Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) Read Online Free PDF

feet from the floor. I can see
the cream and mauve tiles and my semi-reflection upon them. My arms
trail helplessly down. If my ropes were to tear in any way, I would
be heading for a very nasty bump.
    But at the same time, Greg’s penis is snug
and heated inside my vagina, and even if his movements are
encumbered, it’s a glorious sensation of being possessed and
filled. He moves his hips against mine, massages his groin into me
to give me more pleasure.
    Mansk moves towards us again. Down there on
the floor, he’s oddly smaller than life. He looks up at us
ominously.
    “Do not come by any means or there will be
punishment,” he warns Greg.
    I did predict it wasn’t all fun and
games.
    Music begins to play – a European techno beat
which is strangely contagious and makes me want to bump and grind
my hips. But we were given a warning. Do not come . And here,
the punishments may be worse than a slap on the knuckles.
    Our trapezes begin to sway, buoyed by some
hidden mechanism up in the ceiling. I gasp in fear. I am rapidly
losing my equilibrium – my sense of self. The floor arcs below me
maddeningly. Any moment, I am afraid my ankle ropes would unwind
from their precarious moorings and send me plunging onto the hard,
hard tiles.
    Meanwhile, Greg’s cock inches in and out of
my pussy with each roll of the pendulum. It is not a vigorous
movement. His pillar of flesh contracts and expands within me in
mere centimeters – but it is enough to make me extremely aware of
his cock being there . . . and the fact it is by no means a tether
to keep me attached to the bars.
    Everyone else is also in motion one way or
another. Max’s hoop is spinning slowly. Every time his ass rotates
towards me, I can see the club sticking out of his ass.
    A commotion buzzes through the grooms and the
guards on the floor. The doors open to admit Potchenko, more
bodyguards and a girl who can’t have been more than nineteen, which
makes her essentially my age. She wears pigtails. She wears a
flouncy pink dress with sequins and ruffles, like a circus
performer. Her rosebud mouth is curled in a petulant little
pout.
    Something tells me that this dark-haired
vixen is important . . . and that she is going to cause us a whole
lot of havoc.
    The grooms are all bowing and scraping as the
little entourage weaves their way across the floor. The girl chats
to Potchenko in their own language, pointing at everything and
gesticulating excitedly.
    “Who is that?” I ask Mansk in a low voice.
I’m not sure he can hear me over the din. It’s strange to be
speaking to someone when you are swinging in arcs.
    “That is the Great Leader’s only daughter,
Aimelie. He spoils her . . . as you Americans say it . . . like a
rotten egg.”
    I hear Mansk’s lowered voice in undulations.
Louder when our arc traverses towards him, and receding when we are
away.
    “I don’t think we add in the egg. Where’s his
wife?”
    “His wife died in childbirth. He had a
Western doctor fly all the way from England because he did not
trust doctors here. Most of our doctors are quicks anyway.”
    “You mean quacks.”
    Mansk ignores this. “But she still died of
many blood loss. He blame the doctor and had him beheaded. It was a
hush hush incident.”
    The horror bubbles in my gut again,
threatening to run up my esophagus.
    “But surely the doctor didn’t mean for it to
happen?”
    “He did not have the necessary equipment. But
the Great Leader was the son of the then Great Leader, his father,
and there were conspiracy arguments of assassination by the West.
We will never know. But be aware of Aimelie.”
    His tone is guarded, as if he too has to
beware of her.
    “Why?” I am amazed that I am having such a
long conversation with Mansk amid so many prying eyes and ears. But
maybe he’s feeling unnaturally loquacious after his sister’s
execution.
    “She is not . . . how do you say it? Right in
the head. The Great Leader knows it too. Got her the best doctors,
but her