He grabs my hair and yanks my head back, pulling me to my feet, and I cry out in pain. “Karl. Mikhail. With me,” he growls.

I’m nearly fainting with fear. My stomach twists and I struggle not to vomit. I’m sure he’d punish me for that.

He marches me down the hallway, with his men following. I stagger in my heels, almost falling, hurting my ankle. He doesn’t slow down.

He shoves me through the doorway of a room, fingers still painfully tangled in my hair.

I look around the room, and take in big, gulping breaths.

The walls are a sterile white. There is a big X-shaped cross with straps on it in the middle of the room, a pommel horse-type structure, chains hanging from the ceiling and on the walls. An enormous four-poster bed with handcuffs on chains, for the wrists and feet. Chains hanging from the ceiling. There are racks with different types of whips on them, and shelves with row of dildos of every size and shape, and what I assume are butt plugs, and bottles of what might be lube.

He steers me over to the X-shaped cross and presses me against it, face forward. He releases my hair and begins strapping me to the X. He slides the dress up until it’s tucked under my armpits and I am completely exposed. A wave of panic washes over me.

But I know better than to beg, or apologize, or fight.

He walks away and takes his time picking out an implement of torture. Of course he does. Every second grates on my nerves until I want to scream. He must know that. He is surely an expert in dealing out every type of pain, both physical and psychological.

I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. Please don’t let this happen.

I sneak a glance. Karl and Mikhail are standing in the doorway, eyes gleaming with anticipation. I know they’re desperately hoping to be asked to join in, but after what just happened at the dinner table, they don’t dare to make a move without invitation.

Across the room, I see him selecting a broad leather strap, and I flinch and stifle a whimper of terror.

I’ve never been hit before. Never even been spanked as a child.

Footsteps slap against the floor until they stop right behind me.

“You’re going to count out loud,” Sergei informs me.

I force myself to answer, in a voice that’s quavery with fear. “Yes, sir.”

I hear a crack in the air, and then there’s a slash of pain across my buttocks, and I jerk.

“One,” I gasp.

“I didn’t hear you, so it doesn’t count.”

Karl and Mikhail laugh uproariously at that.

He raises the strap again and it cracks down on my right butt cheek, and there’s another slash of pain, and I scream, “One!” so loud my voice bounces off the walls.

“He heard you that time!” Karl laughs, and I would murder him if I could.

The strap comes down again and again. He pauses between each strike, dragging it out.

My buttocks. My back. They’re on fire with stripes of pain crisscrossing my flesh, and I shriek each time the strap lands, bucking against the cuffs that hold me. I shout out the number each time he hits me, and my shouts sound more like sobs, like pleas.

But something strange and terrible is happening to my body.

With each explosion of pain, I feel an answering jolt of arousal. I don’t want him to hit me again, but every time he does, I get wetter and wetter between my legs, and suddenly the arousal inside me is a roaring bonfire.

Finally, when we reach ten, he stops. I am hanging there and sobbing. I squirm with mingled arousal and pain. My back is on fire, and I feel a steady pulse of pain from every single burning stripe.

“Leave,” Sergei growls at the men. They vanish from the doorway.

I weep silently, alone in the room with a vicious lunatic.

I’m sick. I’m perverted.

I want him to touch me.

Slowly, he unstraps me, then roughly drags me over to the bed. Ties me down there, face down, spread-eagled. My high heels fall off my feet and clatter to the floor. I turn my face to the side and wait. All choice has been stripped from me. All humanity. I am an instrument. A thing for him to abuse or pleasure at his whim.

He seems to vanish somewhere, and I wait. My tears are soaking the sheet on the bed; my breaths are gasps.

Please, no more.

He slides up on the bed next to me and, to my shock, I feel him running ice cubes along the painful stripes along my back.

“What you did earlier?” he says. “That was fucking stupid.”

“Yes. Sir,” I agree miserably.

“But by all means smart off to me in front of my men any time you like. The punishment gets more severe each time. Next time, you’ll bleed. I have medical personnel on staff, but we’ll reach a point where they may not be able to revive you.”

He said “revive you”.

I stifle a sob at that. He’s a madman. And, what’s worse, I want him inside me, slamming into me. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m as sick and twisted as he is.

“I won’t talk back to you again, sir,” I vow as the ice cools my heated flesh.

“And you just spoke to me without permission,” he added.

I tense. “I’m sorry. Sir.”

“Every transgression must be punished. I wonder how I should punish you for that.” He stops stroking me with the ice cubes. Then he says, “You chose.”

“Me, sir?” What a pathetic, unsexy squeak.

“Did I stutter?”

“No. Sir.”

“Because if you don’t choose, I will, and I promise you, you won’t like it.”

Are you sure? I think. Because right now, I feel as though there’s nothing that he could do to me that I wouldn’t like. I want him inside me so badly that I feel as if I’ll burst into flames. It’s all I can do not to beg.

“The…the butt plug?” I suggest weakly.

“What about it?”

“You could put it inside me while you…”

His voice goes amused. “While I what?”

God, I hate him so much right now. He knows exactly what I mean. He’s making me say the words aloud because he knows I find it mortifying.

“While you f-f-fuck me?” Thinking it in my head is one thing. Saying it aloud feels so filthy and wrong.

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Telling you. Sir.”

He bends down and kisses one of the burning stripes on my ass, and the gesture is so tender I feel my heart melt and I want to die. Then he nips it, and I flinch and cry out.

“You’re a dirty girl, Pussy Willow.”

He walks away again, then brings back lube and a butt plug. He slides the G-string out of the way and massages the lube into my tight, puckered hole, slowly. He slides a finger in and out, in and out. It’s so sensual that I can’t stifle a low moan.

Then he forces the butt plug in, pushing it past my clenching muscles. I stifle a squeal of pain. It stretches me out, it hurts…but it feels so good.

“Tell me how that feels,” he growls, his low voice sending shivers of desire through me. “And don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

“It…it burns. But it’s not all bad. I like it.”

He moves behind me, and the next thing I know, he’s licking my pussy, lapping me until I can’t take it anymore. My legs part, and I arch my back and lift my ass into the air. My hands are clenching in pleasure now instead of pain.

I feel as if I’m melting inside, turning liquid with sensation. His tongue strokes and strokes, and his fingers are touching me now too, rubbing my clit in a circular motion, coaxing me closer and closer to the edge.

His tongue and fingers work together, like a concert pianist caressing the keys.

And then he pauses. Starts to pull away.

And I beg him for it.

“Please make me come,” I cry out. “Please, sir.”

He resumes his sweet torment, his finger moving faster now, pressing hard against the pink pearl of my clit as his tongue thrusts inside me. He can’t lap me fast enough, and I feel delicious and hot and ready to explode. The waves of pleasure that rush through me at each stroke build and build, until finally, the dam bursts and floods me with ecstasy.

I cry with relief as waves of pleasure rocket through my body. I’m shuddering all over. My legs shake. I jerk against the leather cuffs, riding wave after wave until I’m spent and gasping, soaked in my own sweat.

I think he’s going to enter me then, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks around in front of me, unzips his pants, and exposes his massive cock. He grabs his cock in his thick, meaty fist.

A sudden hot lance of hurt stabs through me. He doesn’t want to be inside me.

His groans are deep and guttural. He isn’t even looking at me. His breath comes in harsh rasps as he stares off into space. Who is he imagining? Surely not me.

The exquisite feeling of pleasure is fading now, and instead, a feeling of cold loneliness washes through me. I’d never felt anything so amazing in my life. It felt like I’d been broken apart, and I want him to hold me, make me whole again.

His hand jerks up and down. “Oh God.” Then the hot, sticky cream splatters on my face and my hair. He stands there for a long moment, eyes glazed, shuddering.

Then he walks behind me and slowly slides the butt plug out. The dull, pleasurable ache fades.

He unstraps me, and I sit up, gingerly. He points to the wall, and I see there’s a robe hanging on a hook. He turns and walks out without a word.

I struggle not to cry. He’s letting me cover myself. And he made me come. That has to mean something. Please, please, let it mean something.

I wrap the silk robe around myself. I find a towel in a basket and scrub at my face and hair. Feodyr sticks his head through the door. “Are you finished doing your makeup, princess?” he sneers.

Great. The perfect ending to my most amazing sexual experience ever. Sarcasm and abuse.

I take a steadying breath and walk to the doorway.

As I follow him through the foyer, I see a man who looks vaguely familiar. A bodyguard, by the look of it, patrolling the halls. He gives the slightest shake of his head when I sneak a glance.

Shock rolls over me. It’s a servant of my uncle’s. Jon.

But I know him from Russia, not America. We went to Vilyat’s summer house near St. Petersburg when I was in my teens, the year before my parents died. That’s where I know him from.

What does it mean that he’s here? Does that mean Sergei’s not the only one who has an inside man? Is Jon a spy for Uncle Vilyat?

My mother told me about Jon. My uncle broke him out of prison, and he’s got a file on him from his KGB days. Jon was an interrogator. That’s a nice word for it, really. He was actually a torturer.

I keep walking, avoiding his gaze.

I dare to let a tiny flame of hope flare up inside me. Jon was in the KGB. He’s got skills. Is he going to kill Sergei and take me home? God, my uncle would reward him so beautifully for that. He’d give him all the riches in the world.

Then I think of Sergei lying sprawled on the ground, blood leaking from his body, and my heart twists. Instinctively, I thrust the image from my mind.

And I hate myself for it.

Sergei is a sadist and a murderer. He slaughters the innocent and guilty alike, without distinction and without conscience.

And so does Jon.

But when forced to choose between two monsters, I should side with the one who won’t tie me down and beat me, and mock me when I cry.

Shouldn’t I?

I stumble back into my room and kick off the evil, evil high shoes, and rush to the shower.

Twenty-eight more days.