Belok's Bride Read online

  A low groan issued as she slipped immediately into the first of many orgasms to come.

  “You will be mine, Vistya,” Belok breathed onto her neck, the unreal air scorching her skin. “I shall rebirth you in pleasure and pain…mine now and forever.”

  Merritt, she tried to argue, I am Merritt.

  But the whip was back, the subtle invisible tendrils, searing her skin, invading her pores and every orifice, leaving no marks, but doing damage all the same.

  “Forgive me, Lord Belok! I beg to be put back into my place. I am your wife, my lord, and your slave. I am Vistya. Beat me and fuck me into submission. Vistya begs her master to be brutal with her.”

  “Come, step into my mind,” he whispered.

  Merritt found herself on a velvet couch in a bedroom of red marble, her cuffs of steel replaced by gold. Above her loomed the man, eyes like burning blue sky, and hair of silver. So very beautiful. And so very deadly.

  His voice was the hiss of a snake. “No more Simon Rutledge. You obey me and no other. I shall speak to you through my minions, and you will do what you are told. I wait for you, little slut, do not disappoint me.”

  “No, never.” she choked.

  “Remember well this lesson. Even the air you breathe is at my whim.”

  “Yes…I understand…my lord.”

  Satisfied, he delivered a single kiss to her cheek, causing himself and the surroundings to vanish. “We will rule together. You and I, over the whole of the world…forever.”

  For an instant, then, she saw through his eyes the kingdom he sought. Apocalypse. War upon war, a slaughtering such as the world has never seen. And in the midst of it all, a merciless black hand clenched into a fist.

  “Sleep tight,” Belok whispered. “My queen.”

  Chapter Four

  Merritt awoke before dawn, the handcuffs biting into her wrists. She tugged at the bracelets in a blind panic. So she hadn’t dreamed it. Belok, or someone claiming to be Belok, had convinced her to attach herself to the headboard. And she’d done it, the key a million miles away on the nightstand.

  Along with the dildo. Had she used that on herself? It didn’t seem possible, but something had filled her and gotten her off, something very real and un-ghostly. She shook her head. She must have been drunk, imagining things again. Only she hadn’t any hangover now. Just the sharp adrenaline rush of knowing she was in the worst predicament of her life. Who would get her out of it? Someone would find her, but that might be more embarrassing than laying here, her life ticking away.

  She was supposed to go to the Institute. Dr. Karisvan would be waiting. They were sending a car and when she didn’t show up downstairs they’d ring her room and she wouldn’t be able to answer.

  The telephone on the nightstand! That was her way out. If she could reach with her feet, maneuvering herself just so, she could knock it off the hook and maybe get the front desk. Manipulating her bound body, Merritt planted her feet, sliding herself across the bed. The first swing of her leg was a miss. Likewise, the second. The third, however, did the trick. The old-fashioned gray rotary dial phone was on the floor, wailing its protest in methodical beeps. Like the sound of the police car that had escorted her here the day before.

  Just one day ago and not a million years the way if felt.

  Someone would investigate now, she was sure of it. The noise alone would rouse the neighbors. How had the sheets gotten so wet? she wondered. Was it all perspiration? It was sticky under her back and buttocks. She’d had an orgasm or two. That was it. Her cunt and tits had been untouched by human hands but stimulated nonetheless.

  By someone. Or something.

  All at once the familiar tingle started in all over again as she realized how helpless she was. Anyone could come in and do anything he or she wanted with her. All it would take was a gag—her own panties or a washcloth would do in a pinch—along with a quick wrenching apart of the legs and she would be good to go for any and all takers. It wouldn’t be true rape, either, because she was throbbing and moist, growing wetter by the second in anticipation of a lover.

  Any lover.

  No longer Merritt the scholar and teacher, she was Merritt the slut, a hot piece of arse, blonde above and below, waiting for a man. A hard dick in her mouth, backside or else in her virgin pussy. The one that Belok had told her was his. Just a little while, he’d said, and he’d be strong enough to take her. Somehow she was helping him, allowing him to remember, to reconnect with the world. Merritt looked down at herself, wondering about the whipping. She could swear he’d been punishing her severely, lacing her skin with welts and incisions but by light of day she could see nothing at all, not a mark. Another illusion, she supposed.

  She was afraid now. He’d told her so much, things she couldn’t repeat to anyone. Things about obedience and about how she would be like Vistya—no, she would become Vistya, that’s what he’d said. And if he failed her, she would pay a terrible price. But it must be more hallucination, the product of her overwrought mind. There was, after all, no confirmation of any of this, least of all the bizarre visions at the end of a new world order, an unspeakable violence like a blanket of doom over the whole earth. A doctor is what she needed. A psychiatrist even, if that’s what it took to clear her head.

  There were demons in the family. Her father ran from them all his life. She was just thirteen when she’d discovered the bottles of liquor and the metal links on his bed by which he attached his women. So many of them, sweet and young, giving Merritt little kisses on their way in or out. Some were whores who took money. Others were free spirits living what her father called the “lifestyle” of bondage and submission.

  Once she’d stolen a length of his silk ropes and used them on herself. Never had she felt so alive as when her limbs were restrained with her sex splayed, and she had no choice but to give in to the feelings her hands could produce. But that hadn’t been nearly as kinky as the vibrator or the handcuffs. These were new. Signs of her decadence, of her going over the edge.

  When the word came about Roger’s accident, she was in her first semester of college in an algebra class. She’d refused the dean’s entreaties to leave, opting to stick out the lesson just as he would have done. It was only later at the graveside that the tears came. For days after, they didn’t stop.

  Merritt started as she heard the noise at the door. Someone was knocking and calling out her name.

  “Miss Fisher, are you in there? Are you all right?”

  She was tempted to call out, but what would she say? Help, I’m naked, covered in my own dried juices and I’ve chained myself to the bed at the behest of a seven hundred year old spirit and could you get me some room service, I’m starved?

  “I’m here,” she replied dimly, anticipating the shame about to rain down on her head. “I—I can’t come to the door.”

  “Miss Fisher, is that you?”

  “Yes…I’m…trapped.” She was louder this time.

  “Trapped? I should come in, then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Metal plunged into metal, the tiny key scraping and tripping the tumblers of the lock. As the knob yielded, Merritt’s heart seized up. She was about to make the most difficult introduction of her life. Desperately, she tried to burrow under the covers. If anyone saw her like this, they would rape her, she was sure of it.

  “Miss Fisher?” The bellhop was young, no more than twenty. He had broad shoulders, dark eyes and a long, Roman nose. The mouth had little laugh lines, and he seemed more boy than man.

  Merritt confirmed the fact, feeling as though it were a confession, an admission that it was indeed she herself, the holder of this year’s Richtman Prize for outstanding medieval research, who had fallen to this level, like a sinner of Sodom and Gomorrah exposed to light of day.

  His eyes took in the situation, drawing the obvious, brutal conclusion. “You were raped?”

  Merritt choked on the words. “No. I wasn’t.”

  “Someone did it because you wa
nted them to?

  She shook her head.

  The implications took a moment to sink in. “You did this to yourself?”

  Christ, did he have to keep dragging this out?

  “Yes, I handcuffed myself and fucked myself because I enjoy it. Now if your curiosity is satisfied, there is a key on the nightstand, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Yes, of course,” he shifted himself, attempting to hide the raging erection. Merritt’s original hope based on his youth and apparent guileless expression began to fade. She could see the conflict in his eyes. On the one hand he should be gallant. On the other, here was a once in a lifetime opportunity, a nude, helpless older woman, ripe and sexy and very much at his mercy.

  Would he stay a boy or turn into a man, right before her eyes?

  “Look, I really need your help. As you can see, I’m quite stuck like this. It’s been all night, and I need to pee.”

  He licked his lip, a quick darting motion. “You need to pee…Miss Fisher?”

  She squeezed her thighs. “Please, I don’t want to go in the bed.”

  His eyes lit up. It was beginning to dawn on him exactly how much power he had over her at this moment. “I’ve never seen such a sexy woman. My girlfriend, she is not so, how do you Americans say—hot to trot?”

  “Yes, I understand, but can you let me up?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I think I would like to handcuff my girlfriend like this, too, so that she can serve me for sex. What is your first name, Miss Fisher?”

  “Merritt.”

  His hand moved to his crotch, rubbing. “And your middle name?”

  “Anne,” she offered, her voice reflecting the heartsick realization that she was a very long way from obtaining her freedom.

  “Annie. I shall call you Annie. Pretty Annie. I am Petrok Ungul, Annie. Will you pretend to be my girlfriend?”

  Merritt stifled her whirling emotions in favor of total pragmatism. “I would be honored, Petrok, now can you get the key?”

  He beamed, caught up in his own game already. “We will pretend that you have handcuffed yourself like this to surprise me, Annie. To let me know that you want to belong to me.”

  “I do, Petrok. I am very hot for you. But, please, may I go to the toilet? I promise afterward, you may do as you wish to me.”

  Like hell, she thought, calculating the time it would take to run out the door.

  He smiled. “You’re trying to trick me, Annie. Now how about if you show me your body instead. Lift your hips. Go up on your heels like you’re fucking the air. Is your little pussy wet, Annie?”

  “Yes,” she grunted, making a total slut of herself. It was a painful position, especially with her hands chained down, but she did her best, offering him the pleasures of her flesh.

  Petrok came over to slap her taut up-thrust belly, tight as a drum, the flesh stretched over her ribs. “Would you like to be fucked by me in this particular bondage position, Annie?”

  The oddly formal phrasing of his English caught her ear off guard. “I’m a virgin, Petrok. I’m sorry I can’t…”

  His hand caressed her sex, the movements large and naïve, but all too effective in her current state of arousal. “You have never been taken by a man?”

  “Never.”

  He appeared to reconsider her status for a moment. “But you have done other things?”

  “Yes,” she swallowed, the effect of his fingering taking its toll on her pussy.

  “Tell me about them.”

  Merritt’s breathing quickened. “Yesterday. I sucked a man in an elevator.”

  “You took a penis in your mouth?”

  “I did, Petrok. On my knees.”

  Petrok slapped her thigh twice. “You’re a bad girl, Annie.”

  “Petrok, I need to pee very badly…please?”

  “You’ll go all right,” he announced, his voice low now and menacing as he retrieved the elusive key. “But it’ll be as the slut you are.”

  Merritt’s freedom as he undid the left cuff was short lived. She’d barely had time to sit up and rub her sore wrist when he was reattaching the cuffs between her back. “Petrok, what are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you to the toilet.” Pulling at her arm, he compelled her onto her feet. Merritt’s steps on the floor were shaky. It felt like years since she’d navigated herself on her own two legs.

  “But my hands,” she protested as he dragged her into the tiled bathroom.

  “You won’t need them,” he pushed her into the shower. “You can squat over the drain.”

  Merritt tried to climb back out. “This game has gone far enough. Let me go!”

  Petrok opened his buckle and slid his belt from the loops. “No, Annie. Now I must punish you for disobeying me.”

  His pass was awkward, but it caught her full on the front of the thighs. She looked down at the wide red streak, scarcely comprehending the pain, the reality. He was rearing back for a second blow when she lowered herself over the drain, conceding his victory.

  “I’ll do as you say! Don’t hit me again!”

  Petrok restrained himself, his attention refocused on the shamed, squatting girl.

  “Look at me,” he told her.

  She did, her chained hands useless as the first little bit came trickling out of her. The tiny rivulets widened as they ran over her thighs. Soon it was a gush, hot and yellow, completely uncontrolled. The dark eyes held her, driving home the basic point. She was his to do with as he pleased, little more than an animal, pissing in plain view, her cunt and tits exposed, ready for any abuse she might be called upon to suffer.

  Merritt’s body burned with her release. It was almost sexual and as the urine flow began to wane, she felt a pulsing and throbbing. Was this the moment, she wondered when she would finally lose her virginity? Would this young man be the one, this Petrok with his playful imagination and sad brown eyes?

  Petrok wrinkled his nose. “You stink of your own piss. Stand up and spread your legs. Hands over your head.”

  She did so in time to feel the blast of ice-cold water. Petrok had turned the spray all the way to the “F”, short for frisag, a derivative of the English word frigid. Merritt leaped backwards, but there was no quarter from the stinging needles. She had no choice but to let it pelt her breasts and vulva, raising goose bumps everywhere on her skin. Teeth chattering, miserable and subjugated, Merritt endured the torture, too miserable to complain and too overwhelmed to resist.

  “You may thank me for cleaning your slutty little body,” he turned it back off.

  “Thank you,” she shivered.

  “You are grateful for my kindness, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  She was only partially humoring him now. Another part of her was meaning every word she said.

  He unzipped his red uniform pants. “Then show me with your mouth.”

  Merritt went to him, kneeling without hesitation on the tile. Dripping wet, still shaking, she took his member between her lips, soaking up the delicious warmth, not to mention the feeling of being able to serve a man. Unequivocally. Moving her head eagerly, her wet head shaking out like a rat’s, she took as much as she could manage. Petrok was smaller and thicker than Vonya and he was fresher, too, the glow of youth still about his skin.

  It was odd, because this one wasn’t but a few years younger than Vonya and Timor and yet the latter pair had seemed so much older, worn out, somehow. Perhaps it was life in this country that did it to a man, forcing him to live with the weight of so much history. It was no wonder they rebelled, like the boy at the airport who’d refused to let his girl defy him.

  “That’s it,” he groaned, feeling his way into the maturity of a much older man, “suck me good…suck me like my girlfriend should.”

  Merritt slurped greedily, needing the contact, the feeling of being filled and controlled. It was getting to be like a drug, this submission. All a male need do now to win her over was to stake his claim, to enforce his right to all the cruelty he p
leased on her person. No roses, no candles, just the sheer leverage of power.

  How she wished she’d been able to do this for Simon, to show him how he’d affected her and how he’d gotten inside her head. At the same time, though, she hated him, most of all for his arrogance, for his toying with her and leaving her so charged up. What kind of a man teases a girl like that? Some protector he’d turned out to be. He hadn’t prevented this scene, had he? Left to her own devices, she was a pure mess. No wonder she had crazy dreams and shackled herself to the bed.

  It was for this reason she’d never wanted a boyfriend. You become dependant on them, and then they leave you high and dry. Lena was always complaining about the men in her life. Yet she had the nerve to try and fix Merritt up on dates and get her steady partners. The world of books and ideas is where she belonged, in history, working for her tenor, well on her way to hard-earned old maid status.

  “I’m going to come,” Petrok announced, his hips beginning to tremor.

  Merritt felt a wave of panic. Penises were still new to her and their power frightened her.

  “No!” he declared with surprising firmness when she tried to free her mouth, “You must take me like a whore. You must swallow like the whores in the Pristiene District. Have you seen them, Annie? The old uncles tell us there was nothing like them in the communist days, with their thin dresses, tits hanging out, their bodies eager and available for only a few coins. Faces pretty and sweet, ready to do what you tell them to. On their backs, on their knees, bent over the hood of your car if you have one. I save my money. I will buy a new motorcar, then I drive to Pristiene like a rich man and I will pick out all the whores I want. And my girlfriend will sit in the car and watch, and she will learn her place. She is a woman. I am a man.”

  Petrok's speech was punctuated with measured thrusts as he used Merritt’s mouth for a pleasure vessel. Was it a national trait, she wondered, to mix sex and political speeches? Certainly to a man, they all seemed to want their women subjugated. In America, she called all the shots and if a man stepped too close she could scream sexual harassment. Not here. Here it was dangerous, unpredictable and…free.