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If You Love Me: Catia's Surrender by Reese Gabriel Ebook ordering Cover Image Copyright (c) Michael Berkowitz www.michaelberkowitz.com

The Sexual Blackmail of Julyanna by Reese Gabriel,
M/f punishment, whipping
It's a hard life for the common woman under a brutal political regime, something the beautiful Julyanna knows first hand.

Copyrighted © 2006 by Reese Gabriel, all rights reserved.

 There is a saying in Voldovia: to the same hand, beauty and tragedy both.  To be born beautiful in such a harsh land is regarded not as a gift, but a curse.  Take the case of Catia, born Catiana Nikolovna, illegitimate daughter of a British contractor and a young Voldovian hotel maid by the name of Julyana.

Catia’s story begins with the sexual blackmailing of Julyana by the contractor, Nicholas Bentham, who threatens to report her in to the manager for dereliction of duty in cleaning his room if she does not perform certain favors.  In those days, under the communists, even the most minor of offenses could cost a citizen her job and perhaps even time in a dreaded Soviet re-education facility.

Once each day, for a week, Julyana was compelled therefore to go to Bentham in his room, sneaking in after working hours to submit to his sexual whims.  Bentham was an avowed sadist and very fond of rituals.

Julyana would begin by removing her clothes as soon as she entered the room.  She would then go to her hands and knees and crawl to him.  Bentham would sit facing the door.  In his lap he would have a short whip or a paddle.

Julyana would stop directly in front of him, head down.  She would kiss each of his feet, tasting the fabulously expensive Western leather, custom shoes made in Milan and London, worth more than she would earn in a lifetime.

Once she had abased herself properly, Julyana would take her place, draped over him, feet and palms on the floor, her naked crotch pressed to his trouser covered-erection.  Much to her shame, Bentham took to using a towel to shield himself from her moisture.  She had not intended to grow wet from the raw punishment, but she could not help herself.

Bentham encouraged her to move and called her tesraya—the Voldavian word for slut—whenever she gave in to moans.

“What are you?” he would growl, punishing her bare shapely ass with whatever instrument of discipline he’d chosen.

“Tesraya yechi,” she would say piteously.  “I am a slut.”

Bentham would wait until her ass was beat red and her pussy was glistening.  “You’ve gotten me all worked up, slut,” he would accuse her.  “Now what are you going to do?”

“Please, Sir,” she would recite her line. “May I satisfy your cock...in my mouth?”

“Only sluts lick cock,” he would snarl, striking her again, all the harder.

“I am a slut,” she would cry, broken, aroused and shamed.  “My mouth is made for cock...for sucking and licking.”

“You’ll take it all the way,” he would command in heavily accented Voldavian.  “You’ll swallow my come.”

Julyana was no stranger to men’s come.  She sucked the manager, and on occasion some of his assistants.  As a woman of no means, it was understood she would do things to be of use, to pay her way.

Bentham the Contractor was not so different from the others.  His English cock tasted much the same, as she would confess to her adult daughter after much vodka.

Although she did like the smell of his cologne, no man before or since ever had such a scent.  Sandlewood, with a hint of some great open expanse, green and wide and sweet.  She would picture him, in a coat of red, with black riding boots, on a white horse, chasing foxes as they do in England.  He would have a black, felt covered helmet, like she had seen once in a movie.

Such are the ways a woman passes the time, eyes closed, in surrender to a man’s lust.

One day blended into the next, five, six times, Julyana took the Englishman’s issue, and his stiff, punishing hand. She thought all was going well, especially when he gave her little treats.  A half a bar of chocolate, a fresh tea bag from the hotel stores.

Such things were worth a fortune in those days to one of her means. The Englishman would have given her small bars of soap or bottles of shampoo, but Julyana was much too terrified, lest her bag be examined by hotel security or one of the ever hovering plain clothes policemen.

Stealing from the hotel was punishable by up to five years in a work camp.  Staff had disappeared before for such things.

It was risky enough to be coming to his room.  The secret police could well be watching.  Bentham assured her they would not disturb her, but she had little confidence as to what would happen after he was gone.

Such were the thoughts on her mind the seventh day when she made her obligatory plea to take his stiff shaft between her lips.

Imagine her shock when Bentham broke with tradition.  “No,” he replied, wryly.  “You may not.”

Julyana blinked. “Sir?”

He was smiling slantedly.  “Today, slut, you will be given the honor of taking me between your legs.”

Julyana felt the jolt in her pussy.  Her body had secretly longed for this, for the man to possess her and complete his delicious denigration of her soul.  There was just one thing...

“Sir,” she said, looking down at his feet, embarrassed.  “I’m not...on any contraceptive.”

“Do you think that’s my problem?” he snapped.

“No, Sir,” she said softly.  There was more she’d wanted to tell him, but she didn’t dare.  There was no telling what he might do if he became angry enough.

“Lucky for you, I always use condoms.  Though that is for me, not you.  I’m not about to catch any diseases from you. How many men have you fucked? A hundred? Two hundred?”

“Only a few,” she replied, her face flushed.

He snorted. “I’m quite sure. Get on the bed,” he snapped his fingers. Legs spread wide.”

Julyana had never known a bed so soft, so large.  She nearly lost herself in the feather pillows, the down comforter, so many luxuries reserved only for party members and foreigners.

Bentham quickly reminded her of her place.  “Open your eyes, slut.  Who do you think you are?”

She cried out as he lashed her belly with his riding crop.

“Hands over your head,” he ordered as she sought to cover herself.

Tears stung her eyes as he punished her tender breasts, paying careful attention to her rosy pink nipples.  He did not stop until he had left welts across her torso.

“You may thank me,” he said imperiously.

“Thank you, Sir,” she sniffed.

“Beg for it,” he commanded, bringing the crop down on her pussy lips.

She cried out. “Sir, please...”

He lashed at her again and again until she was saying the words he wanted.

“Please, Sir, use me, go between my legs.”

“Play with yourself for me, first,” he knelt between her legs.  “Stroke your pussy, but no coming, not without permission.”

She wept with shame.  Never had she done such a thing, not even alone, much less in front of another man.  Feeling cheap and dirty, having no choice whatsoever, Julyana placed her fingers along the crack of her sex, parting her lips, pushing the tips inward.

She gasped at the sensation.

“Like it, slut?” he grinned.

Bentham pinched her nipple, hard, until she answered.

“I like it, Sir.”

“You like playing with your pussy like a dirty slut?”

“Yes...”

“Do you want to come yet?”

Julyana groaned, writhing in the bed.  “I...oh, god, I need to come, yes.”

“I thought you reds didn’t believe in God,” he sneered.  Taking her hand by the wrist, he yanked it from her sex.

Julyana whimpered.

“What would you do to come?”

She looked at him trapped, tortured.

He laughed. “You’d do anything,” he supplied.  “Anything at all, wouldn’t you?”

Her silence prompted him to slap her face.  “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” she blurted.

His smile was one of purest and cruelest triumph.  Slowly, very slowly, he applied a rubber to himself.  For his protection...not hers.

“Lift your hips,” he ordered. “Take my cock. And Lenin help you if you try and lie there like a rag doll.”

Julyana grunted, arching her back. He took his position over her, poised for conquest.  He made her work for it, impaling the tip of her open pussy on his uncircumcised manhood.

Finally, when she could bear no more, he blew her a kiss and slammed himself home, putting her out of her misery, knocking the wind from her in one merciless thrust.

Julyana couldn’t breathe.  He’d knocked the wind from her.  Still, she craved more, deeper inside her, his molten hot cock claiming her hole, owning it.

Bentham did not realize at first what he had done.  The spots of blood, the tiny ripping.  Julyana, for all her exploitation by the males in authority around her was yet untouched in that most important way.

The man pounded away, groaning out loud about how tight she was.  She cried out, a shrill sound.  He looked down, to see why he was so lubricated.

“Bloody hell,” he thundered. “You’re a virgin. You lied to me, you bloody cunt.”

Bentham continued to swear, working himself to a frenetic pace.  Julyana tried not to respond, but she couldn’t help herself.  The way he was taking power over her, his hands gripping hers, holding them down, his cock, pummeling her innards, his hard thighs, pinioning her, his chest flattening her poor breasts, his fierce eyes, and the sinews of his neck.  The smell of that damned cologne, Sandlewood, leather saddles, fox hunts and English horns.

Bentham moaned like a man mortally wounded as he finally reached his climax.  Julyana reveled in the strange sensation of a man coming inside her as if he could fill her womb.

At eighteen, she was a woman now.

Under different circumstances, a woman’s coming of age could merit celebration.  For Julyana, it would bring her only misery.  Beginning with Bentham’s reaction.  “Stupid slut,” he pulled back her hair.  “Why in blazes did you not tell me?”

“I—I didn’t want to make you mad.”

“Make me mad?  I could have made a fortune selling your hymen.  A pretty little piece like you.”

Julyana felt a slight glow at the man’s compliment, the first he’d ever given her.  “I wanted to please you,” she said softly.

He pushed her away, making her feel ashamed for her neediness.  “Go and rub yourself all over some proletarian dullard,” he snarled.  “I’ve lost interest in you.”

When she tried to object, he kicked her to the floor.  “Get out,” he said.  “Before I make you sorry you were ever born.”

“Shall I come back?”  She asked meekly.  “Tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer, which she took to be a sign of hope.

The next day when she came to his room, however, she found the Englishman gone.

In his place, answering the door was a man in a long black leather jacket.  The blood drained from her face.

“We’ve been expecting you, Comrade Julyana.”  The secret policeman bowed, ushering her in.  A second man was waiting inside; gray faced, with a scarred jaw and cold, cruel eyes.

“I came to clean,” she lied.

“Indeed you have,” smiled the first one, a pudgy faced man with wire rim glasses.  “The question is what have you come to clean?  Capitalist cock, perhaps?”

“Comrade Officer, I am innocent,” she blurted.

The man laughed, lightly. “Well...we are all innocent. Until we are interrogated.”  He gestured to the seat in the middle of the room, where Bentham used to sit. “Won’t you make yourself comfortable?”