Kostya A Dark Bratva Hate Story Read online

“I’ll do it!” She screams.

  I slowly turn and look at her. “I’ll do it...what?”

  “I’ll do it, sir.” She chokes out each word. Quickly, she peels off her tank top and then steps out of her panties. They fall to the floor with wet plops, and she hugs herself and clings to the towel, body covered in goose pimples.

  A memory flashes through my mind, of the way that she used to look at me. Full of hope, and yearning.

  She'll never look at me like that again. It surprises me how much that hurts, a sharp knife jabbing into my shriveled, hardened conscience.

  But I meant what I said to her. I will do what has to be done.

  I turn the camera on. Normally I have one of my men come in to take pictures while I watch. The girls that we sell need to lose any sense of modesty.

  I could call in Aleksandr, but I’m not ready for that yet.

  “Drop the towel,” I order her. I left the door open so the room has heated up a little, but she’s still shivering and covered with goose flesh head to toe. Her thick dark hair drapes in wet, scraggly ropes.

  "You want to take pictures of me looking like this?" she says uncertainly.

  In response, I walk over, yank the towel away, and slap her breast so hard she lets out a squeal of pain.

  “You’re a slow learner. I give an order, you obey. And what do you call me?”

  She makes a sound like a strangled sob. “You want to take pictures of me like this, sir?”

  "Better, although you shouldn’t be questioning me at all. I will be taking many pictures. Some where you are all dolled up, and some where you look like you have been dragged through hell. We have customers who like both types of women."

  The look on her face makes my stomach curdle. Hate, revulsion, contempt.

  I’ve dropped into the ninth circle of Hell. But I’m stuck here, and so is Anya, and there’s no saving us. My mother and sister, though...I can still save them.

  So I point the camera at Anya as she shivers and hugs herself, and I press the shutter button.

  Chapter Six

  Anya

  He stands there and takes picture after picture of me with my wet, ratty hair. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are rattling. When I try to cover my breasts and crotch with my hands, he threatens to turn the hose on me again.

  I’m sick with despair. Kostya. What have you become?

  After he takes the pictures, he leaves me alone, but at least he turns up the temperature up and brings me a fresh blanket and a pair of pajamas. He never brings me any food or water, and my chain is too short for me to reach the sink across the room. If I could only get to it, I’d drink from the faucet. Instead, I’m parched with thirst and tormented by the drip, drip drip of the faucet all night long. There is a bucket next to the bed for me to relieve myself in; he’s planned my degradation quite efficiently.

  When I went to save Raisa, I feared I might end up in a situation like this. I’d planned for many possibilities, and this was always the most likely one.

  When I walked into that bar, I’d psyched myself into thinking that I had a 50-50 chance of escaping even if I were captured, but now I’m starting to realize that I way over-estimated my chances.

  What will happen to me if I can’t escape? Horrifying images flood my mind. Fat, old, gross men having their way with me. Invading every part of my body. Making me feel filthy inside and out. Many of the sex slaves are doped up to keep them compliant, and then drugs are withheld to ensure their cooperation – or just because their owners like watching them suffer. If I can’t find a way out, that is my future.

  And it will be Kostya sending me off to my fate. Did I ever really know him at all?

  He claims he’s just obeying orders. That’s bullshit. I know if it were me, I’d be fighting to find a way around it. Kostya’s so conditioned to obey blindly that he’s not even looking for alternatives, and that makes me angry.

  Which is good. I need to hold on to my anger. It’s the fuel that will power me through this, so I can keep fighting, so I don’t sink into despair.

  I finally drift off to sleep, curled up on the floor, hugging the blanket around me.

  It feels like no time at all before the door flies open with a bang. I have no idea what time it is, but I’m guessing morning. Kostya stalks in, and he's holding a sandwich and a glass of water. My stomach rumbles loudly as I sit up, but I’m beyond caring.

  "Kneel and bow your head," he orders me. I hurry to obey. I want him to think that I’m starting to break down already, and also, I really want that sandwich.

  “What do you say to me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  "Place your hands behind your back,” he barks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He holds the glass of water up to my lips and lets me take a few sips.

  "What do you say?" he demands.

  "Thank you, sir."

  I bite out each word. I can't keep the anger from my voice, and he notices, of course.

  "I don't like your tone, but we've got time to work on that." Very little escapes Kostya, not when he’s sober anyway. And I don’t smell any alcohol on his breath – not this morning, anyway. I did last night.

  I’d heard, from people who still know him, that he stopped drinking completely after I left. And fool that I was, I was happy for him. I didn’t begrudge him looking for me, because I knew that he was just following his stepfather’s orders. I still cared for him then. I wanted him to find happiness, or at least, peace.

  Now? Mostly, I want him to find the bottom of a pit full of sharpened spikes. A part of me will always love him, but I’ve walled that part away and I’m focusing on survival.

  He squats in front of me and holds out the sandwich. I lean forward awkwardly as he shoves it into my mouth. He lets me take a few bites, then snatches it away.

  "What do you say?"

  "Thank you, sir," I repeat.

  He keeps doing that – a few bites, and then I have to thank him. We go through it a dozen times, until I have finished the sandwich and water. I’m still hungry, but I know better than to ask for more.

  “Look me in the eye,” he commands. I stare up at him, smoothing my face into a blank mask. “Over the next few weeks, you will learn that food and drink are a privilege. Being warm is a privilege, being clothed is a privilege. Freedom from pain is a privilege. You should never take any of these things for granted, because the moment you do, they will be taken from you. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then he fetches a blindfold, leash and collar from the cabinet on the wall. I have a feeling the cabinet is going to be a source of endless misery for me.

  He puts the collar on me, and clips on the leash. I sit perfectly still, staring down at the floor. Then he hands me the blindfold. "I'll give you a choice. Blindfold yourself, and I will unchain you. Refuse to blindfold yourself, and you will stay here all day."

  I could be stubborn, but I know that if I stay in this room, I won't get any more food or water until I cooperate. I also suspect that he wouldn’t just let me sit here in peace. He could blast me with water again, he could turn the heat down, or he could crank it up until I’m roasting.

  I am sitting here wearing a damned collar, like an animal. I hate him so much right now, I’d kill him if I had the chance. I hate myself for ever having loved him. But I force myself to say the words he’s waiting for. “Yes, sir.”

  He snaps the side of my head with his finger, and it stings. “Tone of voice,” he says warningly. “Try again.”

  I force myself to speak in a conciliatory tone. “Yes, sir.” My muscles are cramping up, and if any opportunity presents itself to fight, or run, I don’t want to be weak from kneeling in one place for days on end.

  “Slightly better,” he concedes.

  “Thank you, sir.” You’ve won nothing. In my head, I’m cutting your dick off and stuffing it down your throat.

  “Something funny?” he demands.

  Hell. Did I smile a
little when I thought that? I’ve got to keep perfect control of my face. I’m tired, frightened, and hungry – and none of that should matter, I still need to stay on top of my game.

  “Nothing at all, sir.”

  I tie the blindfold on. He unchains my ankle, and then tugs at the collar. I stand up, stumbling a little as blood rushes back through my legs. Then he jerks on the leash so hard I almost fall over. I utter a strangled cry.

  “Follow me.”

  I am led out of the room, and down a long hallway, and through several rooms. It’s frightening, being dragged along without being able to see. My hip bangs into something sharp, and I whimper in pain. He ignores me, yanking the leash impatiently. I stumble after him, flailing my arms as I try to keep my balance. As he hauls me around, I’m craning my ears, listening for any sounds that might help me, and trying to get a feel for the layout of the house.

  When we stop, I feel cool tile under my feet, and guess that I’m in a bathroom. He takes off my blindfold, and I see that I’m right. It’s very high end, with white and gray marble and a walk in shower the size of a small bedroom.

  He removes my leash and collar, placing them on the sink. “Strip, and give me your clothing.”

  “Yes, sir.” My tone is meek. I step out of my pajamas and hand them over. I hate being naked in front of him like this, it makes me feel horribly vulnerable, and I’m sure that’s why he’s making me do it. He tosses my pajamas into a hamper, and then removes his own clothing. Once, I yearned for his body, greedily devoured it with my eyes when he wasn’t looking. Now I keep my gaze averted.

  He ushers me into the shower, stepping in with me, and turns on the hot water. It feels heavenly.

  "You need to get used to serving a man. Bathe me,” he orders, handing me a sponge.

  I grab a pine scented bar of soap from a stone ledge, rub soap onto the sponge, and silently run it over his broad chest. For the first time ever, I see all of his tattoos. Bratva tattoos are a universal language. He has stars on his knees; they mean he will not kneel for any man. Medals on his chest indicate his rank. A scroll of words in Russian declares that he has dedicated his life to the Bratva.

  I lather his body as slowly as I dare. I’m warm, and I’m not being blasted with water or dragged down hallways blind folded

  His body is carved perfection. Broad chest, flat stomach, and muscular thighs. There’s not an ounce of fat on him, and only a light dusting of hair. I fall into a rhythm, mesmerized by his physical perfection, almost forgetting why I’m really here.

  As if sensing that I’m starting to relax, he growls at me. “Kneel, and wash my feet.” I sink to my knees in the shower, the water splashing on my back, and scrub each foot. There’s something very sensual about submitting to him, and as I kneel there, I understand why people embrace the BDSM lifestyle. Damn Kostya. If only he’d fought for me that summer, if only he’d claimed me, I’d have submitted to anything he asked. I’d have crawled for him, stripped for him, kissed his feet.

  “Stay on your knees,” he commands. Wash my cock and balls.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’s erect, the thick purple head of his cock pointing straight up at the ceiling, and he groans in pleasure as I massage his privates with the sponge. His hand slides down to capture my wrist, and he plucks the sponge from my hand and makes me take his cock in my fist.

  “Look at me, Anya.”

  “Yes, sir.” I tip my head up and stare at him as he moves my hand up and down on his thick cock, and then he drops his hand and lets me take over. I grip him tightly, moving my hand faster and faster. His breath comes out in deep pants, and he twists his fingers in my hair. The pain is proof of his passion, and I crave more. With my free hand, I stroke his testicles, lightly scraping my nails over the sensitive flesh.

  “Fuck, Anya. So good...” And then he comes, in great arcs of white cream that spurt onto my face and hair. Despite everything, I feel a surge of triumph. I did that. I still have power over him. I gave him pleasure, and for a brief, sweet moment he was helpless with sheer ecstasy because of me.

  “Lick it off,” he orders, and I obey, lapping up the thick, salty evidence of his arousal. He groans in pleasure as I caress the head of his cock with my tongue.

  All too soon, I’m done. He orders me to stand. “Put your hands by your side, and don’t move.”

  I stand there as he washes my hair with sweet flowery shampoo, his strong fingers massaging my scalp. He follows that with conditioner, and runs his fingers through the silken strands, gently combing out the tangles.

  His soft touch makes my heart hurt. How can this be the same man who brutalized me and threatened me?

  He takes the sponge and runs it over my body, rubbing my back, my arms, my breasts. My nipples swell under his touch, and he bends down and takes my left nipple in his mouth, sucking the achingly sensitive tip.

  I gasp in shock and arousal. Part of me, the rational part, wants to shove him away, but that will just get me punished. At least I tell myself that’s why I’m not fighting back.

  He teases the sensitive flesh of my nipple with his teeth and tongue, and heat floods my body, pulsing between my legs.

  Is it wrong of me to want to feel a little pleasure, in the midst of all this misery? Is it wrong that I wish I could have just one pure, passionate night with him, before I am sold?

  Yes, it is! What the hell is wrong with me? I’m his prisoner! Raisa’s his prisoner! He’s going to fucking sell us.

  But he sucks on my nipple again, swirling his tongue around it, and I moan aloud. He straightens up, smirking. “You like it.” He grins cruelly. “That’s good. If you enjoy sex, then your life will be much more enjoyable once you’re sold.”

  It’s like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head, ruining this brief reprieve. He did that on purpose. He won’t let me forget my place, not for a second.

  “I like it with you. Sir,” I say stiffly. “I won’t like it when you sell me to some gross old man and he’s raping me.”

  That earns me an angry look. “Did I ask?”

  “No, sir. Sorry.”

  I press my lips together as he grabs the sponge again and slides it between my legs, moving it slowly back and forth. He lathers me, washing the thick curls. My clit swells and aches for him. My body and my brain are at war. Heat pulses through my pussy, even as hate pulses in my veins.

  He moves his hand between my legs, spreading my lips open. His fingers slide between my slick folds, and I let out a startled squeak and step back.

  Instantly, he spins me around, and I almost slip. He grabs my arm and bends it up painfully behind my back.

  “You don’t ever fight back,” he says. “You don’t ever move away when you’re being touched. Who owns your body now?” And he pushes my arm up even higher. Pain shoots through me; if he pushes any more, he’ll break my arm.

  “You do, sir!” I shriek.

  “Say it again. Say ‘you own my body, sir’”

  “You own my body, sir.” I grit the words out.

  “Say it ten times in a row.”

  I repeat it, again and again. My body responds bizarrely, pulsing with arousal as images swim through my head – images of him claiming me, thrusting into me. Each time I say it, he loosens his hold on my arm a little, until finally he releases me.

  Then he moves his hand in between my legs, and spread my lips open wide again. This time, I stay perfectly still as he slides his fingers inside me. He massages my clit with his thumb, stroking my inner wall at the same time. The more he strokes me, the more the heat builds inside me. I pant with arousal, arching my back.

  Then he pulls his fingers out, and brings them up to his lips, sucking them. “Mm. Tastes like peaches.” He grins at me. “But you still don’t sound quite humble enough, so I’m not letting you come today.”

  I’m furious at him for withholding pleasure from me, and even more angry at myself for wanting it. “Yes, sir,” I say tightly.

  “See, that’s what I mean. Don’t worr
y, you’ll learn. Get out of the shower.”

  “Yes, sir,” I repeat, with just the tiniest hint of anger. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m mostly doing that on purpose. I’ll walk the line, showing just enough defiance to earn light punishments, but not enough that he’ll turn the hose on me again, at least not today. I could change my tone of voice and sound submissive, scared, grateful, anything he wanted. But I don't want to cooperate too quickly, because it would make him suspicious. For now, I need to fight just enough to make him believe him believe in my ultimate submission.

  And that means I’m going to be in a lot of pain in the days and weeks to come.

  But if I fool him into thinking that he’s slowly breaking me down, then eventually, he will let his guard down. He may leave a weapon within reach, or turn his back on me at the wrong time. And then I’ll strike.

  He has me stand on a soft fluffy mat, and then dries me off, intimately, exploring every nook and cranny of my body. There’s an aching neediness between my legs, and when he rubs me there, I squirm a little. That makes him smile. “When you’re a really good girl for me, I’ll let you come.”

  “Yes, sir.” I scowl as I say it.

  “Watch the way you look at me.” He slaps one of my butt cheeks, hard enough to sting, but not enough to truly hurt. Then he spreads my cheeks wide, probing my tight rear entrance with a finger.

  “Before you leave here, you’ll learn to surrender every orifice. Won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He forces his finger inside my tunnel, and then another finger. It burns, and I clench my teeth.

  “Does that hurt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Imagine what it will feel like when my cock is up there.” I can’t help it; my eyes widen in fear at the thought. He laughs as he pulls his fingers out, and towels off my hair.

  Finally, he drops the towel and makes me put the blindfold back on. That’s followed by the leash and collar. He proceeds to lead me out of the bathroom, naked. He yanks on the leash frequently, and I stumble, banging into corners, into furniture. It's painful, and I know I must have bruises all over my shins and knees by the time he finally stops walking.