Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3)

The guards make me squat against the far wall from the bed, where I have a good view of Aimelie's ass bouncing on top of my boyfriend's well-muscled hips. They release by chains and make me hold my arms horizontally at my sides. They disengage the lariat, but still keep the iron collar around my neck as a mark of servitude.

Aimelie half-turns and says something to the guards. They nod gleefully.

As I stay still, the guards drag a box filled with saucers towards me. They don't have to tell me not to move a muscle when they start piling the plates upon my arms, shoulders, and strained and bent thighs. I have basically become a human smorgasbord. The saucers are delicate. I recognize the hallmark of extremely fine china beneath the rose patterned design, and it goes to say that I am forbidden to drop any of them.

"Break one, and I will have you severely whipped," Aimelie says, still in that teenage singsong voice of hers. Is it just me, or has her English improved? And it has just been one week of practicing periodically to Max, I suppose, when their language is not colored by 'fuck' or 'suck' or 'lick'.

"Aimelie, please," Max says. I can see the desperation on his flushed face. "Don't hurt her. I'll do anything you want."

"You are already doing anything I tell you to. Do not try to bargain with me for her hide. It does not become you. Back in America, you were lovers. But here, you are mine." She says that last with a feverish possessiveness that sends alarm bells ringing in my head.

I am afraid to breathe. My thighs already bear the strain of squatting. My pussy is wet and exposed. My arms tremble slightly, and I rue the fact that I scarcely have had the time to tone them. They are weak and ill-suited for duress. The iron collar is heavy around my neck.

But that is not all Aimelie has in store for me.