Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3, Book 3)
    It comes to me sometime during my second week
in Ursk that Aimelie Potchenko is not only soft in the head, but
that she is utterly and truly evil.
    She has decided that she wants to wrest my
boyfriend from me. And not only does she wish to do this, she wants
to humiliate and torture me as much as possible like the icing on
her proverbial cake. She wants me to savor every moment of her
comeuppance and triumph over me.
    Take today for instance.
    Aimelie has ordered her guards to have me
brought to her chambers. I am naked and unwilling, but my contract
as a sex slave stipulates that I must obey her anyway. So when they
come to me, I obediently allow them to clasp my arms behind my back
with heavy iron chains. The two guards in their mud green uniforms
collar me in studded iron and attach me to a leash.
    As they do all this, their hands brush
repeatedly against my breasts, nipples and private parts. Their
faces are hungry and sly. It is as if they have not had the chance
to grope a woman in a long time, something that is fairly possible
in this place, I reckon. But their gestures are also gentle. One of
them lifts my hair and artfully arranges it around my shoulders in
a marvelous spill. The other strokes my cheek longingly.
    They speak to each other in their guttural,
sometimes harmonious language – none of which I can understand. But
their tone is admiring, and their lips are moist with desire.
    “What is she going to do to me?” I
    If they understood me, they give no sign of
    “ Tarqoay ,” one of them says to me.
    “ Tarqoay ,” the other one repeats.
    Whatever this Tarqoay means, I decide,
it surely won’t bode well for me. It’s only a matter of how much
humiliation I can take.
    They lead me up, up and up the stairs of a
strange tower to Aimelie’s bedchamber. It’s almost like a fairytale
tower – Gothic with steep, steep stone steps and a blast of wind
coming down from the slit windows. I think we must have climbed
five stories. My thighs are already aching when we get to the
    OK, so I’m not that fit, although my body is
a wet dream to these two guys, seemingly.
    We arrive at a pair of wooden doors strapped
with iron. The guards knock once, and then push the doors apart.
They bade me to enter.
    I step into the chamber, the apprehension
churning my gut once again. I’m in a constant flux of turmoil in
this place. I can’t sleep properly. The food isn’t exactly Michelin
three-star. Everywhere I go, I have to surreptitiously look over my
shoulder – expecting something awful to happen, like another
beheading or some other awfully creative method of execution.
    The doors open into a spacious lounge. In
contrast to what I was expecting, it is filled with modern
minimalist and extremely colorful furniture that looks suspiciously
as though it has been packed, sealed and delivered from Ikea.
    Uh . . .
    Well, I’m flummoxed. This completely throws
me off guard.
    The guard behind me prods my shoulders. I
take a tentative step forward to where he is gesturing – the open
doorway leading to the bedroom. Even before I move towards it, the
sounds that assail me are ominous. Gasps, moans and groans permeate
the air as I enter, and with dread, I recognize at least some of
    In the circular tower bedroom, Aimelie and
Max are entwined in some sort of passion play. Max has been strung
to the four bedposts with tight ropes. He is spread-eagled, his
beautiful body stretched upon his cushiony rack. Aimelie too is
naked and riding him. She gaily turns as I come in, her pixie
features open and laughing, her breasts flouncing and bobbing up
and down.
    My heart sinks.
    So she wants me to watch.
    I have seen Max fuck a whole host of other
women before, of course. And he has seen me fuck a whole lot of
men, including his own father – who made him guide the paternal
penis into my own vagina in some sort of pagan offering symbol. So

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