Prisoner 54-780: Property Of The State by Rose Thornwell
In Stefan's homeland, political prisoners are numbered sluts, sex submissives to be abused and exploited by the government. As a natural submissive, Stefan is easily duped by a female rebel and arrested for treason. Under the direction of the sadistic Major Ivana, the sensitive young poet is transformed into Slut 54-780, a pleasure animal craving every form of violation and abuse, from cock and ball torture to anal rape.
Slut 54-780 becomes a model prisoner and is eventually farmed out to state brothels as a sissy submissive for the use of high government officials. Stefan's sentence is for life, but under a peace treaty with a neighboring country he is released and given asylum. Stefan seeks to build a new life, but unexpectedly Major Ivana shows up, two secret policemen in tow. The Major informs him he is still her property - and that of the state - so long as his ass bears the tattooed stamp of his shame. Stefan submits yet again, and becomes the Major's servant in a diabolical plot to destroy the government of his new country.
Reeling under the weight of flashbacks from the past, Stefan seeks to hold out. Will he find his own identity, or will he remain Ivana's slut?
Contains graphic accounts of male degradation, submissive training and forced sexuality and feminization. Deep psychological D/s, sissy boy training, electrocution, rape, corporal punishment and golden showers. Highly arousing and passionately intense examination of the roots of male masochism and female sadism set in a darkly erotic landscape. Every page sizzles and the ending will leave readers begging for more.
“Such a tough man,” she pursed her ruby red lips and blew a kiss, reminding me what a maddeningly beautiful woman she was. “Too bad you still need diapers.”
I followed her eyes to the line of wetness down my trouser leg. I had not realized until this point that I had pissed myself. Reddening with shame, I felt the strength drain from my limbs.
Once more I thought of the kindly immigration men, behind their large mahogany desks. This should not ever happen, they told me. We have a strong border, and besides, there is peace now between our countries, but if someone does come for you, remain calm and show no fear, no hesitancy.
“Search every room,” said the major general to the two men.
They pushed pass me, all sinew and muscles and duty. Undoubtedly they were secret police agents of my old homeland’s government. A government that had held me in its grip until my release across the border eighteen months ago.
I was left alone with the woman in the foyer, feeling naked all over again, more exposed than if I’d been tied down and beaten, once more back in the political prison which had been my home for more than two years.
“I do not know how you got here,” I managed, using the last of my strength, “but you have no jurisdiction.”
“You’ve done well,” she ignored, scanning the visible parts of my well furnished, two bedroom quarters. “Treason must pay a high premium these days.”
My back was up. Despite my shock and my wet pants, I was determined to defend myself, even to this dark-haired demon, she whom I had both loved and feared, longed to kill and craved to worship.
“I was released by diplomatic initiative,” I reminded her. “I was given asylum. This is my country now.”
Her features darkened, the eyes narrowing in a way that made my knees shake. “Rostalya,” she hissed, spitting upon the thick pile carpeting.
I clenched my fists at the curse.
She had, in effect, called my new apartment, my new life, my new country, and by implication me myself the lowest kind of whore pig from a land of whore pigs. It was a word that went back centuries and centuries, its very utterance stirring the blood and reminding anyone who heard it of the honor of our people and the blood we have shed fighting our traditional enemy, whose hospitality I now enjoyed.
“The time for war is passed,” I said. “And for tyranny.”
A smile came across the face of the major general, second in command of the secret police and reputed lover of the dictator, General Gurgarov. She was radiant, positively glowing. It had been so long now, or so I thought—eighteen months, three days and ten hours, but not nearly enough to become immune to her powers, the sheer attraction of her being. She was like a hurricane, a storm made of knives that could tear me apart body and soul, whose no country’s laws could command or curtail.
“You even speak like a traitor now. Apparently your time in my custody was insufficient for the reformation of your character.”
She was unbuttoning the trench coat, preparing to remove it. I despaired at once, for if I should see more of that magnificent body, even clothed, I would be doomed. “You must leave at once,” I tried to keep my lower lip from trembling. “You are trespassing, and I will call the police. They will deport you or arrest you.”
The heavy garment fell to the floor. “After all the trouble we went through to smuggle ourselves across the border to see you? Not very sporting of you, is it?”
My cock stiffened of its own accord at the sight of the general’s red dress. Clingy, low cut, hinting tantalizingly at the near perfect body beneath.
“I have missed you, Stefan.” She was purring, running her tongue over those lips. These had been my world at one time, the giving of them and the taking away from me, and even now I had the nightmares, of her licking and kissing. And biting.
“I—I have a girlfriend now.”
It was a mistake to say this, a fatal one. I cursed myself at once. Had I become so soft in this new land, so used to the ways of democracy that I had forgotten to protect myself and my loved ones from my old enemies? Where we are from, to admit a lover means you have something else to lose, someone else to be taken away, never to be seen again, or worse still, abused before your own eyes till you give in to their demands.
“Really?” Ivana’s brow arched. Behind her eyes danced the light of new and imagined tortures. She was most like a cat by nature; that one animal that drags out the kill to an art form, exhuming suffering from its deepest levels, raising and prolonging it to a state of perverse and almost exquisite beauty. To be the victim of such a being was a bizarre kind of honor. Certainly she had taught me in her brutality much about the depths of my own nature and my fundamental origins as a beast, a male animal.
“I have money,” I blurted, feeling myself on the ropes as they say in American boxing. “My works have done well here.”
“Yes, you are rich from your poetry.” She spoke the word as though I should be ashamed of it and indeed by the standards of my homeland’s brutal tyranny it was shameful. My rhymes spoke of struggle and emotion, of the desire to be free and the need to be one’s own person apart from any government.
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