Someone Elses Daughter (14 page)

She wanted to protest. She belonged to Victor Borzov. And she had a life of her own to lead. She couldn’t possibly belong to this man. However, her protest was stifled before it emerged.

“C F M!” he snapped, precisely pronouncing each letter.

Sara instantly dropped to her knees and clutched her ankles, spreading her legs widely and leaning forward until her breasts and right cheek lay on the floor, with her bottom obscenely upraised, offering a blatant invitiation: ‘Come Fuck Me.’ She knew that her sexual delta was on offer between her splayed buttocks. She remained like this, scarcely daring to breathe, her mind still racing.
What does he mean? He can’t own me!
From her abject position she was just able to glance up as he dropped his robe, and she saw a hard, lean body with a large, erect circumcised cock. Then he was crouching behind her, his knees on either side of her raised arse, and the moist bulbous head of his cock nuzzled against the lubricated ring of her anus. Without further ado, he pushed the head inside her. She gasped at the pain, her fingers tightening on her ankles. He withdrew and she gave a start when his fingers trailed over the tight skin of her tense buttocks. Then he pushed forward again, deeper this time, and she felt the cock fill her anal channel. He was as big as any man she had ever taken there, and his cock was only half-way in, albeit slightly unnaturally aligned in his crouching position.

“Relax and open up,” he ordered, “or my black eunuch will whip the skin off your back.”

A black eunuch? My God!
He laughed, as if reading her thoughts.
The bastard! It’s all meant for effect.
Then he thrust forward again, and this time the cock slid forward like a thick-bodied serpent. She wanted to caress herself, to press her fingertips against her clitoris, but this was prevented by the extreme bondage position. So there was just the hard shaft flesh in her anus, pressing inexorably forward, millimetre by millimetre, until his hairy hips pressed against her upturned buttocks. She moaned and ground her breasts against the smooth floor, wallowing in a rapture of humiliation and pleasure. He brutally withdrew his still tumescent cock, dragging at her funnel of tender flesh.

“Very nice but very tight,” Abdullah said. “I shall have you stretched.”

She knew enough to maintain her position but a tear escaped and ran down her cheek. The anal fucking had been so cold and dispassionate. He spoke as if he already owned her. Surely, that could not be? What about her business, her wealth, and her high-flying social life?

“Oh yes, I shall enjoy owning you,” Abdullah said, straightening. “What do you say, slave girl?”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Rocked back!”

Sara Smithson immediately, unquestioningly, adopted a kneeling position with her knees spread apart. Her legs folded back against her thighs as she arched backwards until the back of her head touched the floor. It was as if a heavy blow had rocked her back on her heels. Her pussy, the bow of her belly and her straining breasts were exposed to the multi-thonged dog whip which belaboured them. She moaned and looked up at the ceiling as she endured the stinging lashes.

Again, she remembered Vikto Borzov’s words when she had tried to resign all those months ago: ‘There is a ready market for young women like you, and I have a network of friends, any one of whom will keep a slave girl secure.’

THE END