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

mind is not normal. And in spite of that, what she wants,
he gives.”
    Oh? So he spoils his deranged daughter silly.
Despite me telling myself that everything is going to be OK, the
alarm bells of premonition clang.
    Something is going to happen to us, I can
feel it.
    “Gina?” Greg’s soothing voice reaches me.
“Don’t think about it. It’s going to be OK. We’re all protected by
laws of the contract.”
    “I’m sure the good English doctor was
protected too,” I say bitterly.
    Greg keeps silent. His cock shifts inside my
vagina.
    Potchenko and Aimelie approach us. They look
up at our joined bodies. Up close, Potchenko is as handsome as ever
with his stern mustache. I feel a tremor of apprehension.
    “The American slaves,” Potchenko says in
English, possibly for our benefit. “You can practice your English
with them, yes, my darling?”
    Aimelie claps her hands in delight. “Yes,
father. Can we see them closer? Can you cut them down?”
    And just when they had gone through the
elaborate do to put us up there.
    Nevertheless, what Aimelie wants, Aimelie
gets. She observes us in shining-eyed wonder as the grooms lower
the trapezes and dislodge both me and Greg. I feel a pang of regret
when Greg’s cock slips out of my vagina. This time, the clowns take
good care not to molest me. No surreptitious stroking of my clit.
No pinching of my pussy lips. No sly plunges into either my vulva
or asshole.
    Max too is taken out of his hoop and dragged
toward us. The clowns unkindly left the club in his ass. He is
disheveled, sweaty and beautiful. Both my boys are beautiful, with
their gleaming muscled bodies and huge erect penises, standing at
attention for the newcomer’s perusal.
    The moment she lays eyes on Max, Aimelie’s
stare goes wide. Astonishment flits across her face, and then a
zealous, almost religious fervor comes into her eyes.
    She squeals and utters something to her
father in her own tongue.
    “English, Aimelie, please. You need
practice,” her father chides her indulgently.
    Part of me wonders if we have been purchased
to also be English teachers to Aimelie. Stranger things have
occurred.
    “Father, he is beautiful.” Aimelie goes up to
Max. She starts to caress his face, his golden hair. Her actions
are reverent, in awe. “He is an angel.”
    A cold foreboding washes through me.
    Aimelie’s hands wander down my boyfriend’s
chest, pausing at his nipples. Then she slowly slides her way down
his abs – rock hard and solid – the way I like to touch him. She
gropes his stiff prick, so straight and tumescent, and plays with
it – rubbing its head this way and that, running her fingers over
his corona and the compressible vein that runs up his shaft. She
cups his firm balls.
    Max’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say or
reveal anything. His eyes are justifiably wary.
    Aimelie turns to her father, still squeezing
Max’s balls. Her face is shining. “Oh father, can I keep him?”
    “He is ours on loan for a month.”
    “No. I mean . . . can I really, really keep
him here? Like in forever?”
    In dread, I study the earnestness on her
features. She’s dead serious.
    Her father looks at us and says, once more in
that loving, fatherly tone that no one outside this castle has
probably heard:
    “Yes, my darling.”

5
     
    Max says tersely. “You have no right to keep
us here beyond our contract.”
    I’m wondering if I’m in a nightmare myself.
Then again, Potchenko may be trying to humor her as though she is a
child who will be promised a dangerous toy to keep her quiet –
which will then at the final minute be taken away before she can
put it into her mouth.
    I’m desperately praying that will be the
case. I need to talk to Mansk. Mansk knows this motley family of
crazies intimately.
    Mansk strides up to Max and backhands his
face. ‘Speak to the Great Leader only when spoken to, cur.”
    A red splotch appears on Max’s right cheek.
He doesn’t raise a hand to it. He’s too stunned . .