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?”
© Michael Berkowitz www.michaelberkowitz.com