I stumbled into the medical room over the smaller dungeon for Dr. Khachaturian to examine me. The Good Doctor rubbed me with oils and lineaments to ward off frostbite, but her smug expression mocked me as a weak, vulnerable American at the mercy of her Motherland.
For good measure, Countess Vronsky drew near and slapped me twice, forehand and backhand. “That’s for leering at Sasha.” The three of us knew quite well the Countess had taught me months earlier—painfully—to lower my eyes respectfully for either woman to escape such punishing blows. But we also knew Countess Vronsky did as she damned well pleased, and if I objected, I could go freeze my ass to death. When they exchanged giggles, my cock rose.
Countess Vronsky bade Percy to bring piping hot mugs of borscht to the three Russian policewomen. After assuring that the nourishment satisfied the lady guests, he wrapped a coarse robe around me and gave me a mug of borscht, and dutifully refilled each mug upon request. Percy and I complied with the will of the Countess. I ate ravenously to bolster my stamina for the Countess’s whip. She was so eager to beat me she nearly salivated. Percy fulfilled his servile duties to comply with the whims of the Countess—although he and I despised each other.
Our Goddess fostered hostility among us Slaves by shrewdly segregating us. When she forced a Slave to perform menial chores, such as Percy clothing and feeding me, she beat us savagely if one Slave spoke to another. Some assholes spoke to other Slaves intentionally, enduring their own beating just to punish Slaves they detested. After Countess Vronsky turned total strangers into sworn enemies, she judiciously doled out basic comforts like food, clothing, and shelter to fuel our jealously and manipulate us into hating each other.
God only knows what we Slaves would do to a slave suspected of receiving individual, sexual favors from Countess Vronsky! She entertained us with group masturbations, and I was about to become her costar.
Strapping a collar around my neck and attaching a leash, Countess Vronsky led me to the massive Great Hall in the Ice Palace. I left my trusty boots in the operating room after the foot gear had served me so well on the tundra. Now I wore slippers.
The stone walls arching high to the cathedral ceiling lent the occasion a quasi-religious feeling. Nothing in the Ice Palace, of course, actually resembled ice. The mansion took its name from the frigid Siberian climate and the temperament of the woman who designed it—an American descendant of Russian grandparents, Catherine Roman.
In the blink of an eye, the Countess whisked my robe away and shackled me, spread-eagle, with two manacles suspended from crisscrossing oaken beams and two more anchored to the stone floor. She tied my neck leash on a hook in one of the beams so that I would, in effect, choke myself if I let my knees buckle.
The Russian policewomen made wagers in one corner. The other ten slaves, shackled ankles linked by heavy chains, shuffled as close as Countess Vronsky would allow them. Although Countess Vronsky intended to have a dozen Slaves at all times, her hot temper drove a slave or two away occasionally. They were in various stages of sliding condoms on their cocks; many already had boners at the sight of Natasha’s lithe body highlighted in burgundy latex.
Countess Vronsky was to beauty as Lon Chaney, The Man of a Thousand Faces, was to horror. She could change her countenance dramatically enough to make a chameleon jealous. The fire she’d flashed on the tundra now froze on her face at the Ice Palace. She became the Ice Queen, a true disciple of her benefactress, Mrs. Roman.
Pointing dramatically to Percy, she decreed, “You’re exempt. Monitor the others.”
I gritted my teeth and looked stonily ahead, but nine other pairs of eyes stared daggers into Percy. Countess Vronsky’s favor guaranteed retaliation from the other slaves. They’d punish Percy at the earliest opportunity, and the Countess would either turn a blind eye to Percy’s agony or beat the other Slaves senseless. Her mood would determine her mode of pleasure.
Countess Vronsky stepped behind me and cast her whip like a fishing line, snapping the tip as it touched my flesh, slicing open my first wound of this session. Ten Slaves cheered loudly. My cock stood ramrod straight, proud to be the instrument of the Countess. Over in the corner, the three Russian women stared wide-eyed, actually licking their lips. They forgot their bets while they enjoyed Showtime.
My Goddess adroitly cracked her whip again, drawing more blood and eliciting another roar from the slaves. “Do you hate me yet?”
“I shall always love you.”
She lashed me twice, savagely, in quick succession. “Strong words from a weak man. I’ll break your will.” Her whip lacerated my skin once more. “Again. I’ll make you my bitch.” Crack! “Again.”
Gritting my teeth and wincing, I braced myself and shouted firmly, “I love you so much I could burst out in song!”
© Umbar Shakir, www.istock.com