Kathleen
I look up from the book I’m reading to see my husband entering the bedroom. His massive body fills the space in the doorway, so tall that he actually has to bend slightly to clear the frame. He eyes me as he stalks his way over to the bed, giving me that look like he knows I’ve done something wrong. It’s an expression I’ve grown accustomed to seeing over the years, so I set my book aside and watch for his next move warily.
His eyes never leave me as he loosens his tie, moving his neck back and forth as he’s freed from its tight grip. His hands move with agile speed when he grabs both of my wrists, securing my hands with the tie that, just moments ago, served only as an accessory to complement his five thousand dollar suit.
I see the flash of victory in his eyes before I say, “I haven’t done anything.”
He leans in close to growl in my ear, and the familiar fear I’ve come to know with him sets my heart racing.
“Liar! You permitted our son to go to the warehouse. Would you like to know what happened there today?”
I frantically shake my head. I don’t want to hear the bloody tale about what happened to the man who’s been stealing from my husband.
“You hide around corners and listen in on my business dealings, but you don’t want the details? How interesting, Ptichka.”
I watch him as he slowly undresses and folds his clothing. He sets it all in a neat pile as if he has all the time in the world. First, he removes his suit jacket and dress shirt, and then it’s the knife strapped to his upper inner arm and gun holster. Next comes the ankle holster, and finally, his pants, socks, and shoes come off. When he is done, he stands before me with his cock jutting out and a knife in his hand, wearing nothing but a look of contemplation as he decides what to do with me.
“After twenty years of marriage, you still underestimate me. I’m hungry for blood—your blood, Ptichka.”
This is the reason why we have black sheets on our bed. This isn’t the first time his need for blood, my blood, has surfaced. My husband is a man with deviant sexual appetites, and he awakened a hunger in me only his brand of kink could appease.
“You would do well to not lie to me,” he says as he straddles my body. Still holding the knife, he moves to loosen the tie on the silk robe I’m wearing, and I suck in air through my teeth when he purposely nicks my skin. Blood seeps from the small cut he inflicted as he slices through my panties. Now easily removed, he wads them up and stuffs them in my mouth.
My body begins to dance beneath his. My arms are restrained by his tie and hooked to an iron spike on the headboard. The bonds, coupled with his weight pressing down on me from above, have rendered me completely helpless to him. He had our bed custom made to accommodate the various devices he likes to use to fulfill his need to sexually dominate me.
Muffled moans and pleas can be heard through the makeshift gag he has shoved inside my mouth. I’m begging him for mercy, but I can see he will grant me no leniency tonight.
“Shh, I won’t hurt you… too badly.” The knife blade trails over my nipple, already hardened to a peak from the attention he has given it. Even after twenty years, my body betrays me to my sadistic husband.
I jerk in fear as he drags the point of the blade down my abdomen, and another trickle of bloods makes its way down my side and onto the sheets. Thankfully, the black color will hide the evidence of our extreme play from the maid when she retrieves them tomorrow for the laundry.
He lays the knife down off to the side so that he can grab my legs, roughly folding them back like a paper accordion, before he positions his face at my core. My knees are now resting by my ears, and I am in the position he desires—open and vulnerable. He looks up at me through long dark lashes that veil ice-cold blue eyes. His long blond hair hangs loose from the band that normally holds it back, and it tickles my inner thighs as he laps at my folds. His tongue slowly works its magic as his full lips pull at my clit.
I am no longer moaning in pain, but instead, my muffled, agonized cries are evocative of a woman in desperate need of release. I know I won’t be brought to climax until my husband mandates it. He purposely wedges two fingers into my opening, adding to my primal need as he angles them back to stroke over my G-spot.
My body no longer dances beneath him; it now bucks and thrashes. I begin trying to spit out the gag in my mouth so I can tell him what I need, but he’s already well aware.
“Don’t you fucking dare!”
He growls when he sees what I’m attempting to do.
After nodding my head in acceptance, I resort to begging and pleading with my eyes. His only response is to chuckle as he continues to push me right to the edge, only to back off and deny me release before I get there.
He laps at my core again but stops long enough to question me.
“Are you going to lie to me anymore, Ptichka?”
I frantically shake my head, giving him the answer he desires. This time, when he takes me to the edge, he finally pushes me over, and I fall into a seemingly never-ending wave of pleasure as climax after climax rages through my body.
He gives me no time to recover before he places one leg over his muscular shoulder, keeping the other back by my ear. I can feel my eyes roll back in my head when he slams into me. He then stops all movement, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being fully sheathed inside me. I fist my hands, feeling my long nails bite into my palms. He’s turning me inside out, and the small bite of pain helps to ground me; it feels good in ways I don’t have the ability to process right now.
“Mine!”
He hisses as he begins moving in long, languid thrusts into my soaked opening. My head rolls to the side, and I give in to his beautiful abuse of my body. He is correct—my body is his to do with as he wills. It is true that my husband is a bastard. Nevertheless, I am his, and he is mine. I crave him with every fiber of my being. Bound together by the darkness that stains our souls, we will be forever joined; we are held captive by our own depravity.
Even in death, we will be forever linked. Our psyches have melded, and we are no longer individual beings. I can clearly see my future, yearning for sleep when he is no longer with me on this earth. Deprived of his physical being, I would prefer to join him in my dreams. I try not to think about the danger my husband’s life is in on a daily basis. At times, I find myself hoping that we die together so I don’t have to suffer the grief of his loss.
I’m a fucked-up soul who longs for a man even more unbalanced than I am. My husband was born into his world of craziness, but me… I was born for the purpose of helping him fulfill his role, and I am now in it for the long haul.
Every single day, I wonder if that bitch named karma will come to make good on the bloody debts we owe. Every single day she doesn’t, I am grateful for the one more day I have to live, love, and enjoy my family.
I’ve changed in the twenty years I’ve been entrenched in the Bratva culture. I now carry a pink and black Ruger in my purse, and everyone is viewed as a potential enemy. They could either be friends who turn into traitors or foes seeking vengeance against my husband. Danger is a constant threat because I’m seen as the weakest link in the man’s world I live in. After all, every organized crime boss knows that if you want to hurt your enemies, then you go after their hearts. For Glazov, his heart is his family: his wife, and children. If karma comes for me today, I plan on shooting the bitch right between the eyes.