Abuse of Power - Enslaved by the Karinovs (Dark BDSM Erotica) Read online

  Abuse of Power - Enslaved by the Karinovs (Dark BDSM Erotica)

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Abuse of Power - Enslaved by the Karinovs

  (Dark BDSM Erotica)

  By Dan Bruce

  Copyright Dan Bruce, 2013

  Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Please note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is for sale to adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store the material where it cannot be accessed by minors.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  Chapter 1

  Mordavia – the present day

  The prisoner entered shouting and kicking, frantically pleading her innocence - a sheen of perspiration on her fear struck face. But the terror on her countenance could not disguise the fact that she was a beautiful young woman in a refined English sort of way, her genteel nature being starkly contrasted by the two brutish henchmen who dragged the poor wench past a heavy oak door and into the chamber that was to see her end.

  Eyes darting, she took in the scene: the flaming torches adorning the walls, their fire suggesting of hell on earth; the ominous looking instruments that hung between them, promising even further of the devil’s own torture; the stocks, the rack, and the Judas cradle – evil devices all scarily unoccupied, waiting for their next victim’s screams; a whipping post where some poor girl hung limply by her wrists, whimpering in agony, her back a mess of vibrant red welts. But the newcomer’s attention soon settled on the only other occupant of this room of terror – the king’s trusty torturer who stood by a sturdy bench, a malevolent grin etched on his cruel scarred face, a burning brazier a few yards to his side, heating the poker that was this traitor’s doom.

  “No! No! I’m innocent. I swear I never touched him,” screamed the fresh faced young woman, tears flowing from her terrified eyes.

  “That traitor Sussex says otherwise,” the torturer replied. “He will say little more though, for his head will roll today. A quick clean death, as long as the executioner isn’t drunk again, which is more than he deserves for fornicating with the queen – you however, My Lady, will not be so lucky.”

  “He’s lying!” pleaded the young noblewoman. “I entreat you! Don’t do this. Please!”

  “Pin her down over the bench!” the torturer ordered, ignoring the woman’s appeals. “Hold her steady and tether her feet.”

  The henchmen obeyed, tossing the woman roughly over the bench. With the prisoner struggling all the while, one held her wrists which were cuffed and chained, the other battled with her ankles, which were similarly shackled, and secured each one to opposite legs of the bench, spreading her limbs wide apart.

  “No!” screamed the woman. “I’m the queen. You cannot do this to me!”

  The torturer laughed at the absurdity of the remark. “Well, I’m the king’s loyal subject, and I do whatever it pleases his majesty,” he hissed. “And for your adultery – it pleases him to do this…”

  Slipping on a thick leather glove for protection, the torturer removed the poker from the brazier. He held it up and inspected the glowing end, making sure his prisoner could see it as well.

  “No! No! Please! Anything but that!” screamed the woman.

  Her pleas were ignored. The shift she was wearing, her only piece of clothing, was pulled up her back to bare her queenly rump and noble vagina. The torturer looked at her treasures for perhaps a moment longer than he should have, admiring the full globes and the naughtily shaved pussy; then with a grin of pure malice he took up position, brandishing the first of many tortuous punishments.

  “NO! NO! AAAARGH!”

  The face of the abused was a picture of torment, which was only to be expected for she was good at her craft, and had been coached for this scene mightily well.

  “Cut! Cut!” called a voice – the director no less of this television drama. “Well done everyone – especially you Julia. That was fabulous, sweetie, absolutely fabulous.”

  A plump balding man in his late fifties emerged from the shadows gazing at his favoured actress, in no hurry to give the order to have the girl released and decently arranged. “Hmmph, yes, absolutely fabulous,” he mused enjoying the view before finally relenting. “Okay everyone - I think we’ll call it a wrap and break for lunch... and for goodness sake, Alfonso, let go of poor Julia’s wrists so she can stand up and cover herself.”

  Then turning to a small group of spectators who had been allowed access to the set, the director added, “Now listen up you bunch - we’re doing the beheading scene this afternoon, and I’ll want the extras playing the rabble in the courtyard looking mean and nasty, so I suggest you all have the goulash – I’m assured it tastes foul and guaranteed to give indigestion…”

  He looked away pleased with his wit, turning his attention back to the performer whose feet were being untied. Unable to resist, knowing this young actress needed the work and wouldn’t dare protest at a liberty taken, the director went over and patted Julia’s ass which was now covered by her shift. “So Julia, tell me sweetie – how did you prepare so well for the scene? Anyone looking at that performance would swear you knew exactly what it was like to be anally impaled and brutally tortured – to know what it was like to suffer... well sweetie, what else can I say... to suffer an abuse of power!

  “Well bugger me backward and call me Mabel,” muttered Sally Hudson from her position looking down on the torture chamber set.

  Sally realised in a flash. It had been bugging her since the actress appeared on the set – where had she seen her before. Sally had trawled her mind for a film she might have been in, or some other television drama in which she had featured, but couldn’t place her. Having heard that comment from the director however, she knew straight away – it wasn’t on screen Sally had seen this girl before – it was in the flesh, two days ago, creeping sheepishly out of a room.

  Sally shook her head in disbelief. How could she have forgotten any aspect of that momentous occurrence? But then it wasn’t Julia who had made the big impression – she was just a bit player, a minor performer, as she was in this production. The real master of the scene was only a shadow, but whose mere existence dominated everything else – like the Tudor king whose life was currently being re-enacted, a monarch absolute, his every whim unquestioned law.

  Over the top?

  Perhaps that’s the case – but Sally was certainly knocked for six, if you prefer a sporting analogy.

  So what was it that happened two days before that made such an impact on a movie extra, but the star of this tale, the sexually voracious and exceedingly beautiful twenty-three year
old Antipodean, Miss Sally Hudson?

  Well, with no demands to be on set for the rest of the day, Sally went for a stroll around the castle where the filming was taking place. She was intrigued by the building – its dark foreboding structure, the violent history that poured from its ancient stones. She was also intrigued by the men who worked there – men in uniform of a modern design, more to her liking than the medieval costumes the actors wore. For whilst the castle was being used temporarily as a film location – it’s day to day function still carried on, and this wonderfully preserved medieval structure served as the country’s police headquarters.

  Sally wandered around, looking at the architecture, brazing glances at the men, hoping for a reaction. She strayed away from the hubbub of the film set, drawn ever inwards by the allure of authority smartly dressed. Getting somewhat lost, Sally turned into a corridor where she sensed she had no right to be. She froze. There was an officer standing guard at the end – big and hunky, a gun holstered at his hip - and much to Sally’s delight, the man was idly rubbing his crotch!

  Counter to her forward nature, Sally initially backed off. She knew she was in the wrong place and could land in trouble – foreign policemen bearing arms having a notorious reputation. The sensible thing would be to backtrack and retrace her steps, but instead she peaked around the corner, and watched the policeman as he continued to fondle himself.

  And God did the man look sexy! Not overly handsome, but big and butch and wonderfully dressed - obviously horny and needy of some sex.

  Sally was as well!

  Hoping beyond hope that something would come of this, Sally lingered, spying round the corner. She wondered if she should risk it and make her presence known – strut round the corner and smile beguilingly whilst jiggling her tits. It normally worked for her – no point being coy – that was Sally’s motto. She was one hot piece of work with her long auburn hair, emerald eyes and a body to die for, so it never took much to entice some stud to get down to work and oblige her with a fuck... At least that had been the case until she arrived in this city.

  But sadly it all sounded way too risky. The policeman was armed and that gun could spell danger. She stayed to watch though, randy and optimistic. With any luck the uniformed hunk would still whip out his cock and give it a few chugs. And maybe, just maybe, if Sally timed it right, she could earn herself a mouthful of policeman spunk.

  That didn’t happen. The copper’s meaty truncheon stayed in his uniform trousers. But the policeman did chance a liberty. Having looked around him, failing to spot Sally, who quickly ducked when the brute scanned in her direction, the guard warily tiptoed over to a nearby door and pressed his ear against it. For five minutes he stood there eavesdropping, as he in turn was spied upon by Sally – the guard highly aroused, rubbing his hard dick through the material of his trousers, whilst Sally did likewise to her slavering pussy.

  Faster and faster the action grew. Sally watched transfixed, getting more and more heated, looking at a man, dreaming of his cock, wanting his meat pounding away at her pussy, screaming, ‘YES! YES! YES! Fuck me you big brute. Fuck me! Fuck me! Spunk inside me!’

  Lost in her fantasy, enjoying the reality – Sally watched the policeman as he both grimaced and grinned. The man rubbed his crotch all the harder, his eyes rolling backwards. A jerk and a spasm and he had brought himself there, spilling out his seed into his underpants, the stain of his mess seeping outward to leave a telltale sign on his uniform trousers. A few frantic rubs and Sally was there as well, a naughty voyeur coming by herself, waves of pleasure coursing through her body – a little sad, but times were desperate – it had been over a week since she last had a man, and Sally was a girl who didn’t like to go without.

  His orgasm over, as quiet as he could in his sturdy black boots, the policeman crept back to his station. Sally watched, still intrigued – by the man with the gun and the spunk in his pants – by whatever lay behind that door. It was only a few minutes before her curiosity was rewarded. The door opened and out came a beautiful young woman tottering on shaky legs.

  It was only one glance that Sally got before the girl’s attention was caught by the policeman who pointed her in another direction. But that glance was enough to register the face. And two days later, Sally would put a name to that face, and that name would be Julia, a budding young actress. Julia walked gingerly away somewhat bandy legged – a girl who looked like she’d just been thoroughly fucked – or perhaps even buggered given the torture chamber scene she would later act so well. The grin on the policeman’s face as she passed him, suggested that that was exactly what he’d been hearing – the howls of a woman getting gloriously screwed by something mightily big and stupendously potent.

  ‘Lucky bitch!’ thought Sally, who was in serious need of similar servicing.

  Then with a huge grin on her face and a little jealousy in her heart, Sally was about to walk away when she heard the door open for a second time. A roar came out to resound along the corridor, shattering everything in its wake.

  Sally trembled. She actually trembled. She was a confident girl and normally pretty sure of herself, but that bellowing roar had her decidedly shaking.

  The policeman with the embarrassing stain in his pants yelped. Blood drained from his roguish face. On equally shaky legs as the fortunate Julia, the officer came back to the site of his crime. A figure stepped into the corridor – a massive frame of towering manhood that cast a shadow, cold as death. His hand sped out. It grabbed the policeman by the crotch, and squeezing hard, brought him to her knees. The accosting colossus bent to follow the officer down, yelling in his face, flecking him with spit. His other hand sprang out to give a hard slap across the cheek – a backhanded crack that sent the officer’s head spinning. Sally watched all this totally transfixed and hideously aroused – her post-climactic pussy pulsating, snarling with new need. Never had she seen anything so authoritatively masculine.

  Then Sally gasped and her blood turned to ice.

  Did he know she was there?

  Was that why the man looked to his right where Sally was peaking round the corner?

  Who knows!

  Who cares!

  Sally turned and fled. The look in those eyes – those coal black eyes, did not incline a voyeur to hang around and discuss the matter further. Sally was scared out of her wits. Miss Devil May Care from the Land Down Under was literally shitting bricks! Never had she seen such a thing personified so sharply, as she did in that fleeting moment. The look in those eyes and the expression on that face – a ruggedly handsome, mature dark featured face - spoke of pure undiluted authority.

  It spoke of more....

  It spoke of power, absolute power, magnificently majestic! Power to be yielded, power to be used... and without any question, power to be abused. History could name them, and their legacy shames them: mad Roman emperors who watched the town burn; tyrannical Tudor kings and their unfortunate wives; Soviet dictators who filled up the gulags; and Arab despots who made their people wail - a whole procession of men of power. But Sally doubted if any of those notorious autocrats could hold a match to the burning she saw in those fearsome coal black eyes. If ever there was a man in all of creation that it would be madness to cross or offend in any way, then it was the magnificent presence that had emerged through that door.

  Sally fled.

  But she didn’t flee far, and she still came back to work the following day.

  Power is a drug – its taste bitter sweet, and for women like Sally Hudson... totally addictive.

  Chapter 2

  Back in the present, having collected her free lunch, Sally Hudson wandered off, plate in hand, to the central courtyard of the castle where the next scene was to be shot. It was hardly professionalism on her part. Sally was an extra and just needed to be there, another face in the mob, rather than put on some command Oscar winning performance. She was simply curious to see the set, where the execution of the unlucky Tudor queen was to take place.

 
; Whilst not overly crowded, the courtyard was still busy – cameramen and light engineers checking things over; props being adjusted; a few like minded curious extras dressed in medieval attire milling around trying not to get in the way. Sally sat herself down on the steps and soaked up the atmoshphere: enjoying the food, a local pie which was surprisingly good; enjoying the sun which was warm on her face; enjoying the hustle and bustle all around, happy to be alive.

  As she watched rather absently, her mind went back to the events of two days ago. It was a scene that now plagued her, like no event in her carefree life had done before. She was haunted by a man she had seen for only a moment, yet had somehow touched her in a strange sort of way – sexual prowess, brutish power, raw masculinity being the tools that he’d unconsciously used.

  Sally shook her head and tried to laugh it off. This wasn’t her style at all. She didn’t have hang ups over men, especially ones that were almost twice her age – what the fuck was going on!

  ‘I need to get laid,’ Sally said to herself. ‘A week without a shag is doing weird things to my head – not healthy for a girl like me.’