Free The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica) by Aphrodite Hunt

 
THE SEX SLAVE’S FINAL PUNISHMENT
     
    1
     
    We are caught trying to escape.
    The worst has happened. Our doom is written
all over the Urskan stars as we are bodily hauled into state police
trucks – black, opaque and forbidding. Max, Greg and I – the
official sex slaves of Potchenko, the Urskan dictator – are put
into one truck, and Mansk and his family into another.
    Before he vanishes, Mansk’s eyes hold mine.
There’s a resignation in them, and a finality. They seem to say: We gambled . . . and lost .
    A painful pang scissors my chest.
    I feel really bad for Mansk and his family. I
know we made a deal for their asylum in the States, but I’m
terrified for them now. His boys are only children. Suri, his wife,
is the warmest, kindest person I’ve ever known. What will Potchenko
and Aimelie do to them?
    I picture the Guillotine blade falling upon
the slender neck of Mansk’s sister, and I shudder in dread.
    This will be my probably fate too. And that
of Max and Greg. What must I do to bargain for their lives, if not
my own?
    Some part of me whispers: You’re an
American. They can’t really touch you.
    And another part, a far larger one perching
on the other side of my shoulder, says: They can do whatever
they want to you, and no one will be the wiser.
    The dread pooling in the pit of my guts is
like a whirlpool, sucking me down into some infinitesimal
abyss.
    The covered interior of the truck is dark and
musty. Two fixed benches line either side of the walls. Four burly
guards clamber in with us. Max, Greg and I huddle on one side while
they fill the other. The engine starts up. The sudden rocking of
the truck suggests that we are off to goodness-knows-where and
goodness-knows-what-they-will-do-to-us.
    I feel ill. It’s not only because of the
rocking. The guards eye us with the intensity of wild dogs sizing
up their prey. We are fresh meat to them now. In captivity, all
conventions are thrown out of the window.
    Max reaches for my left hand. I give it to
him, and he squeezes it hard. On my right, Greg does the same.
These gestures are not lost on the guards.
    As the truck rumbles on, we vibrate. I have
to strain every ounce of my muscles just to stay where I am. Thank
goodness I am stuck between Max and Greg, whose warm bodies succor
and prop me up. We do not speak to one another. I don’t want to be
the brunt of some unwritten rule that political prisoners will be
strung up and beaten if they so much as uttered a foreign word.
    I do not like the way the guards are looking
at me, as if I’m a particularly juicy piece of steak. Max and Greg
obviously feel the same from the way they are – with their tense
body language and strained body frames – protecting me. Max has his
hand gripped around my forearm in a possessive manner, while Greg
has my fist clenched tightly in his. If any of the guards wanted to
floor me and spread my legs, I don’t think either of them could
have done anything.
    We travel for a long, long time like this.
There are no windows in the back of the truck, and the only light
is a solitary naked bulb that sways from the top. The back is
covered with a tarp. A sliver of light from outside peeks through,
and I realize it is morning.
    The truck jerks to a stop. Are we there yet?
I don’t want to know where ‘there’ is. The Guillotine podium. The
public execution stage, all prepped for the glorious spectacle. My
chest is washed of all feeling and color, and my brain is as numb
as if I had run it through an overdose of poppers.
    The trouble about worrying over something for
as long as I have is when the event actually comes to pass, you end
up feeling nothing. Just a big empty void. All the worrying and
anticipatory grief has been wrung out of you already and there’s no
sap left inside your casket of emotions to be squeezed out
anymore.
    Can they do this to us? We are American
citizens! My indignation raises its cobra head again. Indignation
is good. It makes me proactive. Less like