The Soldier (Chicago Bratva 4)

He reaches around to cup my ass, pushing my hands away. He kneads it, pulling me closer, then he starts to play with the buttplug, pumping it slowly.

“Oh!” I can’t control the quivers that explode in my belly. He pumps again, short fast pumps. I press my fingers over my clit as I throw back my head and come, unable to stop myself.

“I’m sorry, Master,” I gasp as soon as I can catch my breath. My hands fall onto his shoulders because my legs won’t hold me up.

A tear streaks down my face although I’m not even sure what it’s for.

Pavel thumbs it away, studying my face. “It’s okay, blossom,” he murmurs. “It was an accident.” He adjusts the nipple clamps, then guides me back over his knee.

This time he uses the paddle on me, and I jolt with the intensity. It’s way different than his hand—much harder. And hurty. He spanks me quickly, alternating buttcheeks, right, then left.

I squirm and writhe under the spanks at first—I can’t help it. But when he continues paddling, my last bit of resistance lets go. I surrender to his will, to the pain. At the same time, the upset of the audition, my stress over not telling Pavel, his disappointment in me all bubble up to the surface.

A sob breaks from my throat, and then I totally lose it.

Pavel stops immediately. “Oh, malysh.”

Pavel

Tonight I want to tear out my hair when Kayla cries. It happens sometimes. She cried the first night we played—not during the scene, but after. She needed aftercare, and I didn’t give it. Even though I know it’s probably just an emotional release from the strain of her traumatic day, I feel like the biggest mudak.

I don’t show my distress—that would only make her bottle her release in an effort to please me. I rub her ass with one hand and her back with the other. I don’t interrupt by asking her if she’s okay or what went wrong. I may not be the most experienced dom, but I know enough to make this a safe space for anything that comes out.

But as she lets out a torrent of tears, I’m sorry I promised not to kill the television director. I really, really want to pound his face right now. Or maybe it’s just my own face I want to pound.

After a while, her sobs slow and then stop. I gently remove the plugs. She’s still dripping wet, so I know no matter what happened emotionally, my little flower is turned on.

“Crawl up on the bed, blossom.” I keep my voice soft—there’s no command in my tone, only gentleness. I’m not sure if she needs to be fucked or held right now, so I’m trying to read her.

Kayla instantly obeys, crawling up farther on the bed, lying on her belly with her legs spread wide in clear invitation.

“Is that how you want it, malysh?” I break my own rule and ask. I stroke and squeeze her reddened ass, making a sound of contentment in my throat.

When I rub between her legs, she makes the same sound. “Yes, Master. Please.”

Another mental snapshot. So damn sweet.

I strip out of my clothes and crawl up behind her, pushing her damp blonde hair from one side of her tear-stained face to brush my lips over her temple. She arches her ass up when my cock trails between her legs.

I push in easily, her channel is soaked and swollen. I move slowly, arcing in and out with reverent glides. Filling her, reveling in the glory of everything Kayla—her tight cunt. Her punished ass. Her sweet, sweet submission.

It starts without urgency. Just pleasure. Easy strokes. The communion of two bodies. But Kayla starts crooning, “Master… Master” over and over again in that breathy, need-soaked voice, and my dick can’t take it any longer. I pick up my speed, pumping into her, riding the wave. I take off her nipple clamps so the rush of blood returning to them will stimulate her orgasm, then I work a hand beneath her pelvis to rub her clit. She immediately comes.

Her climax brings on mine, and I’m lost in it. It’s not rockets and fireworks this time. More like a safe space. Home. Not that my home was ever safe. But this is the way home should feel.

I lower my body onto Kayla’s and kiss her neck.

She sighs contentedly. “I love you, Master.”

My heart—the poor organ that’s already been strained beyond recognition—bursts open at her confession. I pull out and flip her to her back, pinning her wrists beside her head, blanketing her body with mine again. “You are fucking everything to me,” I swear fiercely. I don’t know anything about love. I’ve never known it. But my words are the truest I’ve ever spoken.

Kayla strains against my hold. She wants to pull me down—maybe for a kiss, maybe because it’s too intense for us to look at each other now that we’ve exposed ourselves to the bone, but I don’t let her. I make her stare into my eyes until I’m sure she believes me.