Free Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) by Aphrodite Hunt Page A

find myself focusing on the scar on his chin and
wondering what it would be like to be fucked by him. That is, if
Potchenko will ever permit him to fuck me.
    He proceeds to clip two silver clamps in the
shapes of pins upon my erect nipples. These are tight, cutting most
of my circulation off immediately. Tears squeeze into my eyes. The
clamps are connected to long silver chains, which he proceeds to
pull taut.
    He buries these within the petal-like folds
of my outer labia. The cold metal wriggles in between my sensitive
flesh, entrapping my tender clit hood in a vise grip. My poor clit
is imprisoned, and the plump sweet flesh that is trapped begins to
swell with pleasurable girth.
    How am I going to walk like this?
    The guards are decorating both Max and Greg
with similar accoutrements. They position me between the boys. We
stand in a line – one after the other: Max, me, followed by Greg.
Max’s nipple chains are wound around his balls and below his groin.
The loose ends are pulled taut to exit behind his buttocks, and
attached to my nipple clamps.
    My chains are in turn attached to Greg’s
nipples. The tiny links of metal jostle and rub fiercely against my
clit and secret folds of my inner labia, sending alarmingly erotic
sensations all over my pussy.
    My creams start to flow. They pool within my
snug passage – eliciting a different sort of electric tingle inside
my groin. It’s molten liquid against a raw fleshy massage.
    My poor clit throbs. I feel as though I can
spontaneously orgasm just like that.
    They handcuff our wrists behind our
backs.
    “Now walk out of the plane,” Mansk
commands.
    It’s difficult, I can tell you. Mansk leads
the way down the aisle to the open door. Max follows. The
uncomfortable tug on my nipples jolts me into movement and I
stumble – the crazy sensations in my clit and pussy running all
over like vibrating ants. Every step I take is labored, intensified
and oh-so-pleasurable. Every move I make comes with its own
battalion of waves and peaks, threatening to send me towards the
orgasmic edge any time.
    We troop down the stairs, our bare feet
treading upon the lightly studded metal. I’m trying very hard not
to trip and fall.
    A sight like I have never seen before greets
us. Truly, I was not prepared for this. The vista from the airplane
window only showed me one side of the airstrip – the wild, untamed
foliage of Ursk. But on other side —
    I suck in my ribcage. I cannot quell the
rapid thrumming of my pulse.
    Vladimir Potchenko stands before several rows
of his soldiers – a hundred men in each line. And beyond them
stretch thousands and thousands of people. The enormity of the
crowd which has turned out to greet us (no, actually him) staggers
me. There must have been twenty thousand people there. No, more
than twenty thousand. They blanket the ground like a sea of clothed
flesh.
    The airfield is just that – an airfield with
several buildings. But the fields that go beyond it are immense . .
. and filled with those silent, patiently waiting people. I swear
there isn’t a single murmur that ripples through the throng. I can
even sense the heat, weight and press of the bodies under the
Eastern European sun. A cool summer breeze sweeps from the distant
purple hills on the horizon.
    Have these people come to see us? I don’t
think so. We are just sex slaves. We don’t command that kind of
gravity and attraction.
    “Gina, you have to move,” Greg says softly
from behind me.
    The tug of the chains upon my nipple clamps
forces me down the steps of the aircraft. The chains dig harshly
into my pussy grooves, exerting their intimate tension. My clit
weeps for the compression upon its sides. It’s difficult to be
graceful when you are so encumbered.
    We go down the steps without event. I can
feel all the eyes of the soldiers and the people upon us. What must
they be thinking of when they view our embarrassingly bound state?
Are we the first sex slaves from a foreign land to ever