If You Love Me Page 2

  “Yes, Comrade Officer.”

  “You will work hard for the state,” he said. “You will strive to produce enough information to save your miserable life.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Thank you, Comrade Officer.”

  “There is one final thing.”

  “Comrade Officer?”

  “You will not have sex. No man will enter you, nor will you touch yourself.”

  “Yes,” she swallowed. “Comrade Officer.”

  “We will make you good and hungry in the coming weeks.”

  “Yes, Comrade Officer.”

  “You will not cheat, will you, little tesraya?”

  “No, Comrade Officer.”

  “That is good, because the eyes of the state are everywhere. Tell me,” he mused. “Do you think rightly with regard to property?”

  “Private property is theft,” she quoted what every small child learns. “All goods belong to the people.”

  “Very good,” he approved. “And what of our persons? To whom do we belong?”

  She had not heard this precise question before. “To the people, Comrade Officer?”

  “The people, yes, and to their designated agents, in the party and the state, yes?”

  “Yes, Comrade Officer.”

  “And what of your pussy?” he continued. “And your tits and ass? Are they not the property of the State and its agents?”

  “Yes, Comrade Officer.” Her breathing quickened.

  “Say it, then.”

  “My pussy,” she breathed. “My tits...and my ass are the property of the State and its agents.”

  “Will you ever again allow a filthy capitalist to touch State property?”

  “No, Comrade Officer.”

  “Who may use you?”

  “The State and its agents, Comrade Officer.”

  “Would you like help, Comrade Julyana, in remembering this little lesson?”

  “Yes,” she said woodenly. “Thank you, Comrade Officer.”

  “Agent 345,” said the first officer to the second. “Uncuff Comrade Julyana and give her a lesson.”

  “Gladly,” said the man with the deep voice and the big hands.

  “Comrade Officer, is he going to rape me?” she asked the bespectacled man.

  “I already told you, the state pussy which you carry between your legs is not to be used for now. Your lesson will be of a different kind.”

  That different kind of lesson was corporal in nature, in the form of a brutal whipping from Agent 345. He used his belt. She was forced to lie on her back, spread eagled, naked. Unlike with Bentham, who at times would caution her to silence, the policemen encouraged her to scream.

  She thought the agony would never end. There was nothing sensual, nothing erotic in the whipping. The police agent found her every weak spot, every square inch of soft flesh, blasting it with layer upon layer of slashing fury. Her entire body throbbed with the pain. She longed for an act of kindness, even words of torment or teasing to relieve the constant stress. One blow upon another, administered with professional brutality. The skill of a State torturer used to extracting confessions and cowing enemies into submission.

  Julyana ran out of tears and screams, too. The last ten blows caught her completely limp, unable to react at all.

  “Enough,” said the first agent. He tossed Julyana’s coat on top of her head. “Wait fifteen minutes, and then go home,” he ordered.

  They closed the door behind them. Leaving her to her private misery. It was the beginning of the end for Julyana—a life of submission and bondage that was not to end until her death two decades later.

  Putting her clothes on over her agonized body, Julyana went home for a bath. She was shamefully excited by the encounter and longed to masturbate, imagining the agents’ cocks pummeling her sexual opening.

  She was too terrified to disobey their orders, however. For all she knew there were listening devices in her apartment, spies at the keyhole. Forced to burn, unsatisfied, she enjoyed a sleepless night. The first of many.

  The next day she began her career as a spy, one her daughter Catia would emulate years later. Boresniko and his assistants were arrested along with the gang of black market money brokers with whom he dealt.

  Several other criminals were exposed as well, including a pick pocket bell hop and a cook who took home bottles of wine from the hotel kitchen.

  Julyana was about to receive her reward—a chance to submit to sex with the two secret policemen—when a new development occurred. Namely, her second missed period. A trip to the nearest State clinic revealed that she was in fact pregnant.

  The secret police determined she should have an abortion. Julyana made a desperate appeal to the Commissar. The man agreed to see her on account of the beauty of her face...and his partiality to pregnant females. Julyana visited him once a week, spending a standard fifteen minutes on her knees.

  She was allowed to give birth to little Catyiana, who took the name of her father. Julyana continued to work as a maid, though, this was only a small part of her responsibility to the State. Julyana became what was euphemistically known as a Mikrosh Heshaya, a female of the People. In practical terms, it meant her small, bare apartment was visited by officials all hours of the night.

  Some of them brought little treats for Catia, sweets and tiny paper dolls. The little girl was often required to amuse herself while the men took her mother into the bedroom. Catia knew better than to disturb them. She seldom heard noises, though on occasion there were moans and whimpers, even an occasional cry. Julyana beseeched her users to allow her to wear a gag. Most showed mercy in this regard, though there were a few hardcore sadists who wanted to hear her suffering.

  Julyana sought to strike the balance, giving what was required without causing undue fear for her daughter. She attempted to convince Catia that it was all a game, role playing between her and her male friends, the way she played with her friends at school.

  Catia accepted her mother’s explanations with all the trust of a young child. She grew in a surprisingly happy and well adjusted way. Always at the top of her class and well behaved, she was consistently awarded the ribbons of Red Achievement in her classes.

  As for any stigma associated with her mother’s position, there was none, owing to the iron fisted rule of a regime which tolerated no criticism of its behaviors.

  Things began to change somewhat as Catia grew older. Lacking a father figure, she began to seek out the attentions of Julyana’s male visitors, regaling them with recitations of her essays and even performing patriotic songs for them while they sat spell bound upon the couch in the small living room.

  Although Julyana was loathe for her daughter to be exposed overly long to these same men who beat and used her on a regular basis, she had little choice but to stand by for Catia’s shows.

  “You can’t expect to hide the little gem,” said the bespectacled agent, who by now was graying at the temples. “She’s bound to attract attention sooner or later.”

  Increasingly, Julyana was afraid one of them would steal her daughter away, eventually making her a prostitute or state slut just as she was.

  “I ask nothing for me,” she pleaded. “I seek only her freedom. Surely I have served enough for both of us?”

  The agent grasped her breasts, no longer as firm and springy as they once were. “Nothing is more tiresome than an old slut. Except perhaps an old slut with a big mouth.”

  Knowing she had pushed things too far, Julyana fell to the floor, kissing the man’s feet. “Forgive me, I have forgotten my place. I beg to find it again—your cock shoved to the back of my big mouth.”

  “You may occupy yourself kissing and licking my ass for now,” he pronounced.

  “Yes, Comrade Officer, thank you, Comrade Officer.”

  A lifetime of sexual servitude had taught Julyana instant compliance, along with genuine thankfulness to be of use to the men. To accept a load of their come, in any of her orifices, gave her the highest peace
and pleasure.

  Sometimes, when they were in a good mood and she was being especially pleasing, she would be allowed to come herself. Her favorite position was on all fours, a collar fixed around her neck, the man’s hands in her hair, or manipulating her breasts. A few even managed to perfect the art of spanking and fucking her from behind both at the same time.

  Julyana was always hungry for sex, thanks in large part to the chastity belt she was made to wear. The iron mesh allowed her to use the toilet and to clean herself, but she was in no way able to touch or get herself off.

  The keys were held by her lovers, each of whom could remove it, for pleasure...or for pain. Julyana was quite servile and always eager to earn the right to come. Just to have the belt off long enough for a fuck was a tremendous privilege. There was a chair in her bedroom, quite luxurious for a woman of her means. It was not for her but for her masters. They would sit and watch her, sometimes giving her a limited amount of time out of the belt, say three or five minutes to bring herself to climax. Other times they would command her to mount them, bouncing up and down on their erections until either they or she or both would get off.

  It was a perfect system of control, training Julyana to crave the very acts of degradation which brought her ever lower in the eyes of the men.

  Catia seemed to sense this, which was another reason she gravitated towards them. By her twelfth year, she had already figured out how to get them to side with her against her mother when it came to getting her own way.

  Catia gradually lost respect for her mother, and Julyana was powerless to stop it. She loved her daughter, but she could give her nothing in the way of power or strength.

  Another thing that Catia began to feel was a strange jealousy. Why did these handsome, clever and powerful men want to spend time with her mother at all? Why go back in the bedroom sometimes for two or three hours with a woman who was, in Catia’s ideas, impossibly old and faded.

  “I know what you do back there,” Catia told her bluntly when she was fourteen. “And I hate you for it.”

  Strelkov, the replacement for the old Commissar, himself intervened shortly after Catia’s seventeenth birthday. “You must let your mother be,” he told her. “One more year. And then I promise you, when you are eighteen, you will enter into a new and fabulous life that your mother can only dream of.”

  One weekend Strelkov took her to the capital, where she met a bearded, heavy set man, whom he introduced as the Minister of the Interior.

  “Did I not tell you?” bragged Strelkov. “Is she not everything I said?”

  The Minister dismissed the Commissar and spent several minutes talking to Catia alone. Julyana, terrified for her daughter, grilled her upon her return.

  “Why are you so paranoid?” The black haired Catia dismissed her auburn haired mother. “We spoke of perfectly innocent things. Paintings. Ice cream. He likes chess, as I do.”

  “You must promise me,” said Julyana. “You will never go near such a man again.”

  “I will do no such thing,” she snubbed. “Why should I listen to a fool like you? Look at you! Nearly forty and what have you done with your life? A maid? A simple, run of the mill slut.”

  Julyana struck her savagely across the face. “You will not speak to me like that. You want to know what I have done with this life? I have preserved your existence, you ungrateful creature. See now what it pays me?”

  “I hate you,” said Catia, the tears of adolescence in her eyes. “When I grow up I will find my father. I will go to the West and get the life I deserve.”

  “Ignorant child! Your father will never care for you. He only wanted what he could get from me. I am nothing to him and so are you.”

  “Liar!” She cried. “You’re the one who drove him away. I will win him back.”

  Catia ran away that day, armed with a small suit case and the picture of her father which Julyana had saved from a state trade newspaper of long ago.

  Julyana shouted at her as she stormed down the stairs. “There’s nowhere to go, you little brat. Everywhere’s the same. You’ll learn, you’ll learn soon enough to submit—be it to your minister or a common soldier, it’s all the same when they’ve got you where they want you.”

  The outburst was uncharacteristically brash for Julyana. There was a time not too many years earlier when her words would have been reported by a neighbor to the police, resulting in her interrogation.

  Things were changing, however. Winds were blowing across the political landscape, a new man sat in power to the east in the Kremlin and his watchwords were perestroika and glasnost.

  Within a few months of Julyana’s fight with her daughter (a conflict which had ended in Catia’s sullen return from exile just a few hours later) the Interior Minister was gone, along with the prime minister and the Secretary General of the party, too.

  Just like that, the old dictatorship had fallen.

  Julyana’s steady stream of visitors dried up as one by one her lovers met their end. The Commissar, beaten to death by a mob of tractor factory workers, the secret police agents, found shot to death, suicide in their own bathrooms.

  For the vast majority of Voldovians, it was a time of celebration, an ushering in of a new era of peace.

  For women like Julyana, however, branded as collaborators with the old regime, the change in politics meant new dangers. And possibilities of terrors far worse than anything dreamed up by the communists...both for her and for Catia.

  Chapter Two

  Within hours of the pullout of the Russian troops and the fall of the Voldovian puppet government, Julyana’s hypocritical neighbors attacked her and Catia, denouncing them as communist stooges. Both women were brought before the city’s interim emergency council, made up of members of the trade union and banned democratic parties.

  Catia was to be sent to do volunteer work in the capital, while Julyana would stay at home performing ‘national service.’ The nature of that service was made clear as soon as the screaming Catia was dragged away.

  “Strip, Bolshevik whore,” ordered the eldest of the small roomful of men.

  Julyana removed her dress, an action she had performed on command thousands of times before. Fortunately, she no longer had the chastity belt on, the key having been entrusted to her by one of her last visitors from the old government.

  “Silk,” spat the man, noting her fancy bra and panties. “You must have served your communist masters well.”

  “Take them off,” said a unionist in disgust. “You don’t deserve underwear.”

  “Please, sirs,” she cried. “I’ll do anything. Only don’t harm my daughter.”

  “Of course you’ll do anything,” he laughed. “And I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, too. As for your precious Catia, I shouldn’t worry. Unlike your Red masters, we are not rapists.”

  Julyana unhooked her bra, allowing the black material to flutter to the floor. She felt ashamed, of the gift from Sergei of the KGB, as well as for her hard nipples.

  “You like this, slut?” said a man.

  “Hands at your sides,” ordered another as she sought to cover the evidence.

  A hand shoved her back. “They asked you a question,” barked the provisional policeman.

  “N—no, Sir,” she stammered. “I don’t.”

  “If you are lying,” warned the unionist.

  “I’m not, I swear.”

  “Check her,” he ordered.

  The policeman spun her about.

  “Wait,” she cried, before he could put his hands down her pants. “I am wet, it’s true.”

  “Lying whore.” The policeman slapped her hard, sending her to the floor at his feet.

  “Get up,” he ordered coldly.

  Julyana rose to her feet, terrified, aroused. “Forgive me,” she said huskily. Hooking her fingers under the waistband of her French silk panties, she skinned them down, for all to see. “I offer my body for punishment.”

  “You’re old,” said the unionist. “Your tits sag. You
r cunt is dried out.”

  Tears came to her eyes. She was not as bad as all that. “I’m well trained. I can please men.”

  “I bet you can.”

  “Turn around.”

  She revealed her ass, well scarred.

  “I see you’ve suffered,” he laughed ironically. “For the anti-Soviet revolution...just like us.”

  “Except this slut took her beatings to give pleasure to her masters. Didn’t you, woman?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Speak up,” the policeman clamped her nipples, yanking her breasts hard.

  “Yes,” she winced. “They got off by beating me.”

  “And you enjoyed it.”

  “I learned, Sir...to accept.”

  “Pain, humiliation?”

  “Yes, all of it.”

  “It is all you know,” he said contemptuously.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then we shall see you receive a steady diet.” The man unzipped his trousers behind the table. The others followed suit. “To work, girl, it is time to pay your sentence to the free nation of Voldovia.”

  Julyana lowered herself to her hands and knees on the linoleum floor. She crawled, head lowered. One by one, beginning with the leader, she took the men’s cocks in her mouth, not daring to do less than her best. Straight to the back of her throat, no gurgling, no gagging, good suction, good tight motions...and complete swallowing of their come, every last drop.

  The men continued to conduct their business as she serviced them. Three more communist sex slaves were dealt with, though not as mercifully as herself. Two were whipped with the policeman’s belt as they writhed at his feet while the third was forced to take his baton in the narrower of her two openings. She moaned the entire time and in the end she offered thanks for their discipline.

  “Send her to the new house,” the leader ordered, sentencing her to the brothel they were apparently setting up. The other two girls, the one’s who’d been whipped over their naked bodies were also sent to the house.

  Julyana was allowed to return home to her apartment to await further instructions. And so began a new stream of visitors. Democrats, this time, avowed anti-communists, though their brutality was hardly less than the men of the old regime.