The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica) (3 page)

A fucking machine.

In essence, I am not really seated, but
attached instead to this uncomfortable machine with its huge
appendage buoying my ass, fixing me in place. I can only thank my
lucky stars that it isn’t switched on.

None of us feel like speaking. A collective
dread pools in our chests, and our bodies are as heavy as anchors.
There is simply no use to hope. No platitudes about getting out of
here are going to cut it. Because we are
not
getting out of
here. There’s no ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card in this board game of
our reality.

In essence, I got the boys into this. The two
people I love best in this world.

Yes, I do love Greg. I also love Max. But
differently.

It’s all extremely complicated.

Footsteps sound outside. I jerk my head up,
feeling the strain in my thighs. My vaginal walls are sore. Well
used. The dildo fills me like a warm presence in this horribly
chilly room.

Latches outside are undone. Bolts shot from
home. The door creaks open.

A couple of guards step inside first. One of
them catches my eye. It’s the very same one who has fucked my ass
so thoroughly in the truck. He’s very officious today, and his face
does not betray a muscle.

They line both sides of the door to make way
for Potchenko.

The dictator steps into the cell. I haven’t
seen him in such a long time that I’m taken aback by how handsome
he is. How commanding. He immediately infects the atmosphere with
his palpable charisma and aura. Our backs straighten despite our
cruel positions and our necks force our heads up.

He is naturally followed by Aimelie, his
daughter. She is dressed in one of her little girl frocks, but this
time, she doesn’t sail in like a puffy pink cloud, the way she
normally does. Her face is scrunched up in some sort of expression
that suggests irritation.

But Aimelie is different and ‘special’, so
what passes off as irritation for someone else might probably be
murder in her case.

My heart sinks. I believe I know what this
is.

They have come to judge us.

Potchenko eyes the three of us in our state –
bound, humiliated, subjugated . . . and guilty as sin. We are
guilty of trying to flee our contract. Guilty of misdemeanors far
outweighing offenses punishable by death.

He says something to Aimelie, and she says
something back in that singsong voice of hers. Her face is
unreadable, as is his.

I have an awful, awful feeling about
this.

Potchenko faces the three of us.

He says, “My daughter and I have discussed
this. We have decided that all three of you must be executed to
serve as an example to my citizens and guests. We cannot allow you
to demonstrate such behavior even though you are American citizens.
On our land, your lives are our jurisdiction and it is for us to
dispense punishment as we see fit.”

Even though I expected this, I feel faint.
The only reason I’m still sitting up is because I am held by the
iron grip of my confines. My vision blurs and my head lolls upon
the suddenly limp stick of my neck. There is a bubbling in my
stomach that cannot be solely attributed to acid.

I can’t see how Max and Greg must be feeling
because of my watery vision, but I assume they are every bit as
stunned. And upset.

This is confirmed as I hear Max’s voice
through the roaring in my ears.

“But you can’t kill us,” he is saying. There
is an outraged tone to his voice. “Even if our lives mean nothing
to you, it will certainly mean a lot more to my father, who will
move heaven and hell to get us out of here, including going to the
President of the United States.”

“We are well aware of that,” Potchenko says,
“and we are willing to go through with it. But your disobedience
requires the same punishment as my subjects. To let you remain
alive would cause unrest amongst my people, who must be ruled with
an iron fist.”

Yes. I know this. That’s why I’m so
frightened. But I made a choice, and I dragged my friends into it.
Now we must all pay the price. Could it have been better to let Max
remain Aimelie’s slave forever? It was not so much that Potchenko
despises us or is extraordinarily cruel to us. But he must uphold
his own laws, or his people will revolt.

He has no choice.

Or does he?

Potchenko says, “But Aimelie has requested a
slight change in procedure.”

Oh? I raise my head warily.

Aimelie’s expression turns cunning. The
madness shines in her eyes.

She says, “Since she is in love with two men,
let her choose between them. The one she chooses will die with her
a speedy death at the Guillotine. The other shall be burned alive
at the stake.”

4

I am paralyzed with terror. I cannot choose.
They have removed me from the cell – from my two boys.

“You’ve had all your time with them,” Aimelie
says cruelly. “Now it’s time you choose.”

We are all dead people walking. It’s only a
matter of time.

I can’t make the choice. I can’t.

I am alone in a cell. They have removed my
restraints, and I am in total darkness. I think they are keeping me
in darkness because they want me to think. This isn’t an Edgar
Allan Poe short story situation. There are no physical pits waiting
for me to trip and fall into, even though there is a very physical
pendulum at the end.

My demons are entirely psychological.
Monstrously so.

I am ceaselessly thinking, just as they
desire me to. My mind spins with the painful turntable of
possibilities, every one of them as awful as the other. I picture
Max at the Guillotine and Greg in flames, writhing and screaming
like in the ninth pit of hell itself.

And I find myself really screaming. Screaming
into the darkness, my cries echoing off the uncaring walls. If
anyone hears me, they choose to ignore me. Maybe they want me to
undergo this catharsis.

I don’t know how long I have been
incarcerated here, but I have to stave off my own madness. I have
to maintain all my faculties for Max and Greg. I got them into
this, and I have to get them out of it. If not totally, then as
peaceably and painlessly as I am able to.

I sleep between starts and fits. My
nightmares are filled with terrifying images – possible paths down
our terminable future. I see Max in my visions – golden and
handsome and commanding, as I have known him. I see Greg – warm and
sensitive and caring. I love them both. God help me, but I do.

How can I allow either of them to befall this
fate Aimelie has chosen for them? I curse that woman with a
thousand oaths. I hope all her teeth fall out and that she rots in
hell. I curse Russell Devlin for allowing his son to be ensnared in
this. I curse and curse the fates until I’m trembling and shivering
and crying and all wrung out with sorrow.

Then I lay my head against the cold,
unyielding wall and sob my eyes and heart out. Until I have no
tears or sorrow left.

When they come for me after an indeterminate
amount of time, I am ready with my decision. My tears have dried
upon my cheeks. My skin is sticky and sweat-streaked.

My erstwhile guard comes for me. He regards
me warily, and I have no doubt that he heard my screams through the
night, and he thinks I’m a wildcat about to spring on him. Maybe
even claw him to bits.

“Do you have answer?” he asks me in broken
English.

“Yes,” I say calmly. “Tell Aimelie I want to
speak to her.”

He complies with my request, leading me up
the dungeon stairs to the draughty rooms above. I remember this
pathway well – up, up, up the stairs to Aimelie’s bedroom, filled
with bright and idealistic Ikea furniture.

Two guards are waiting by the door. I enter
the tower room, holding my head up high, even though I am naked and
dirty and I smell like rats’ droppings. Aimelie is in bed – alone.
She is in a flouncy powder blue ballerina dress, and her legs are
open and splayed. Her crotch is bare.

She is caressing herself with a vibrator,
touching her clit with it in a slow downward stroke – from the top
of her wrinkled hood to the bottom, where it meets her vulva. She
does not stop this repetitive maneuver as we march in. Instead, she
smiles at me enticingly.

“I have made my decision,” I tell her. I meet
her eyes head on. “If there is only one person to be burned at the
stake, I want it to be me.”

5

The hour of our public execution is scheduled
the very next day. I think they want to get it over as soon as
possible before Uncle Sam can get wind of it and strike. That is,
if anyone outside Ursk even knows of our predicament. It’s probably
wishful thinking. I have read of people being murdered in Middle
Eastern countries, and no one knows what is happening until a
relative raises a stink weeks later.

But the deed is already done. No one went to
war over it. The dead Americans were swept under the rug and
ultimately forgotten under the umbrella of secrecy and
investigation. Maybe indie movies were made about one or two,
especially if they were journalists, but no one went to watch them.
Thereafter, their memories became a footnote.

Will someone make movies about us one day?
Maybe a National Geographic episode? Or something like ‘Midnight
Express’?

They shepherd me into the back of a truck.
Max and Greg are waiting inside with a cluster of guards. Unlike
the one we were previously in, this truck has two darkened windows
fitted into its sides so that we can observe the proceedings
outside.

If we wish to.

Our hands are cuffed behind our backs and we
are completely naked, as before.

“Gina!” Max cries as soon as he sees me. He
tries to surge ahead, but a guard catches his arm to stop him.

“Gina!” Greg’s voice is equally
anguished.

The windows offer scant light, but at least I
can see the faces of my two beloved boys. They are weary and
care-lined and angst-ridden. I am aware that this is the last time
I will ever be seeing them again. The tears are openly running down
my cheeks. If I had thought I was all cried out earlier, I was
wrong. There is so much more sorrow and tragedy still to be wrung
from me. My heart is a fluttering piece of leather – altercating
between spasms of pain and numbness.

“Max,” I cry out as I weep, “Greg. Please
forgive me. I brought you into this.”

“No, you didn’t, Gina,” Max says, stoic till
the last. “You tried to save us.”

“I should have left things well alone. At
least you would have been alive!”

“Alive, but as dead in my head and heart as
any other prisoner. What sort of life would that be?” Max’s eyes
are tearing as well. “No, it was my decision to come along. I chose
it gladly, and I don’t regret any moment of it.”

I turn to Greg, my stomach wrenching. He
shakes his head.

“It was my decision to escape as well. Stop
blaming yourself, Gina.”

“We won’t let you go through with it,” Max
declares. “They told us what you did.” He shudders. “What you
offered to do.”

“I told them that I would be gladly burned
alive in your place,” Greg says. His eyes churn with a kaleidoscope
of emotions – overwhelming in the outpouring of his love for
me.

A pang shoots through my heart.

“No,” Max argues. “They will burn me
instead.”

“No! I cut a deal with them.”

The two boys glare at each other.

“Shut up, all of you,” one of the guards
says. His English is surprisingly good. From the epaulets and
medals on his jacket, I assume he is of higher rank. “None of you
will burn. Ms. Aimelie, her Greatness, wants to see who you would
choose. Nothing more.”

That clams the three of us up.

But only for a moment. My jaw falls,
unhinged. The blood drains from my head to my legs. I suddenly feel
dizzy.

They put us through this psychological
torture . . . just to play us like a cat would with a mouse before
it eats its prey? Oh, but if she were standing in front of me now,
I would claw Aimelie’s eyes out. I would pull out all her hair. I
would scratch out her nose and ears and every appendage I can get
my hands on. But I know that won’t happen, so I can only satisfy
myself with visions of making it so.

I feel my fists bunching up. I’m stoked with
relief, but also outrage. Anger like I have never known it
before.

The guard adds, “But you will still all die
at the Guillotine.”

Yes, of course. Thank you for putting us
firmly back in reality.

I am numb as both the boys embrace me. My
arms go around them, and we enfold one another in a group hug as
the truck rolls off. No words are spoken. No words are needed.

“I love you,” Max says to me. He shifts his
head slightly to face Greg. “And I love you too.”

“I love you,” Greg says to both of us.

“And I love you,” I whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m
sorry, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry we won’t be able to say goodbye to
any of our loved ones. I’m sorry I won’t be able to call my parents
to tell them I’m not coming home. Ever.

“It’s not your fault,” Max mumbles.

But I believe in my heart and bones that it
is as the truck rumbles towards the execution plaza.

6

The buildings become familiar – those Gothic
golden spires and walls awash with color. The gargoyles look down
upon us minute beings, seemingly in condemnation. The carved angels
do not shed stone tears for us.

As we approach the plaza, I can see the top
of Potchenko’s formidable statue, standing thirty feet tall. He is
our judge and executor. He will be one of the last sights I will
ever see. A crowd mills around the plaza – quiet, gloomy. Once
again, I see television crews and mounted cameras. Another joyous
event to be broadcast to the citizens of Ursk, no doubt.