath, felt two pairs of eyes take in traces of past abuse, almost lovingly. Her fingers, resting against his upper thighs behind her back, stiffened. Please, no. He would feel the faint tremble of her body. Her fear. Would his brother sense it, too?

She forced herself not to rest her hand over his, to push it from her belly. It would be fine. She would be fine. She only needed to vanquish the fear, and trust him.

Her slight quivering. That was good. Oh, there have not been many times in his life when it was like music, this performance of preparing a subject for an ordeal.

He was enjoying the ritual: the fifth cuff, on her right ankle.

The sixth cuff he placed on the floor for a moment, crouching, for he simply could not resist
caressing the insides of her legs, from halfway down each thigh to each ankle.

The sixth cuff, on her left ankle. Her feet had to adjust themselves, on her now incongruous shoes.

He stood, looking at her, looking at herself.

He thought: Soon, you'll be a female object, shrieking.

Did she see the thought in his eyes?

He had to bend close to her buttocks, compact, neat, to fasten the seventh cuff, to her right thigh. Were those marks there, across the smooth mounds? Or just a trick of the light?

The eightth cuff. He was, for the first time, a little rough with it, just for the pleasure of making her stumble slightly.

And then he regretted it. He had interrupted a mood. But perhaps it was right, there was violence in the air no matter how still they were.

'Elena,' he said, with the ninth leather, the collar, in his hand. He stood behind her. The air seemed to him to quiver with his vicious, vehement desire to fuck her from behind. How did he remain still?

He stood there, for perhaps a minute, saying her name to himself as a sort of mantra, until he was calm enough to put the collar at her throat, buckling it tightly at the back.

He needed to be calm before rendering her helpless. Even a serene woman like her might struggle, as he lifted her arms behind her, to fasten each wrist to each elbow with the metal clips. How helpless she would be then. He looked at her in the mirror, as if asking her if she was ready.

She felt his breath on the back of her calves when he buckled the next cuff around her ankle. He was good at this. Patient. Elena had seen the greed and the lust in his eyes, and yet all of his movements were measured, skillful.

When his hand ran down the inner side of her leg, she sighed. Please, yes. Her breathing quickened.

A cuff on her right thigh. Elena stood as still as a statue. Bound. It was not the first time, of course not. The years with Zaky and his lowlife clients did not count, albeit she had been tied up then, too. Had been fucked her wrists bound in wire, in tape, chained to heaters, walls, abused for days by coke sniffing cops. No. Not tied up, but bound, at the mercy of a man in power who appreciated submission. Alexei had taught her to trust and enjoy helplessness. Give in to captivity. Submit to exquisite pain. Until…

But then she stumbled as he fastened the last cuff around her right ankle, pulled her out of her reverie. Elena frowned. Like earlier, when he grabbed her wrist roughly, pulled her from her chair, it was as if a curtain had briefly been pulled to the side to reveal something else, somebody else. Somebody who enjoyed breaking a woman. Hurting her, with no other purpose than to inflict pain.

Her eyes closed, she felt him standing behind her. He whispered her name, without sound. There was the soft creak of leather, the brush of skin. He was there, right behind her.

Unbidden, images lit up in her mind. Memories. Her, on the floor, crying, begging, her hands covered in blood. A man with a knife, grabbing her hair…Elena winced. No. Not now. Please. She suddenly wished that he would just grab her, fuck her, right here, in front of the mirror, in front of his brother, fuck her hard, and make these images disappear.

He did not.

A shiver ran over her skin when the lambswool came in contact with the soft skin of her neck and the dull throb of fear threatened to grow into a blinding flash of panic as he adjusted the collar. She opened her eyes. There. Collared, again. Was it so bad?

Her hand moved up to her throat, and she touched the smooth leather with shaking fingers. Elena, Elena…it is just a game. Get over it. The fucker who tried to kill you is dead. Silly girl. This man will not seriously hurt you for sport. She looked at herself in the mirror. How beautiful the leather looked set against her pale skin. Tomorrow you will be with Alexei, and you will laugh about the fear you feel now. He will be proud of you.

She lightly traced the rim of the collar, met his gaze. There was a pause, as if an unspoken question hung in midair, suspended between them. Her eyes locked into his, she lowered her hand to her side, signaling that she was ready.

When the mobile in her handbag buzzed dimly, announcing the arrival of a text, she ignored it.

“Do it”, she whispered, in English.

How delicious that she shivered. He saw in her eyes that the fear and anticipation excited her. Didn't he? Or was his imagination playing tricks? He wanted to touch her cunt.

Not yet, not yet.

Perhaps he should pull her down to her knees by the collar he didn't seem to want to let go of, and fuck her face now, now, now -

Not yet.

A stillness. He looked to the table and realised he'd forgotten one item. Ah. The leash. But still -

He bent to his discarded dressing gown and tugged out the paisley cotton belt. He took her shoulders and turned her through ninety degrees, so that she would be in profile to the mirror. He knotted one end of the belt to the ring in the front of the collar. It dangled down between her breasts, as far as her pubic mound.

He moved behind her, careful not to touch her. If he touched her with his prick, his body would explode. Fucking explode.

He touched only the cuffs, and the clips. He pulled her arms back by her elbow cuffs, then took each of the metal clips at her wrist-cuffs. Lifted, so that each wrist met the opposite elbow. Did she understand what was about to happen? If so she didn't struggle, and in a few seconds each wrist-cuff was attached to the opposite elbow-cuff and she was utterly helpless.

He spun her round, Jesus she was too lovely, spun her through 180 degrees so they would both be in profile to the mirror. Was that alarm? Did she think he would strike her?

Oh....

His finger tips began at her eyes – her brows, cheeks, ears, mouth, chin, neck – just touching, so lightly caressing, as he looked at her....

'Feel how I want you, Elena. You might want to concentrate on my prick.'

His fingertips were at the hollow places in her shoulders – down the outsides of her arms, and then across to her breasts, not the nipples, but the circumference and the flesh, softly...

'My brother will be feeling frustrated now, for in the cellar he will talk to us, try to give us both instructions, whereas here I'm still free, free to do whatever I want to you...'

His fingertips traced her ribs – her navel – her belly – her hips...

'In the cellar you'll suffer an ordeal. And if you beg me to stop I'll increase the ordeal. But if you beg me to let you drink me...then I might relent...I so want you to drink me...'

And now, crouching, his fingertips were at her thighs, knees, calves, ankles, the tops of her feet in her shoes where she briefly wobbled...

'Now it's time. But you will want two things.'

Reluctantly, he let go of her body. His fingertips felt as if her skin was now his possession. His whole being tingled with her. He took the gun from her handbag, and placed it in her right hand. 'Shoot me if I go too far,' he said.

Oh fuck it oh fuck it, his tenderness was driving him crazy, he so wanted to brutally, brutally -

Her eyes were wide. Yes she would have to ask him to cock it, if it came to that. Let her ask, did he care?

On her phone he tapped a few keys. 'Now it's on vibrate only.'

He took hold of the makeshift leash in his left hand. The phone was in his right. 'I believe only two men have the number to this phone, don't they? Imagine, if one of them could watch you, now. Perhaps they can. Perhaps if it vibrates in you, during your ordeal, you will know they are watching, enjoying your ordeal. Better hold it in you.'

It was the first rough gesture he'd permitted himself for what seemed like hours: he thrust the phone into her cunt.

'This way,' he said abruptly, 'don't drop it now,' turning, as if he couldn't bear to look at her another moment, and led her to the door to the cellar...

Elena tried to remain calm when he attached each of her wrists to each elbow, but when he suddenly spun her around, she flinched, fully expecting him to land a blow in her face. Elena, darling, you need to relax. The smile she attempted would not fool him over her fear, no. She searched his eyes for the cruelty that she knew was hidden behind his mask of composure.

As if in a haze, Elena felt his hands caress her, lightly, his words echo in her mind. She wanted to whisper, to tell him that she was scared, but she was unable to make a single sound.

'Now it's time. But you will want two things.'

Elena watched in disbelief as he reached for her handbag, pulled out the gun, and placed it in her right hand, awkwardly helpless behind her back. What the...?

'Shoot me if I go too far.’

Her eyes widened and for a split second, Elena held her breath. He was mad. It was as if icy droplets rolled down her spine. But her fingers curled around the trigger of the gun nevertheless, as if this useless bit of cold steel could do her any good now. It was that he wanted to demonstrate, wasn’t it? How alone and helpless she really was.

She watched him in confusion as he reached for her mobile and hit a few keys. Did he read the message that Kiril had sent her? Elena felt her heart race. Wished that he would come and get her. Save her, again. The thought became so urgent that she thought she could hear the door of a car, footsteps, the front door bursting open...

'Now it's on vibrate only.'

There was something in his voice then, something dark and violent that made her skin crawl. She felt her fingers holding on the gun cramp up.

'I believe only two men have the number to this phone, don't they? Imagine, if one of them could watch you, now. Perhaps they can. Perhaps if it vibrates in you, during your ordeal, you will know they are watching, enjoying your ordeal. Better hold it in you.'

She had not anticipated this. Not this. Not this kind of...aggression. A groan of pain escaped her lips when he unceremoniously tried to shove her mobile up her cunt, and the force of his gesture made her double over. Fuck, it hurt. Elena could feel tears well up, and bit her lip in anger. No tears, bitch. It’ll edge him on.

'This way, don't drop it now.'

Incredulously, she stared at his back, the hand holding the makeshift leash, and the door to the cellar. The cellar. For one instant, one short insane moment, she imagined herself turning around, pulling the fucking trigger, shooting from the hip like a parody character from a Western. But even if she could have cocked it herself, she would have missed. She was a ridiculously bad shot. Almost by instinct, she dug her heels into the floor, helplessly.

With a thump, the phone hit the floor.

Whatever brief illusion there had been before, the glimpse of arousal, pleasure even, had vanished. It was then that Elena realised that she should turn around, and run, and get out. Get away from him and his likely equally sick fuck of a brother.

But it was too late for that now, wasn’t it?

That was good: the flash he saw in her eyes as he turned. What did it betoken?

His hand tight on the makeshift leash – she might try and run – how her body glowed, seemed to strain against him, hell, was this the one? - 'Elena,' he heard himself saying – as he picked up the phone she'd dropped.

I am an animal.

He smelled the phone, and liked the smell. It was the smell from inside her, the unwilled smell, the smell she now wanted to pretend she didn't smell of.

He looked at her, smiling. We are animals. Soon you'll smell my smell.

He turned, and tugged. He had the startling vision, that if there were a photograph of her on this wall, lifesize, here, right here, he could fuck the picture, and be satisfied.

Thirteen steps, just count them, thirteen steps down, hold the lash taut, don't let her fall, when she suffers, she must suffer sexually, now, she must understand that her pain will be sexual, erotic, exciting to him....

...and to his brother...beyond the next door...her heels clacking behind him...

Elena watched him with eyes wide like a trapped deer, every muscle in her body tense, wondering what he would next. Would he hurt her?

He didn’t.

But the smile curling his lips made her skin crawl, and for the fraction of a second, she wondered if Alexei was aware of what this Englishman was like, what he was really like, and what he would do to his favourite whore.

She was fully prepared to kick the man if he would approach her with the phone again, no matter the consequences. There was a part of her that wanted to unleash the beast inside, to get it over with, to be done.

Slowly, hesitatingly, she followed him down to the cellar, the gun still clutched in her fingers.

He paused at the entrance to the cellar, trying to imagine what she – naked, helpless, her wrists fastened to her elbows behind her, quaking perhaps in her shoes – what she might see.

The device looked like a kennel: at waist-height a wooden roof pitched to either side at forty-five degrees or so, with a sharp ridge, all atop another wooden construction...

...and beyond, a screen where a man...

Quickly. He moved quickly, aware she might fight, that if there were any spark in her she would fight. So he led her in, clickety-clack over the stone floor, halfway along the side of the kennel, his brother's face suddenly looming large on the screen in front of them, a face so like his own, although bearded, surrounded by long hair, and wild-eyed, demented...His eyes didn't look like that, did they?

'At last, brother,' said the loudspeakers either side of the screen, in a tone remarkably like his own.

Quickly: he turned. He lifted her under her armpits. Easy does it...

She fought. God, how it excited him, that she fought, as he lifted her, a kicking yelling animal, so that she would sit astride the roof of the kennel.

'Allow me to introduce you...' said his brother....

...as she kicked, kicked, once he had one leg bent back so her right ankle could be clipped to the cuff at the top of her thigh, then he would have her...

'...Elena, you are fucking sexy I have to say, allow me to introduce you...' said his brother.

That's right, cunt, kick, yell, squirm that'll hurt you even more, fight me, it may make me come over your milky skin right now...

...as he struggled to fasten ankle-cuff to thigh-cuff, how it would hurt her then, when he had her secured, as his brother said:

'...introduce you to the wooden pony. An exquisite instrument of torture, indeed of self-torture. Do continue to struggle, my dear...'

When Elena entered the cellar behind the Englishman, she stopped, briefly, before he dragged her on. What the fuck…? Reminiscent of an inquisition dungeon, it was not full of mere kinky toys and a bit of bondage equipment, but of actual instruments of cruel torture.

Fuck.

Her eyes scanned the room, the screen, the so obviously insane man leering at her from it, the wooden construction…yes, she had an inkling what that was for. It was terrifying. And suddenly, with the same terrifying clarity, she realised that she might not make it out of this room ever again. That she might be trapped between these two sick men and their instruments of torture forever.

Her fingers cramped around the gun. What use would it be?

When the Englishman turned around to lift her up, she was torn from her thoughts, and blindly started to kick. It was all she could do, with her hands and arms bound, naked. But t was to no use, he was strong, and determined, and his gestures were swift. “You will die for this, you asshole”, she hissed at him, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. Why did Alexei allow this to happen? To happen again? Had he not promised to keep her safe? Had that not been their deal?

The gun slipped from her grasp, and hit the floor with a soft thump. No, please, no...

And then she was secured, cuffed, the sharp ridge of the wooden construction cutting into her sex, and she screamed.

It was all she could do.

He liked Elena's scream. It seemed to him almost a noble thing, to erupt in such a way.

He saw the pain, shivering and quivering through her body as she struggled.

'Please,' he said, holding her at either side of her waist, ' steady...'

'What the fuck are you doing?' said his brother from the screen. 'Not going soft on me are you?'

No, no, he wasn't, the ankle cuffs were connected to the thigh cuffs.

On the screen the head of a a woman he'd never seen before was bobbing up and down on his brother's prick.

Oh don't come in her yet, please, then you'll have to wait to come again, and I'll have to torture this poor creature more...

Heck, Elena could scream. He reached under her armpits, to lift her a little.

His brother would have lifted her by her tits, to make her scream more, but sometimes you could be subtle with pain.

If he eased her pain now, it would hurt all the more in a few moments.

'Our mutual friend said we could do this to you, you know.' He saw the sweet desolation in her face. Jesus, for all he knew Alexei or that K, K, what was his name, were trying to beat the door down right now, to save the cunt. But he wanted to excise hope from her mind.

Toy with her. He heard his brother, far far away, coming into some distant whore's mouth.

He let Elena down on to the sharp edge, so she would scream again.

He would do that for as long as he could bear the noise, he thought.

Oh, but her skin, as she struggled and screamed, might be too much for him....

"What the fuck are you doing? Not going soft on me are you?"

Elena lifted her head briefly, the need for voicing her discomfort briefly forgotten. She stared at the screen, stared at the sick bastard who so obviously enjoyed her torture. “Fuck you...” she muttered, imagining Kiril’s hand in his hair, a blade to his throat. It would be a sight she would savour...

Then she looked down at the brother, grateful for the relief he granted her. “Please...” A whisper only.

Yes, he had asked her not to beg. He had told her that it would make things worse for her. But no matter: it was pure instinct to beg for the pain – and the fear – to stop. “Please, please don’t do this to me....” Her eyes met his, and for a split second, she hoped to see a glimpse of mercy dawning in them.

"Our mutual friend said we could do this to you, you know."

No, he didn’t!

The words did not make it out of her mouth. Elena knew that the Englishman was lying now, and yet it was as if cold fingers closed around her throat, making it harder to breathe. Not the fuck now, don’t panic now, you stupid bitch...! Alexei would never allow this!

And yet here you are.

The thought, unbidden, could not be shaken off. Here you are. And has he not ordered you to endure anything that is asked of you? Has he not asked you not to disappoint him tonight?

Without knowing why, Elena pulled at her cuffs, strained against the man holding her, aimlessly, knowing full well how futile it was.

She could feel unwanted tears run down her face as she looked at him, and slowly shook her head, her eyes dark with helpless anger. “No...he...would never...”

She was interrupted by the groans on the screen. That sick fuck came, came in some cunt's mouth, while she begged for them to stop hurting her. It almost made her laugh, and she was unable to decide who was the most pathetic in their merry gathering.

Then the cruel Englishman had lowered her onto the edge again, and the pain wiped everything else from her mind, leaving room for nothing but more desperate screams.

Suddenly he wants to stop his brother seeing Elena. He stands between them.

Her screams are exquisite. Every elegant line of feeling on her flesh is so beautiful.

He sees how to make the pain more haunting.

He takes hold of each of her nipples, between thumb and forefinger. He twists, and lifts.

The pain in her cunt is relieved, but only at the expense of terrible pain in her breasts.

'This is how it is. This is how I want you.' His green eyes seeking hers out.

'What the fuck are you doing to her now? Show me!' says the man on the screen.

His stupid brother. So easily satisfied.

He steps to one side, just holding the one, right nipple, twisting it harder because his brother can never get enough of the sight of a woman's pain.

'You know, Elena. The most terrible thing.' His voices softer now. He lets go of her nipple. Her clitoris is riven again by the sharp edge. 'My brother wants only his own pleasure. But I want yours.'

With his free right hand he reaches below them, into the kennel itself. There is a large white vibrator. With a flick of his finger he makes it whirr.

'I will only let you down – stop fucking screaming for a minute will you and listen? - if you come for me. I will only lift you off, and comfort you, and give you hope for a life beyond this, if you come for me, astride the wooden pony. Now, are you ready for me to rock you back a little and begin to vibrate your poor sweet clitoris?'

Yes, he wanted her in pain, he wanted her to suffer, Elena had understood as much. The pain travelled now, from her cunt to her nipples, it crawled up and down her spine, exploded in her mind in cruel blasts. It was a game for him, for both of them, and despite the Englishman’s words Elena failed to understand why anyone, any man, would seek pleasure in a woman’s real suffering, how anyone could see the beauty behind a tear-streaked face, deaf to pleads of mercy. No wonder the Englishman had not worried about a safeword.

His eyes bore into hers as he told her that he wanted her like this. Elena had been abused by sadist bastards before, by men (and women), the sad lowlives that had been the clients of her first pimp. Indeed. But Alexei never inflicted this kind of pain on her. Never without her consent.

'My brother wants only his own pleasure. But I want yours.'

She smiled without humour. “Do you?” Her eyes followed his hand, she did not trust this man, and feared what he might think would bring her pleasure. A dry laugh escaped her throat when she saw the vibrator, in her mind’s eye, she imagined it being shoved up his ass. Yes, that would bring her pleasure indeed.

'I will only let you down – stop fucking screaming for a minute will you and listen? - if you come for me. I will only lift you off, and comfort you, and give you hope for a life beyond this, if you come for me, astride the wooden pony. Now, are you ready for me to rock you back a little and begin to vibrate your poor sweet clitoris?'

Her eyes were glued to his. Yes sir. That was easy. She could do him that favour – the vibrator would help, and much like the gag reflex that kicked in if she stuck a finger down her throat she would come for this bastard and earn at least a speck of his mercy.