Page 28 of Twisted Cage

I had to slap my hand over my mouth to muffle the embarrassing sound I made. I buried my face in my pillow and did it again. I couldn’t stop. After a few minutes, it almost hurt, but also didn’t. I wondered what it would be like if Konstantin did this to me. Would he know just how to touch me to make me feel good? Would he kiss me while he did it? What if we were in the back of the car and he closed the divider so the driver couldn’t see us, would he touch my thigh, his hands moving higher, until he touched me here?

I show no signs of stopping. No flicker of decency. My fist grows greedier, squeezes harder, my hips meeting my depraved, accelerating strokes.

Her name a whisper on my lips.

Just the thought of him while I touched myself had me thrashing. My heels dug into the mattress, my toes curling uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop squirming and clawing at the sheets. Every time I sucked in a breath, the fabric rubbed over my nipples. In just a couple of minutes, I was biting my pillow and crying out. Then I was warm, so warm between my legs, and soaking wet. My fingers were drenched. I tasted them and didn’t hate it. So I flicked my tongue along them again. I didn’t stop until I licked them clean.

Honor dies when I scoop the cum dripping from my aching cock with my thumb and drag it over my tongue, tasting what her fantasies do to me. Much the way she tastes herself.

If he saw me do that, would he think it was gross? I don’t think so. I can’t possibly be the first person who tasted themselves, right?

Pride? I don’t even know what it is anymore. I have none. I squeeze my throbbing shaft, her panties dragging along the veins of my cock with every pump.

Would he taste me then? Draw my fingers into his mouth and lick?

Good? The sliver of good I had in me has withered. In its wake? Bone-shuddering cold, leaving me brittle and empty. But reading her fantasies of us, of what she wanted me to do to her—for once I feel the flicker of heat. I pump harder, the picture she painted alive in my head.

Would he let me taste him?

Gold help me, yes. Yes, I’d let you taste me. I’d demand it. An image of her on her knees for me, her lips wrapped around my cock, her golden eyes wet with tears as she gagged on me, flashes through my mind. The tingling burn starts in my spine, my balls drawing up tight.

What would we taste like together?

I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest heaving. Behind my eyelids, she’s there.

She’s in my bed, splayed wide, my cum dripping out of her.

The fantasy, a movie playing in my head.

She licks her lips and I feel the swipe of her warm wet tongue to my bones. I sink two fingers into the place where our cum meets and scoop up a taste of us for her.

I want to live in this delusion of us forever.

Where her ravenous mouth sucks my fingers in deep, her tongue greedily swiping over my skin, collecting every drop of us I offer to her.

I want him to be my first.

I want him to be my only.

A jagged growl rumbles from my chest as I explode on myself, ropes of warm cum landing on my stomach, and on my goddaughter’s panties, mixing the two of us after all, in the most torturous of ways.

12

NIKOLETTA

“Heads-up. He’s in a mood tonight,” my friend, Faith, says as she pushes through the swinging door into the communal kitchen.

“When isn’t he in a mood? The real question is, which one? A superior pain in the ass looking down on everyone? The touchy-feely used car salesman in a desolate town bringing all the ‘Hey there little lady’ energy?” I ask as I wipe my hands on the hand towel over my shoulder and drain the sink.

If my family saw me like this, they’d think we’d been sucked into another dimension. Nikoletta Maksimova Romanoff, the only daughter of Maksim Ivanovich Romanoff, head of the single most powerful Bratva family in Russia, and New York City—for now—running the kitchen in a commune for a crew of thirty.

For all I know, my brother Nikolaj managed to snag the power from our father’s clutches, but I doubt it. Not that I will know either way; we only have one television in the main house and it’s not like mafia business is reported on the six o’clock news.

No one knows my true identity here, or my history, other than Faith, and it took me six months to trust her with my secrets. And she had to trust me with hers first.

“That’s the thing,” she says with a quick glance. “I can’t quite figure it out.”

The way she wrings her hands tells me it is more than just a mood and at some point soon, things will take a turn with our new leader.

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