Tales from a Far Country Ch. 04-25

I look at their pale, oiled bodies and for once, feel smug! I am brown naturally nowadays; Pavea used to taunt me about being negro black. I would have to agree with her now and although 'black' is over stating things, deep brown is exactly right, so the oils and lotions are one affectation that I have no need of. Whilst the guests are working hard on their tans, to get as brown as may be fashionable but to avoid burning in the sun -- I am serene, for once confident that I am at last one step ahead of my Owners and without any additional effort, I get much browner than they. I wonder if they are envious of this little part of the path I have trodden? It's strange -- once it was slaves who were weather beaten and brown like me, while the aristocracy made sure they had the pallid complexions which proved they had no need to labour. Then the workers were pale and the wealthy tanned as a mark of their leisure. Now we have the bronzed owners and the burnished slave. Who knows which is which?

We cross Lake Onega and on to Lake Lagoda. It's enormous, like a sea; Europe's largest according to one of the sailing crew.

We float on, drifting along on smooth currents beneath blue unclouded skies, until we reach St Petersburg. Here is another breath-taking panorama of churches, palaces and majestic classical buildings on each side as we cruise down the Neva and we reach our mooring at a very smart Marina. Well, how could it be otherwise? (4)

I am confined to the boat -- Sveta takes pleasure from seeing to my confinement with an enthusiasm that far outweighs the necessity for security - whilst owners and guests take shore leave to visit the Mariinsky Ballet, to dine at restaurants and to see friends. (5)

We stay three days. It is three days when there is just not much for me to do, so at last I have a holiday of my own, after the first day when Svetlana Nikitechna has completed experiments on me with various arrangements of straps and ropes.

When the boat is occupied, I am occasionally confined by the pricks and shocks from my collar to stay below decks, out of the way. But, when there is just me and the professional crew on board, I have the run of the ship (almost -- the pricks and shocks start of I get close to the ship's rail). I can even enjoy lying on deck to read and enjoy the sunshine. My Russian is now good enough for me to enjoy some of the simpler books. And of course there are magazines. It's a treat to read again, even if it is only the Russian edition of "Hello!" SHIP'S CAT

We leave St Petersburg -- just Gaspadeen, Gaspazha, me and the sailing crew - and head out into the Baltic. Baltic! It's a synonym for everything cold and unpleasant but for us the weather is kind, almost Mediterranean. The day passes in a leisurely way as we sail west south west, between Finland on our starboard side and Estonia to port and then I realize: I have left Russia!

It's a strange feeling, mainly an insecure feeling. Suddenly, I am anxious. I catch myself looking forward to returning to the security of familiar things, places and routines. But of one thing I am certain, I can rely on my Owners to keep me safe and for me, secure confinement can always be relied upon! As I think about it, I find I am grateful.

I could ask where exactly we are going to but I don't. After all, I am a slave and why should a slave be privy to their Owner's business? I would rather not know. It is easier for me to merely get on with my tasks and when there is no work to do, I enjoy the cruise along with the rest of the company.

I am on deck, collecting up some of the empty glasses from where Gaspadeen and Gaspazha have shared a bottle of wine. There's a mobile phone on the table; it chirrups as I pick up the last of the glasses.

It's a text message. I know she will want to know. She has only brought her personal phone and there are only a selected few people who have this number. I pick up the phone. The message is from Yevgeny on Moscow. She will definitely want to know. It must be important. I'm sure that he wouldn't bother her if it wasn't.

I knock on the door of her state room. I hear her cursing in Russian before she calls me in. She's lying in bed with Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch. He's still asleep

She rises from the bed to check the phone, pulls on a robe and pads out of the state room and onto the deck. She returns his text with a call.

"Yevgeny?"

I can't help over hearing the conversation. Sveta is standing right outside the state room door I couldn't leave without pushing past her ....

"That's right, Stockholm?"

There's a short pause before Sveta speaks again. "Yes, I know. Well they may be potential buyers for the asset I suppose.

Yevgeny replies.

"I see," responds Sveta. "They will be resident for several days, perhaps two weeks? All of them?"

There's another pause while Yevgeny talks. Then Sveta cuts in again.

"Ah .... So there is a significant possibility of a chance meeting ...."

As always these conversations go on as if I were no more important than a piece of furniture. The way she talks about "the asset", it could be anything. It could even be me.

Night has fallen. I say "night" but in fact it's barely dark. The sun has dipped towards the horizon but at this high latitude, at this time of the year, night is just a dim form of day. I am in my cell -- actually that's not fair, because it's really just a small cabin in comparison to the state rooms of the principle guests and the Kustensky's -- force of habit, nowadays I suppose.

The door opens and Gaspazha Sveta stands outside.

"Vyerochka: I cannot sleep," she says. "Go fetch a bottle of champagne with two glasses and bring them to me on deck. Oh and open it if you will ....."

I find Sveta on the stern deck- I am surprised to find her naked. Not that I expected her to be prudish, but I am still surprised to find she is at ease when any of the crew might happen by and would see her. The weather is not cold and the breeze merely cool. I offer her a glass and await her instructions concerning her drinking companion -- presumably her husband, Anatoly Sergeyevitch.

To my further surprise she pours a second glass and offers it to me. She says, "Here you are Vyerochka. Enjoy!"

I don't need to be asked twice. I do not get the chance of alcohol very often. Once, it brought me a severe whipping, then there was the day I successfully defended my Thesis, then after my Graduation and finally, after the birth of Alana's baby. This will be the fifth glass in - how long? Two years? I take the glass and sip. The wine fizzes and seethes in my mouth. It has a sweet musty yeasty taste. And beyond that is the tingle of unfamiliar alcohol on the brain.

"What do you think of our Russian champagne?"

The question could sound strange to western ears, but it's no longer strange to me. I am a Russian now; it's champagne from my country. It is our Russian champagne.

"It's delicious, Gaspazha. Thank you. It is also quite unexpected."

"Well, all good slaves deserve their rewards." She nods her head to my labia, still neatly closed by the rings that Neena installed.

"Can you?" she raises her eyebrows and nods her head towards my imprisoned vulva asking if I can give myself any sexual stimulation.

"I don't know, Gaspazha. You have not given me permission to ... enjoy myself. I suppose I would feel more than I can in (Should I say my? No settle for the, after all ownership rests with the Kustensky's) the chastity belt but it's a nice change."

"Yes, I'm sure. Perhaps a holiday privilege?"

I have finished my glass -- too quickly. The alcohol doesn't help. That and my constant state of horniness. I set the glass down. She sets hers down beside it and walks over to me. She embraces me. It's not a sexual embrace, more like sisters or a mother with her daughter. The affection is almost overwhelming.

"Vyerochka?"

"Da, Gaspazha?"

"Will you indulge me? Tolya is fast asleep and I am hot for him."

I'm not sure I like where this is leading, but training comes to the fore and after all what choice do I have? "Of course, Gaspazha. How can I help?"

"Here," Sveta says, passing some black leather cuffs to me. "Place these around your wrists and ankles."

I strap the cuffs on me, as bidden.

"Now, stretch your ankles between those rings, and your wrists between those ....."

Sveta kneels down to fix my ankles and tiptoes to fix my wrists with snap shackles. I stand, stretched and spread and vulnerable. I remember another night, a world away when I was Jenny, when I had been promised my freedom by a girl called Connie .....

Sveta has disappeared and I am left alone on the deck, under the summer moon, to gaze out on the silver ripples across the Baltic.

Sveta nuzzles my ear: she has returned. "Now, little one. Now I am going to warm your skin. To scratch and tingle and burn you just a little."

Sveta - I glance at her over my shoulder -- picks up a flogger and swings it towards me. The impact is merely soft. I feel a wind from the tails as they approach and then a soft thud -- and somewhere in the background, just the hint of a scratch and a very small burn.

She plays the tails over my body for several minutes. Slowly. With patience. Unhurried. Thoroughly. Leaving no area of accessible skin below my neck un-visited. She pauses and refills her glass. She drinks and presses the glass to my lips. I refresh myself. I am drinking on a empty stomach and the effect of the alcohol - from our country - makes me giggle!

Sveta picks up another flogger.

"Horsehair! she whispers. Do you know horsehair? It's scratchy. Itchy. Now, Vyera," she presses her finger to my lips. "Just concentrate on itching in silence!"

"Da, Gaspazh ..zh..zha," I gasp as the thin tendrils make their extended tour of my body. My calves, outer and inner thighs, my vaginal lips, my butt and back and shoulders and arms. Scratching, tickling, tingling, burning, biting.

She stops. I glow. She kneels in front of me - and licks my labia!

OOOOH! It feels so wonderful. The sensation and because of who is playing with me! Her tongue explores. It circles around the chastity rings, pushes between the labia. Explores my clit. Wriggling, Pushing. AAAHHH. I moan louder and pull on my bindings. She stops -- and chuckles. I pant.

Yes, she says, I thought you would be able to feel quite a lot more, but you see, rabinya, it feels all the more enjoyable after your strict diet! I think you might now understand why we had to protect our asset?

"Da, Gaspazha! And thank you!"

"Pazh'alsta! I will have you carefully locked up again when we get home. Won't that be nice?"

I am still hovering near orgasm and all I can say is "Yes, thank you so much Gaspazha!", although exactly what I am or will be grateful for, is open to question.

We drink another glass of champagne each. Her freely. Me, being allowed to sip from the flute she holds for me. She leaves for a moment and I am alone, with the see breeze playing across my naked body, the moon glinting on the rippling waters of the sea. Sveta returns.

"I had to pee. Do you want to?" She moves her hand slowly, firmly up from my mons towards my navel. Inevitably, the hand presses on my filling bladder. "Do you?"

"Da, Gaspazha." I try to speak in all humility but the giggling from before, the sensations of the flogging and now the pressure on my belly all seem to conspire against a proper demeanour for a slave.

"Hmmm. I bet you do." It's clear that Sveta understands how I feel. She doesn't take exception to how I speak. "You will be filling. Stretching." As she says the word I choke back a giggle, the word 'stretching' seems absurdly funny somehow. "But, you are going to have to hold it whilst I flog you. I will be very cross if you let go. I might even birch you them. I birch Tolya. Did you know that?"

That surprise, even shocks me. How can that be? "Nyet Gaspahza."

"Hmmm. I birched him after the last time he fucked Professor Dawney. Does that surprise you?"

She is still rubbing my bladder. Holding on is getting more difficult or was but her news about Angela, Angela of all people drives all other considerations out of my mind. The question is which is more strange - Angela fucking with Anatoly? Angela fucking a man? Angela fucking at all? Anatoly fucking Angela in preference to Sveta?

"Angela, Gaspazha? But she is ..."

"Of course, Jenny would have known that." It hurts to hear her talk about Jenny in the past tense. "But apparently not always."

I begin to wonder about what happened to Jenny, "Did Angela send me to you? Send Jenny to you?"

"No," Sveta is candid, not contesting my right to know. "No, but she mentioned Jenny to Tolya. She claimed to have been arrested by the CIA who were interested in Tolya and all because of Jenny. Is that strange?"

"They interrogated me too. They said it was because of Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch."

Sveta nuzzles my neck again. She continues. "Well I'm glad they told us about you because I'm glad we took you and now, I can't imagine not having you." Sveta is rubbing my clit -- actually brushing my labia and manipulating the top of the ring which passes through my clit hood. It has the desired effect. I start to drool, after her previous attentions. She must feel it too because she stops abruptly and turns to pick up a flogger. I can just see it trailing from her hand.

"Can you see Vyerochka?"

"Da, Gaspazha."

"What are the colours?"

"The tails are white, blue and red Gaspazha." White. Red. Blue. The colours of our flag (6)."

"This is heavy oiled hide, rapina. It will thud and sting and burn and perhaps ...." Her lips are close to my ear again, "... even cut. I will lick your skin with this flogger everywhere."

A quick movement. She is standing behind me. I can feel the breeze from the storm to come. It breaks over my right shoulder, then my left. A shower of stinging rain and the thump of the mass of the flogger. Burning spreads out from the impact. She wields the flogger again and again. She is true to her word. She moves slowly down from my shoulders to my back. Across my buttocks and down the back of my thighs. Across my calves and then round to whip down past my breasts and nipples. Around my stomach, left to right and right to left. Up between my wide-spread legs: inside my left thigh, inside my right thigh and across my vulva.

In my mind's eye, I can take up the position of an observer and watch two naked women at play on the deck under the sky. I imagine the graceful throw of Gaspazha's arm, and the sinuous path of the whip until its tails embrace their victim, that other naked girl. The image is unbelieveably sexy. I would not be anywhere else for anything or anybody. I am, in some strange way, in heaven.

I loose count of the strokes. I'm lost in the repeated sensations, in the way that each blow builds on its predecessor. She stops and I am left to enjoy the tingling, burning afterglow.

"Did you enjoy that Rapina?"

It takes me time to realise that she is speaking; still longer that she is speaking to me. My body is still swaying to the rhythm of the blows that have now ceased. "Da Gaspazha! It was - wonderful!"

"Do you enjoy being rapina?"

"Da Gaspazha. Tonight -- now, it is wonderful to be rapina Vyerka. Thank you for taking me!"

"Pazhal'sta," she replies, "Don't mention it!"

She presses the champagne flute to my lips once more and between us, we finish the bottle. LANDFALL

Sveta releases me. I return to my cabin to sleep for another few hours before my duties begin again. In the morning, I am woken by one of the crew and when I emerge above decks for the first time I find that we have made landfall!

We are winding our way between islands and on many of the buildings I can see there are flags which carry the blue and gold crosses of Sweden. I know where we are. We are entering the Stockholm Archipelago. Stockholm! My mother's -- Jenny's mother's - birthplace, the place where she grew to woman hood; where she met Jenny's father; the place where I was conceived; of holidays from my childhood; the place where I used to visit relations and do holiday jobs. I know it well.

The yacht noses carefully up the channel which will lead us to the harbour and the Old Town -- Gamla Stan -- the centre of the city.

I see the familiar landmarks: the tower of the city hall, the modern buildings of Hörtorget, the island with the Vassa Museet and the Harbour Bridge. It's a strange feeling. The cityscape is familiar but the circumstances make me feel as though I am looking at it from behind glass. The yacht berths. Customs and Immigration officials board. Passports are inspected. Documents are checked. One of the officials is a woman of my own age. She has long blonde Scandinavian hair, neatly tied back and her handsome happy face enhanced by her radiant blue eyes and the healthy tan of her skin. She glances at me. I smile. She looks at my passport, my Russian passport.

For a moment a voice inside me seems to be prompting me to tell the girl who I really am. Jennifer McEwan, a British citizen who was kidnapped from London and enslaved by the Kustenskies and I want asylum and protection until my husband can come for me. But who am I now? I have a new name, a genuine Russian Passport with my photograph inside. I appear on the records of the Russian Interior Ministry and I arrived on a luxury yacht with my employers. How could I deny that? It's all true. What would it sound like? Completely implausible, that's what. So I, Vyera Anatol'yevna Kuznetsova keep silent and smile and the Officials continue with the formalities for me and the rest of the crew. Eventually, all is complete. Hands are shaken. Welcome to Stockholm! And then it's back to work .......

We stay in Stockholm several days. The Kustenskies are on and off the yacht regularly. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes in the evening. There is no shore leave for me here -- especially here -- and my collar firmly reminds me to remain on the yacht on occasions when I approach the rails. My first impression is strengthened. I am in the heart of a city that I know intimately but I might as well be watching it on television. I can no more enter Stockholm than I could step through a television screen and arrive on the set of a TV drama.

My thoughts are interrupted by Sveta's arrival, "Rabinya?"

"Da, Gaspazha Sveta."

"We are leaving Stockholm this evening. Dinner will be served as we depart. Please begin the preparations ...."

I scurry away to begin but soon there are difficulties. As I walk up from the kitchen to the dining room, my collar begins to shock me. At first it's merely a small pricking, almost a tickle. I put down the things I have brought and return to the kitchen. The shocking stops but as I try to take some plates to the dining room the shocks return, but this time it becomes stronger and stronger. I daren't go as far as the dining room. Then I can't leave the crew deck at all and the more I move the worse the shocks become. My world shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. Finally I have to appeal to the yacht's technical officer.

"Yuri?"

"Da?"

"There is something wrong with my collar."

"Oh?"

"It keeps shocking me."

"You probably deserve it!"

"Yes, I probably do but I cannot leave the lower decks anymore and Gaspazha is expecting me help prepare dinner and then I will have to serve."

"Perhaps you have been restricted?" Yuri sees from my reaction that I have no idea why this might be. "Perhaps you have been sold and they are keeping you safe and sound for your new owner?" He is laughing but his words send a chill through me. It could be true. What if it is true? It can't be true! It was only a few nights ago that Gaspazha said how glad she was that I was hers. Why would they dispose of me? What have I done? Where might I be sent? Who is going to take me?