Tales From A Far Country
- 1 year ago
- 18
- 0
Tales From A Far CountryChapter 20: Another Name, Another Country free porn video
THE AWAKENING
Sveta Kustenskaya has spent another disturbed night, sleeping fitfully and only moving deeper into sleep by the time she has to get up. Something has to happen today, but what is it? At last the memory presents itself to her conscious mind.
"Anatoly, do we really have to go through this charade this evening?"
Anatoly has also spent a poor night, constantly disturbed by his wife's tossing and turning. He (almost) welcomes the opportunity to get up and start the day at last, but Sveta's question ... surely?
He puts his puzzlement into words. "But surely this was what you wanted? We talked about his months ago and even Mendeleyev thought it would be a good idea?"
"Mendeleyev? Did he? Well that's almost a reason in itself not to put any trust in the idea and I am sure it was entirely your idea, Anatoly Sergeyevitch!"
Anatoly sighs and climbs out of bed. "Sveta, can I make you some tea or coffee? What time do you have to be at the Media Centre?"
"What's the time? – is that the time? I'm sorry Anatoly but I have no time to waste drinking tea with you. I shall have to get ready. I suppose we are actually going to have to go through with this?"
"Well, no we don't have to do anything if you don't feel its right anymore..."
"Oh, all right lets get it over and done with it if that's what you are so determined to do. When do we have to be there?"
"Er, I thought six for seven pm. Would that... ?"
"I will have finished work by two. Let's meet back here ... can you please just get out of my way and let me into the bathroom please? I have to get ready."
Anatoly leaves Sveta to get ready and goes into the kitchen to make himself coffee. What should he do? Make Sveta some tea would be the safest course of action. It will be there if she wants it and she does not have to drink it if she doesn't. As the kettle sighs and the coffee percolator spits and fizzes, Anatoly's mind revisits the conversation he had about Sveta with Igor Mendeleyev. Day by day, it seems that Sveta is becoming less rational. Is this the crisis breaking at last? The first lashings of rain blown ahead of the fierce storm to come?
THE CANING
Isn't that the way it always happens? You have had a dreadful night and then, by the time you are supposed to get up, you finally get to sleep? Even in my extraordinary world, some things don't change.
I have been on my bed all night, kept awake by the peppery butt plug and the feeling of it inside me. Finally, perhaps about 6am, my body surrenders to sleep. It is only moments later when Neena comes to wake me.
One minute I am - at last - dead to the world. The next thing I know, someone has poured cold water over me.
It's a shock! I open my eyes to find Gaspazha Neena looking down at me and smiling. "Time to get up, sleepy head. You have a busy day today."
It takes me a few moments to realise where I am. It obviously amuses Neena but she doesn't give me any time to recover my wits. "Here," she says, "the keys to your belt. Please remove it and the ... ah ... accessories. They will all need washing. Then get washed yourself..."
The water is hot and refreshing; thank goodness. I am fully awake at last. I turn to face Neena who throws me my towel. By staying with me, she has made sure I have no opportunity to masturbate myself and have some little satisfaction. "Get dried, dry your belt, bring it with you and follow me. I think you know where."
Yes, I know where. The thought of my appointment with Neena's cane was one of the things that kept me awake until sleep had finally driven it to the back of my mind. Now it elbows its way to the centre of my attention. Apprehension grips me once more. Meekly I follow her to the punishment room.
I lay myself across the spanking horse obediently. There is no point in protesting or resisting. I am going to be caned and that's that. I am a slave and slaves are regularly disciplined, sometimes for infractions they have committed and sometimes just because their trainers think it will be good for them. Now it's my turn. At least Pavea is not here to gloat at me.
I wonder what – what were their names? My memory seems to be fading. There was a man and this girl I knew called something like Karen or Cath or what was it? And the man, he was important to me but what was his name? What will they be doing now? They will still be sound asleep, probably. I wonder if they remember me? I ought to remember them better than I do now. Here am I, though, separated from them only by distance, being strapped down to be disciplined. It's partly because my trainer thinks it will be good for me and partly because I asked if I could be killed by accident.
Whilst Neena gets ready, I think of them both. I imagine a message from me, flying across the earth, through the dawn sky, reminding them that I still exist, that I am still here breathing the same air as they do.
"Rabinya!," says Neena brightly, "We are ready to begin!" She stands quite close to me, stroking the back of my neck as I lay stretched out across the punishment horse. "First, tell me why you should be caned?"
"Because slaves have to be reminded of their place and because I asked a question."
"Yes and no, rabinya. You are right, yes, slaves need to be reminded of their place but no, you are not being punished because you asked a question. You are being caned because you did not trust your Owner to take proper care of you." She pauses for a moment to let her remarks sink in. I nod my head in acceptance. "How many strokes should you have?"
Surely this question was settled between us yesterday in the car on the way back from Moscow? I think for a moment. It is the same problem as always. Too few and she will give me more; too many and I will suffer more than I need. Is Gaspazha Neena testing me again? Tempting me to try to trick her into giving me fewer strokes that I proposed yesterday?
"Thirty, Gaspazha"
Neena seems satisfied and it is a punishment I think I can bear. "Good girl. Thirty. Confirmed! You shall enjoy one stroke each minute for thirty minutes. Now count!"
So it was a test after all. She said 'confirmed' which obviously refers back to yesterday. I must be learning to play the game at last. Then my mind looks for something else to think about. The year has turned. The snows of winter have come and have now been driven back by the rapid advance of spring. Gaspazha is wearing some white Birkenstock sandals. They look so comfortable. A thong passes to the inside of her big toe to meet a strap which passes over her instep. Her feet and legs are bare. It's an odd contrast; comfort for her and pain for me.
Looking ahead into a large mirror on the wall, placed so slaves can 'enjoy' the sight of themselves being punished, I can see her toes grip and then I hear the first stroke hiss towards my bum.
A bright firey line is painted across my bum.
"Adeen," I say. She has taken me slightly by surprise with the prompt arrival of the first stroke.
"Adeen" she echos – and then continues "Adeen, spaseeba Gaspazha! That's right isn't it?"
"Da, Gaspazha." I know what is coming next. There is no escape from a lack of obedience to the correct form of address to my mistress.
"What should I do?"
"You must begin again, Gaspazha."
"Pazh' alsta, rabinya. I shall."
I wait for the second stroke, but it will be merely the first "official" stroke. Neena's sports watch chimes: she aims and lets another cane stroke fly.
"Ah! Adeen, spaseeba Gaspazha!"
"Pazh'alsta, rabinya," she replies.
Over the next twenty nine minutes I painfully climb towards thirty cane strokes. When she told me that it would be one stroke each minute, it seemed as though it would be easier to take. One stroke each minute draws out the ordeal psychologically. In fact, it's much worse than blows delivered in rapid succession.
With each stroke, Neena slowly makes her way down my buttocks, then diagonally, right to left, then diagonally, left to right. There is not an inch of my bum which can shelter from her cane. As my bum becomes more and more painful I become more and more conscious of how slowly time is passing, of how many more strokes I must endure, of how long it will be until the beating is over and of how full my bladder seems. Can I hold on until Neena has completed my punishment? Could I ask to go to the toilet? And risk starting from "one" all over again? No thank you! After twenty I start to cry and moan with each new stroke.
"Ah," she says, "That sounds so nice. Music to my ears!"
At last we reach thirty. I sob and sob. She comes to me and wipes my tears. "Now Vyera, I am going to leave you now for a little while to burn quietly. It there anything you need?"
"Please Gaspazha, may I pee?"
"Of course. Let me put something under you and then you can let go let go."
She releases the straps which hold me sufficiently for me to shuffle back so she can place a bowl between my legs
I let go. I pee and pee and pee. The pale golden urine streams away from me. I feel drips, at first warm and then cold, spatter from the bowl against the inside of my legs. I hear the gentle singing of the impact of the liquid on the metal bowl. I am aware the Neena is watching, following my every reaction. It's no easier now than it was the first time that I was made to pee while someone was watching, back at Inward Bound. When I have done, Neena gently wipes me clean.
I watch horrified as she picks up a long straw. She places the bowl on a stand in front of me. It's so close that I can feel the warmth of the urine on my face, its pungent smell fills my nose. Neena pops the straw into the bowl of urine, pushes the other end between my lips and says, "Now little Vyerochka here is another challenge for you. I expect to see all of this gone. Look upon it as conserving your – our – electrolytes! Begin!"
So, with Neena standing by and watching, I have to drink my own urine as a full and final humiliation.
THE PREPARATIONS
I look up at Gaspazha with pleading eyes. The last drop of urine has gone from the bowl, the sharp tang of its taste fills my mouth. I can feel the acidity rasping at the back of my throat. I don't know how my stomach is keeping it down. I don't even want to think about that.
"How do you feel now, Vyerochka?"
"Just very tender, spaseeba Gasapazha and thank you for spending your time with me." I used to loathe speaking like this but it's about survival and survival is a game I have to play as effectively and cleverly as I can. However, as the days have passed into months, this sort of response has come to seem more and more natural and appropriate for me. I say nothing of my urine drink, not wanting Neena to think it was easy or that it was difficult. She seems to ignore it too. Perhaps it was just another test of obedience.
"You are welcome, rabinya!" With a single finger tip, she traces one of the cane marks across my buttocks. "Well, today there is much to do. Presently I will come back to release you. Then, you will lock your belt around yourself and after you are to go and get breakfast – there is some thing for you in the kitchen." Mainly what I want is to clean my teeth – anything to get the taste of urine from my mouth. "Afterwards you are to help the Domestics to prepare the Dacha. Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensky are coming for the weekend and they will be arrive late this afternoon."
After breakfast (which I eat standing up, to the amusement of the giggling Mongolians and without a chance to clean my teeth) I join them in getting the house ready.
This gives me another opportunity to see the house from end to end, without restrictions from my collar. The Dacha is, of course, magnificent. In fact the house is so large that vacuuming the carpets is almost aerobic exercise in itself!
Imagine you are touring an English Country House; an inlayed polished wooden floor in the entrance hall, oil paintings, wonderful carpets, fine furniture and enough space to show everything off properly. That's very much the feeling at the Dacha. The house never seems cold, even in winter. Even though it must be well over one hundred years old, the architect ingeniously created a building which would be comfortable all year round. For example, the marble columns in the entrance and made of wood and painted to look like stone. The floor is wooden, but made of pale and dark woods and gives the impression of an Italian black and white chequer-board marble floor. Had the floor and columns been of real stone, the building would have been impossible to keep warm during the Russian winter!
The Domestics keep everything very tidy from day to day so the main task is to set out the dining room table (eight places) and to make up the beds in four rooms. There are two double beds and two singles. That means two couples and two other guests staying and two more people joining the other guests for the meal.
There's a note telling us what will be served tonight, so that we can get the table settings correct. The menu is rather extensive for a Russian evening meal. The note says, "Ukranian beetroot soup served cold with sour cream, Caviar with blinis and more sour cream, Coulibiak (a fish pie with salmon mushrooms spinach and roasted buckwheat and fresh vegetables - 1) and finally, fresh fruit pavlova. There will be champagne before the meal, vodka between the courses, a white wine with the main course and an Italian Vino Santo to accompany desert – and a single malt Scotch with coffee."
This is more like obyed the main meal of the Russian day which would normally be served in the middle of the day. Oozhine - the evening meal - tends to be lighter and less formal. I know this because I have had plenty of practice getting meals ready!
Perhaps there is to be some sort of celebration and the guests can only assemble together this evening?
When I come tp set the bottles out I see that the scotch is Laphroaig. I remember that I bought some, once. I bought some for ... for... Joe on his last birthday or I should say the last birthday I was with him. Joe! That was his name. I had almost forgotten his name! How many birthdays have passed by now? I have no idea. In my mind, I am suddenly back at home with him. He unscrews the cap and pours two glasses. One for him. One for me. I lift the glass to my lips and I am met by a pungent, peaty medicinal tang. Then the taste. Smouldering, smokey, autumnal sensations spread across my tongue. The sip leaves a burning heat as I swallow. How that memory burns once more! How strange that it should be so strong, so potent and triggered merely by the name on a bottle. Have they done that on purpose or is that just coincidence? Because this time the memory still hurts. As I leave the bottle on the side table, I catch Neena looking at me.
"Vyerochka – is there anything wrong?"
"Nyet, Gaspazha. Spaseeba."
"Vyerka! You are not being true to your name."
Oh how these people seem always able to look right through me! It seems she knows at once when I am lying. I should have been called 'лжец'.
"I'm sorry Gaspazha Neena. It was the whisky. It was the last birthday present I bought my husband and the memory hurts a lot. I did not want to trouble you with it."
"Ah," is all she says for a moment but then goes on. "That is strange. There was a girl like you who was married but I did not think Vyerka was ever married. In fact I am sure of it. No slave can be married, only owned. No, Vyerka was never married. If that had been so, her slavery would be too hard to bear. You must be mistaken Vyerka. Mistaken about being married. I am sure you will think differently about it soon."
I look at her bleakly. I understand what she means but I still cannot bring myself to nod in simple acceptance. I say: "Thank you Gaspazha. Of course slaves are owned and not married. I was being foolish."
I have not quite accepted her point of view. I didn't include the name 'Vyerka' in my answer. I wonder if she has noticed my tiny rebellion? The thin thread which joins me to my past. A thread which will snap for ever at any moment.
THE UNEXPECTED PARTY
The day has moved on. It is late afternoon. I have been working in the kitchen, getting things ready for the chef. I am given a snack to eat and then sent off back to my cell.
I am alone at last. I am glad. I return to be with Joe and spend my time as an invisible companion to Joe and his wife Jenny on his birthday, the last birthday Jenny was with him. Jenny is very like me. So very like Vyerka. We might look the same, but she is married and Vyerka is a slave. I watch them as he opens his presents, as they make plans for the day, as they return in the evening and enjoy a whisky together. Can they see me? The time-traveller, watching them from the future, peeping at them from out of the shadows? Perhaps it is best for them to be unaware of my presence. What good would it do if they were to catch sight of me? A grim apparition who will bring pain and suffering into their lives. So I remain in careful hiding.
Alma
- 20.11.2022
- 13
- 0
