Felicity
Over the past few days, my hope has become stronger. I’ve gone from having to fight off a rapist with a kitchen knife to being rescued by one of my father’s men. But there’s something else, too, something that sits deep inside of me and that I’m finding more and more difficult to deny. It’s inappropriate, maybe even dangerous, but it calls out to me over and over and despite how many times I stifle it, it resurfaces.
It came out in full force one night when I was pretending to be asleep. I didn’t think; I just rolled over and placed my hand on his belly. It was rock-hard. A clearly outlined pack of muscle. I longed to trail my fingers over it, feel each individual bump, but that would’ve given the game away. Instead, I just lay my hand upon it and felt the power of him. He is handsome, and there’s a quiet intensity about him I find inexorably attractive. Despite the danger of our situation, I find myself thinking more and more frequently about Roma, about his muscles, about his capability, about his hard-set jaw and his dark, brooding eyes.
Stop it! I cry at myself. Get your head in the game, now!
I follow Roma down the hallway, past other cabins in which men hold women prisoner. Roma wears a tight grey suit and walks just in front of me. Sometimes, he won’t look at me. I’m not sure if that’s because he senses something between us, too, or that he feels nothing. I’m inclined to think the former. My little trick with this dress secured that. He can look away and mutter and grunt, but he can’t stop his breathing from getting quicker, can’t stop the heat emanating from him. The other night, I even dreamt about us. In the dream, I rolled over and sat atop him, grinding, and when I woke up I realized my hand was creeping down my body. I stopped it, but only with an effort.
Roma pushes open a door at the end of a long hallway, revealing a circular room with one chair in the middle. All around the room, men stand, fat Russian men with hungry eyes, rubbing their hands together as before a meal.
I swallow. No time for thought now. The show has begun.
“Here he is!” the man called Barinov grins. “Let the show commence.”
I hate Barinov, with his always-sweating skin and his beady eyes. He’s the man whose men kidnapped me. I heard them mention his name several times when the black bag was over my head and I was being carted across France like a prize horse on the way to a show. Not for the first time in the past few days, I’m glad Roma won me. Otherwise, I would be in one of these men’s dungeons. I shiver at the thought.
“Sit down, then!” Barinov grins, waving at Roma.
Roma looks at me. His eyes are hard and yet soft. A contradiction that suits him perfectly. Soft eyes staring out of a hard, brooding blue, as if all his emotion is constrained behind a stormy wave. He tells me I don’t know him well and that may be true. But I’ve spent enough time with him to know he doesn’t want to do this; he doesn’t want the men to watch. Neither do I, but I’d rather them watch than grow suspicious and pull out guns and knives or worse.
I skip over to him, plastering the fakest, sweetest smile onto my face. “Come on,” I sing, touching his arm. It’s an act—just an act—and yet when I feel his muscle, I can’t help but wonder at the strength of him. I lead him to the chair and shove him softly. He stares into my eyes. His message is clear: We don’t have to do this. Again, I’m sure he likes me, is just as intrigued by me as I am by him. He wouldn’t care how many people watched me otherwise, would he? I widen my eyes a fraction, hoping he gets my point: We do, and you know it.
The man called Zherkov steps forward and waves the crowd quiet. “You have all been kind enough to let your ladies put on a show for us. Now let’s be quiet and let our good friend Alexander do the same.” He steps back into the crowd, which to me looks like a sea of watching eyes. “Proceed.”
I take a step back and study Roma. His hands are gripping his knees and his jaws are clenched so hard they are well-defined in his face, two small bumps. Somebody presses a button in the wall and then the room is filled with music, soft, whimsical.
Okay, I think. I’ve played the game thus far.
I hone my sight, make it so I only see Roma. The rest of the room falls away and then it’s just me and Roma, standing alone in this room; the rest of them could’ve fallen into ocean for all I care.
Slowly, I begin to sway my hips, lifting my hands above my head and swinging my hips from side to side. I feel the fabric of the red dress around me, hear perverted men breathing quickly. I ignore them, blot them out, and focus on Roma’s face. His eyes are tugged down to my legs, my swaying body. The music gets faster and I get faster with it, still a few feet from him, letting him watch me. I feel a tingle down between my legs, a shocking tingle. A tingle that gets stronger as Roma’s eyes get more intense, watch me more closely. He loves it, I think, and that pushes me on. He really loves it.
I step forward so that I’m leaning over him. He looks up at me, his mouth twisted. I feel as though I am in the presence of a caged lion. If it were not for the cage, the lion would attack. Likewise, if it were not for the countless eyes and the heavy breathing, Roma would jump upon me. I shake my chest, my breasts wobbling, and when I look down at his crotch, I see that he’s hard for me. Hard, and huge. His cock presses urgently against his pants and his eyes are locked on me.
I turn around, getting into it now despite myself, and bend over and move my ass in his face. I look back. His hands are gripping his knees so hard his forearms are shaking. I know he wants to reach out and touch my ass. I know he wants to spank me. And I wish he could. God help me, I really do wish he could.
I do a one-eighty and then spread my legs and sit on his lap. I gasp. His cock presses firmly into my underwear, a stiff rod of pleasure, rubbing firmly against my clit. I move up and down, up and down, rubbing the flesh of my pussy against him, my lips, my clit. The lap dance is forgotten and I take pleasure from his cock; heat spreads up into my belly and my breasts. I reach forward and grab his shoulders, moving, twisting my hips.
The music is forgotten. Everything is forgotten. I look down into his face and I can see it’s the same for him. All he knows, in this moment, is the pleasure of my body.
His cock is fit to burst, on the verge of exploding. It jolts, so hard it’s trying to escape his pants.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I lean down to his face. I want to taste his lips. I don’t care. I just want to feel the heat and the—
Suddenly, the song stops. Zherkov paces into the center of the room, clapping his hands. “Very good!” he laughs. “Excellent! Most excellent!”
Roma and I hold each other’s gazes for a moment, the unspent pleasure hovering between us, and then the room erupts into applause and cheers. I stand up, aware all over again of the watching eyes, the perverted men.
“Yes, most excellent,” a man says, his voice low, seedy.
I’m not sure, but I think it’s Barinov.
Roma glances across at me. Redness has spread up his neck onto his face, and he can’t seem to catch his breath.