Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“Let’s just say it keeps this base hidden,” Horakovsky told me, the condescension so thick I almost laughed again. “In a way beyond anything my enemies have at their disposal.”
He turned to Mila and Katya, his appetite to dominate me further clearly whetted.
“Girls,” Horakovsky commanded, “take your new friend to the theater. The prime minister and I will join you shortly to observe her… orientation.”
Katya stepped forward first, her blonde waves catching the light as she moved with practiced grace despite the precarious heels. “This way, please,” she said softly, her voice carrying a slight accent I couldn’t place.
I followed them on legs that felt disconnected from my body, the plug making each step an exercise in concentration. We passed through corridors that maintained that bizarre hotel luxury—Persian rugs, brass fixtures, artwork that probably cost more than most people’s houses. Other passages branched off into darkness, and I caught glimpses of things that didn’t match the refined décor: heavy doors with electronic locks, security cameras in every corner, men in tactical gear standing at intersections.
The theater they led me to was intimate, perhaps thirty seats arranged in tiers facing a small stage. Red velvet curtains framed the proscenium, and professional lighting equipment hung from exposed beams. It looked like it belonged in an exclusive private club, not sixty meters beneath the Arctic ice.
“Up here,” Mila said, gesturing to the stage. Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic, as she guided me up the steps.
I heard Horakovsky and Takken enter behind us, settling into seats in the middle row. The soft creak of leather, the clink of glass—Horakovsky must have brought drinks. My skin crawled knowing they would witness whatever mortifying ‘preparations’ Mila and Katya would be forced to perform on me.
Think of your Herra. The small, reassuring voice in my mind tried to find purchase over my thoughts. Your mission. The world tree.
Under the stage lights, Mila’s and Katya’s hands were gentle but businesslike as they dressed me in the same humiliating outfit they wore. The black garter belt cinched around my waist, the clips cold against my thighs as they attached the sheer stockings. My feet, still numb from the cage, barely registered the towering heels they strapped onto me. I felt like a doll being prepared for display, which I supposed was exactly what I was.
“Now,” Horakovsky’s voice carried from the darkened theater, “show your new sister-whore how we express affection here.”
Mila’s eyes met mine again, and this time I was certain of the apology I saw there. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, so quietly only I could hear. Then louder, for the audience: “On your knees.”
I sank down, the hardness of the stage floor making my eyes water. It seemed absurd that I even noticed the additional discomfort given everything these horrible men had already done to me.
Mila approached first, her delicate fingers tangling in my hair as she guided my face between her thighs. The scent of her arousal mixed with expensive perfume, and I realized with a twist in my stomach that she was genuinely wet. Whether from fear or conditioning or something else entirely, I couldn’t tell.
“Use your tongue,” she instructed, her voice carrying that same apologetic tone even as she pressed my face closer. “Please. Remember I did it for you?”
The please wasn’t for the men watching. It was for me—a desperate request for cooperation that would make this easier for both of us, though I could also hear a lust in her voice that made me clench between my thighs to my dismay. I understood. We were both victims here, both trapped in Horakovsky’s sick game—and neither of us could keep our bodies from taking helpless pleasure in the shameful things they needed. So I did what my Herra had trained me to do, what my body knew how to do despite my mind’s revulsion at the circumstances.
My tongue found her clit, circling with the technique Mila herself had taught me. She gasped, her thighs trembling against my cheeks. I worked steadily, mechanically, trying to bring her to climax as quickly as possible. When she came, it was with a soft cry that sounded more like relief than pleasure, her whole body shuddering as she released my hair.
Katya took her place immediately, less gentle than Mila but no less desperate to get through this performance. Her fingers gripped harder, her hips moving against my mouth with an urgency that spoke of practice, of having learned that finishing quickly meant less prolonged humiliation. She tasted different—muskier, with a hint of something bitter that made me wonder what else she’d endured today.
When Katya climaxed, grinding against my face with abandon, I heard Horakovsky’s approving grunt from the audience. “Good. Now the bench.”
A padded bench appeared on stage—Vassily must have brought it while I was servicing the women. They positioned me on my back, my wrists and ankles secured with leather straps that had clearly seen frequent use. The position left me helplessly staring up at the stage lights, until I saw Mila’s backside approaching.