Video of O
Video of O
Did I feel the air shift slightly? In a room reeking of rotten memories mingled with stinky smells, Lyra roused from blackness without dreams. Nightmares were banished because they couldn’t compete with the dismal day and nasty evening before. The young woman shuddered at her recall of the horrors that began when the Anaconda arrived in the rape room.
It was as if he could read minds for what would cause me the maximum physiological and psychological pain. She recalled him hovering in the room like a director of S&M films. His fingers were ever there to hurtfully pinch when words and sneers weren’t enough. Perhaps he even guessed I’m attracted to him and he withheld his full participation out of spite, that I might enjoy that one part.
‘~Put some effort into it!’ With his interruptions, the mafia torturer had also made the event a torment for the abusers. When he had spoken those words, his foot was on Max’s butt and prodding more forceful action.
My supposedly inadvertent elbow rap on the tender proboscis wasn’t such a great idea at that point. Max’s violent reaction had been a vicious bite. Anaconda had chastised the offender but he then used his fingernails in the wound to inflict further anguish. Lyra’s hand moved under the sheet to caress the sore on her shoulder. After that incident, the night blurred into a horrid vignette that finally ended when she had passed out.
“~Put yesterday behind and don’t ever think about it again.” The girl whispered a doubtlessly unattainable order and took a deep breath to start her first morning of slavery and exploitation.
“~You won’t have to recall it,” the Anaconda had quietly entered the bedroom when she was still drowsy and had heard her murmur, “~because I’ll keep refreshing it for you.” His stealth ended suddenly with a jack-booted foot against her hip and hard kick. The girl rolled and gained full alertness as her body slammed up against the plaster wall.
“~Get your ass moving.” Not waiting for her to respond, he locked her arm into a grip so tight that tendons showed as thick cords on the back of his powerful hand. After jerking her to a seated position, Anaconda espied Max’s teeth marks and rapped the wound with ungentle knuckles. “~This dental tattoo is purpling up nicely.”
“~Where am I,” Lyra’s voice was cotton-mouthed and she blinked away the lingering vestiges of her dreamless respite, “~going now?”
“~To a death when I have my way,” Anaconda towed her into a weight training room rife with cloyed sweat, “~but now I could use a workout.”
“~Do you need an audience?” The young woman regretted her words in the look of sublime delight they gave the sadist.
“~You’re the equipment.” He tossed the girl onto a blue floor exercise mat but that was only the beginning of preparations. The next step was to roll her body into it and strap the resulting tube with leather belts. Through the following hour, the mobster hoisted and threw her, as a barbell.
I have no defense against this man! The dichotomy of sensations Lyra experienced in the apartment was revulsion at Dmitri’s death but diffused with attraction to the killer: now it was worse. His rough treatment jolted her aching body but the padding prevented her from bruising. Yet, through the pain she occasionally felt sensual tingles. Anaconda’s body is a marvel of masculinity and my female hormones can’t resist reacting to him.
“~I saved a fun bit for last.” His special exercise session’s grand finale had him suspending the girl in the mat from a chin-up bar and using her as a heavy punching bag: he rained fierce blows on her from every angle.
Lyra clenched her teeth against screaming, to prevent giving him extra pleasure, but the punishment was too intense. The padding spread inertia over a wide enough area to keep her from specific internal injuries but each strike sent waves of agony. When she had no tears left to cry and barely the breath to shriek, he stopped.
“~Here is your first installment in thralldom.” The Anaconda pulled a zippered pouch from a rear pocket and he teased it maliciously in her face. As his one hand unbuckled the top belt to extract her arm. His fingers on the other worked automatically in readying a heroin dosage. With the syringe ready, the old mobster freed an elbow to inject her.
“~Please don’t.” The girl shied her arm away from a shot of the liquid lethargy that was her mother’s master.
“~Put more feeling into your bleating.” The snake delighted in his duty so the more she begged, the greater would be his joy in continuing. When she didn’t oblige, he drove the needle into a vein and pushed the plunger.
Before the drug could dull her sensations, Anaconda untied his victim and pulled her upright. After dragging her down the hall, the grim mobster pushed the female into a filthy bathroom with such force that she had to catch herself against the shower stall. He threw a flimsy gossamer robe on the floor at her feet and the lintels rattled as he slammed the door behind.
Lyra staggered into the enclosure and spun both faucets to full: a tight cone pattern of the shower head sent a powerful stream of water and the girl sunk onto the tiles. My life may as well be swirling down the drain with the waste water. She waited for the narcotic to take its effect—but it didn’t. The daughter had seen the drug take hold of her mother often enough to know the effect that should’ve occurred by now. Was he toying with me?
“~What is his problem with women?” The decidedly not stoned female stood to enjoy the hot water etching away the accumulated grime from a preceding foul day and hideous evening. She opened her mouth under the stream to wet lips and throat: then used her finger for a minimalist tooth brushing. “~Did his nasty older sisters use him as a dress-up dolly?”
“~Maybe his psychological issues stem from his impotence.” With her eyes closed, Lyra imagined she could feel every droplet of liquid balm melting away her woes. Concentrating her awareness on the steam-laden air entering her nostrils, she felt it pervade her lungs and carry out the bad smells. Beats of her heart pounded rhythmically in her chest and pulsed pure blood coursing through her veins.
“~My skin is the only part of me that doesn’t seem to hurt.” Under the hot water, each capillary gave her tumult. Despite my pain and situation, life in a physical body holds joys that can’t be suppressed. “~I have to capture these instances of bliss to offset the torments between.”
“~Yikes!” Her pleasure was short-lived as the water grew suddenly freezing. “~He doesn’t miss a single trick!” The prick turned off the hot valve at the tank. Lyra shut off the cold tap to get the maximum warmth that still remained in the hot line. Taking away the warm water was only a small thing but made harsher because I was so exquisitely enjoying it.
“~I was expecting that.” Anaconda whispered in the mechanical room behind the toilet. He closed the cold valve and spun the hot open again. The sadist grinned at her sharp shriek and he left the tap configuration as it was. “~Let her wipe the soap off her scalded body with a hot wet towel.”
“~This love and hate thing is exasperating!” The girl stretched out on the cool marble floor to ease the fresh pain of her burn. The scald wasn’t sever enough to leave more than a temporary redness, but it was adroitly administered with hot following cold to inflict shock as well as anguish. Her mind’s eye saw an image of Anaconda holding Dmitri aloft and a contrast in the two men was disturbing. Dmitri was half-decent but there was nothing impressive or stimulating about him. Anaconda is utterly evil but I can’t keep from being captivated by him.
“~He gave the expression ‘no pain-no gain’ a whole different meaning in the workout today.” The girl granted that it was sadistic genius in the art of invisible torment. It was especially effective against her because while she suffered, there was always an aside of fascination at work. Anaconda was doing bicep curls with my whole weight as if I were feather light.
“~Are you nearly finished in there?” A light tap and a female voice from outside door dispelled the abducted girl’s troubled solitude.
“~Just a second.” Lyra quickly toweled off and put on the almost sheer robe. She looked in the mirror. The robe was translucent dry but when the material touched her still damp flesh, it grew as transparent as a wet t-shirt. This displays more than it conceals but I imagine that’s the point of it. She opened the door to find a petite blonde meekly standing.
“~Please follow me.” The timid girl led the way to the stairs and up to a much nicer bedroom. “~I’m told I have only one hour to get you ready.”
“~Prepared for what?”
“~You never know,” the blonde offered forlorn advice, and a valise to the kidnapped newbie, “~when you’ll be suddenly taken away from here.”
At the relatively old age of 21, the other young woman was Sergey’s girlfriend. Of course, she hadn’t willingly acquiesced to the relationship: the mob boss took whichever companion he wanted.
“~Are these your clothes?” Lyra was unsure of the girl’s intent. She was additionally undecided whether to be elated or fearful of a prospective relocation. One place, she supposed, was as good or as bad as a next.
“~Pack a suitcase to have ready. You can take anything you want from this room.” The slightly older girl was similarly torn in deciding whether this very pretty younger female was a threat to her position or a relief from it. Her vacillating thoughts danced across the pleasant features of her expressive face. “~The girl who told me to pack a bag from here was gone by noon of that same day. I never even knew what her name was.”
“~We can preclude that possibility right now. I’m Lyra.”
“~My name is Oksana.” As Obshina’s mistress, the girl seldom lacked for creature comforts and especially drugs to keep her docile were readily available. Conversely, as a sex toy of a vicious and decidedly unattractive man she also was never far away from revulsion and severe beatings either. In her internal debate over how to treat a girl who might take her station, Oksana resorted to her natural instinct of simply being nice. “~I’ll bring your things from downstairs and wash them for you.”
“~I brought nothing but a blanket,” Lyra followed as the hostess toured her about the room, “~but it’s of no importance.” Oksana opened drawers stuffed with clothing. Slightly worn but clean garments in an assortment of sizes hung neatly in the closets. Lyra brushed her hand over several articles as she considered the selection, but through her eye’s corner, she watched Oksana wince. Doubtlessly, she has known the prior owners.
The contents of the chamber geared as a staging area, spoke in ominous tone about the victims that had stayed here. The females that had picked from the selection and those that ultimately left stuff here shared aspects of an ongoing cycle of hopelessness and tragedy. Like a flea market outside the gates of a concentration camp, each article has a heartbreaking story to tell. Those thoughts were too depressing and Lyra restricted her mind to determining which items would fit her.
After a dash kit was packed, she put on make-up while Oksana stood behind and styled her hair. Lyra savored the friendly encounter with the same relish as the first part of her shower time.
“~Did you really puke into the Anaconda’s face?”
“~It was a full blast.” Lyra burst out laughing and mirth felt nice.
“~If his mouth had opened in shock, he could’ve eaten your last meal.” Oksana giggled but then as her chuckles subsided her face grew concerned. “~He has killed people in very bad ways over even less slights than that.”
As they worked, both traded looks in the mirror and Lyra worried over her new friend. She has a tiny body to begin with and is dangerously thin. If Oksana wasn’t anorexic already then she was headed swiftly for it. Her continual drug use, as indicated by needle tracks in her elbow and armpits were doubtlessly contributing to a worsening physical condition. Despite her bruises and hollow eye sockets, Oksana was lovely. One day though, the tyrant would find another girl to grace with his molestations. Not me.
As women do, these two spent their remaining time chatting as they worked on Lyra’s looks. Most of the talk and giggles were in response to shared stories about men’s stupidity in dealing with females. Lyra had plenty to share, as Dmitri had never outgrown his awe. He provided many examples of failures to impress her. The mobster’s girlfriend had few such lighthearted tales and her face darkened each time it was her turn.
“~How did you come to be here?” Lyra covered her friend’s shortfall by changing the subject. She seems so out-of-place here. Lyra’s mother had taught her not to expect people to be as their stereotypes. ‘Prejudging by the group is throwing the gold nuggets out with the gravel’. Through her mother, Lyra had met many prostitutes. Sex trade women often close themselves into mental shells: Oksana seems devoid of self-protection.
“~Oh, I’m afraid we won’t have time for that story right now.”
Lyra heard the line, but interpreted it from her differing viewpoint. My ‘Oh’ story is still being penned? Lyra had read ‘the Story of O’ and it was poignant. It is about a woman being trained as a masochist sex slave.
The mid-morning in Kiev was late at night in Seattle and Tariq slipped from his bed, to dash for the toilet to urgently pee. As he relieved himself, the man recalled the previous twenty-four hours. It was as a year worth of weather compressed into one day. The summer tornado sessions of lovemaking were in contrast to winter blizzards of rough sex. The autumn and spring were freeze-ups and thaws in between—spent in his catering to her whims.
“Hey my calendar girl.” The Iranian crawled under the sheet: his body had cooled and he felt her warmth before his skin even touched hers. My fire and ice redhead should love a hot versus cold sensation. He pressed his flesh fully against hers, and Lauren shot like sprung Jill-in-the-box out the far side of the bed: she disappeared into the bathroom.
“I have to go home.” The frosty lawyer stopped the door before it had closed. She blew a warm kiss—that floated amidst a flurry of snowflakes.
The Canadian watched the automatic door-closer finish the job and felt a breeze from the air-conditioner on his uncovered thigh. It’s artificially chilled air in a mechanically locked room. Tariq supposed Lauren’s heater was similarly man-made as opposed to being male-inspired. The cherry red electric coils only materialize when the hydro bills are all paid up.
Oksana’s prediction was accurate: the Anaconda returned at precisely the stroke of one hour later to rip Lyra away from another small moment of pleasure, within her overall nightmare.
“~Your sexy body is ideal for my porn productions.” Sergey appraised her again as she was dragged in front of him. “~Images of your rapes will net me a nice return on my investment.” Unlike impoverished rural girls he purchased, her cost was zero so money he made—was all pure profit.
Running a low budget production company as an offshoot of pimping, he marketed under the name of Soviet Sluts. Having missed the Internet porn industry’s major growth period, Sergey catered mostly to collectors of eclectic smut. His poor quality product could be seen only on a few minor websites. The haggard starlets were drug-addicted prostitutes and the male leads were thugs. The Obshina entertained dreams of a web empire, but his delusions hadn’t materialized and they wouldn’t without a miracle—but he had a divine intervention in the wings and this girl was a ticket.
“~Everyone to your places.” The stage was a lavish setting in Sergey’s opulent mansion. The mobster boss looked to where the male star stood. Vlad, the youngest of the elite squad and the one without the minefield of zits on his cheeks, was the faceless stallion to be breeding the young mare.
The director’s gaze then followed the Anaconda pushing the filly into position near the stud. The sadistic lieutenant had spent the previous hour giving a detailed report of the girl’s regimen of abuse. Last night she was raped and this morning pummeled: now she would experience humiliation by being defiled in front of an audience with the added indignity of having her degradation captured by a camera. The gangster took his ostentatious producer’s chair to oversee the action and to smugly bark his orders.
The girl squinted at the glare of the floodlights and looked about as her pupils adjusted. A large room, comprising an entire wing of the house, was rigged as a professional studio. The vaulted roof was strung with track lighting. The end wall, mostly of glass, overlooked a garden and opened onto a large sundeck.
“~Action!” Sergey bellowed the cue, trying to catch her before she could brace for her new ordeal. Her panic should insert a dash of realism.
Lyra glanced up at the thug co-star. In physical appearance, he could be Dmitri’s older cousin. Her eyes then swung to the Anaconda standing in a tight t-shirt with his arms folded. So far, I’ve done nothing but react: I now have an opportunity to be proactive. A sly look fleeted over her face. They want me as a cringing victim but that’s not what I’ll give them.
Though her eyes were still open, the forced porn starlet put a vision of her dead boyfriend in her mind. She mentally painted her dead lover’s face onto the ruffian she was now paired with. It’s my fantasy: I can do what I like. Her imagination put the Anaconda’s body under Dmitri’s head and added grey hair. The porn starlet grabbed her co-star. I can show what my training gave me and keep the vowel of my self-image as ‘I’ instead of ‘O’.
During the next hour, there was barely a whisper from outside the stage area. Sergey poised his megaphone at his lips but the only sound from it was his heavy breathing: the porno action was happening too flawlessly for any prompting. Whenever the observers believed they had seen the best—the girl kicked her eroticism and enthusiasm up by another notch.
“~The camera is running out of tape.” The director finally had a need to use his megaphone. “~Finish up quickly!”
“Ahhhh.” Lyra released a sigh of pleasure, relief and exhaustion. She relaxed her head back onto the soft pillow and rolled her eyes over to the audience. The top mobster was staring at her and appeared abashed by her performance. Oksana had called him the Obshina, but Lyra thought of a title to better suit his build. ‘Fire Hydrant’ expected me to feel belittled? But why should she be ashamed of sex? ‘Taboos are what other folk don’t want you to do—they don’t affect one who is their own mind’s master.’
Tariq awoke suddenly from an odd dream: he had been tied to a rack while a woman flogged him. He assumed it was Lauren, but her face had now escaped his waking memory. I see that part of it was true. His wrists and ankles had become badly tangled in the bed sheet.
“I know,” the programmer freed himself, then walked naked to a full-length mirror, “I’m pussy-whipped.” That insulting phrase didn’t cover it though: he had become slave to a high-maintenance woman. “What good is a prophetic dream that tells me what I’m already too well-aware of?”
“I kinda like this,” the Iranian ran a hand through his salt and pepper locks, “as it is.” The lawyer had informed him of an appointment made for hair coloring. I suppose I won’t have the gumption to refuse that either.
“Are you checking out?”
“What!” Tariq wheeled around. A woman’s face had appeared in the door crack, but he hadn’t heard her passkey in the knob.
“Uh,” he realized he was standing stark naked before her, “not today”.
“I’m sorry,” the cleaning lady didn’t seem flustered—or in any big rush to leave, “I disturbed you.” Finally, she pulled back and let the door close.
“I have to watch this from now on.” After a few tests, the programmer found that the door mechanism didn’t latch unless it took a full swing. The nude man turned to his mirror and flexed. “Did we give her a nice thrill?”
“~She was shining brighter than a comet today!” Sergey attached a copy of the shoot to an email. “~What do you suppose my American client will think of this.” He clicked the ‘send’ button.
“~I think,” Anaconda stood at parade-square at ease, “~it’s too soon to plan anything. Her performance today proved that her spirit is unbroken.”
“~It was quite the spectacular show.” Sergey clapped his lieutenant’s shoulder. “~I kept envisioning it was my thick dick she was pleasuring, instead of Vlad’s skinny willy. Come and sit.”
“~Why don’t you take her then.”
“~I agree with you that she’s still untrustworthy.” The Obshina took a shot of vodka and washed it down with a swig of orange juice. “~I don’t relish the prospect of awakening to find a knife in my rib cage.”
The Anaconda perched quietly on the sofa, but he didn’t drink.
“~Why did the girl’s neck have a hickey?” Sergey had expressly forbid anyone marking her. This wasn’t a capitol offence but it was disobedience.
“~That idiot Max lost his temper and sunk his teeth in.” Anaconda told the truth but neglected mentioning that after the bite, he had made sure the tiny wound became much more noticeable. “~He’s useless and you might consider sending him back to his cousin in Groznyy.”
“~You know I can’t do that.” The politics of mob affiliations revolved around a mutual spy network, as none of the gangsters trusted each other. “~I heard,” Sergey changed the topic, “~the girl and her boyfriend were screwing on a balcony when you found them.”
“~Is Max tasked with informing for you too?”
“~He talks,” the Obshina crossed a thick leg over the other, “~but I’m not interested in discussing Max just now.” He lit a Turkish cigarette and took a deep draw. “~I suspect this girl dances best before an audience and she can’t help but display exhibitionist appetites.”
“~Was it really a proclivity or just a pretense?”
“~I intend to find that out.” Sergey laid out his newly hatched plan.
“~Are you certain that’s wise?” The Anaconda suspected the girl may again show as unpredictable—as the other had so many years ago.
“~You think too much.” The chief mobster stabbed his smoke into an ashtray and showed his man out. “~Tonight will be another stellar event.”
“~You don’t think often enough,” Anaconda held his retort until he had departed the office, “~and I suspect meteoric will be the better descriptor.”
The late afternoon Kiev sun sent slanting rays, as Anaconda shoved the girl rudely out a patio door. The mobster had again given her an injection, and with his usual roughness. What’s his game in withholding my drugs but going through the motions of giving them to me? Whatever he had shot into her wasn’t heroin. I’ve seen the effects often enough to know.
Her gaze swept the next video set. A king size brass bedstead had been positioned on a spacious concrete deck: adjacent to it was a steaming hot tub. Chairs were arranged on the cropped lawn for the small audience.
There were fewer people here now and her co-star from the morning was standing fully clothed next to the pimpled cameraman. The girl’s trepidation surged and her eyes covertly regarded the venomous serpent. Don’t let my male lead be the viper! She took calming breaths and perched her tail feathers on the edge of the firm mattress. From what I’ve observed of him, The Anaconda isn’t likely to sexually perform as an entertainer.
“~Places everyone.” The Fireplug’s baritone boomed: as attired in a quadruple-x navy-blue terry bathrobe, he made his screen debut. Oksana was trailing behind and she moved into a place beside the only camera.
Is this almost as bad or even worse than having the Anaconda? Lyra appraised the male performer: his body resembled the shape of a boar on hind legs. It will feel like I’m practicing bestiality. She looked around the yard. How many running steps towards a leap over the perimeter fence could she make before being shot in the back?
Out of habit, the Obshina pranced to his usual chair but didn’t sit. He turned in place to take an inventory of persons present. He was tentative of an open display of his own pleasure so the gang master had minimized the attendees. Anaconda, Max and Vlad each took their seats and the pimpled bodyguard, Leonid, amateurishly fumbled with the tripod-mounted camera. Sergey avoided looking at his co-star and focused on his girlfriend instead. He had ordered Oksana to take notes on how to provide improved services.
“~Are we all ready?” The first time porno actor’s voice trembled with opening night jitters. He moved towards the bed and his eyes lost all sense of time in the young woman’s hourglass shape, partially concealed under a diaphanous teddy nightgown. His steps faltered in anticipation of ecstasy beyond his prurient imagination. “~Perform better than you did earlier.”
Can I work up another urge to vomit? She didn’t have any better plan. Lyra slowly panned her gaze towards the hairy hydrant, with the intent of gagging, but her eyes traveled over the set—and lingered on the hot tub. That might be to my advantage. Her focus fell on her vulgar male co-star. Why wouldn’t Sergey just ravage me in private? It didn’t make any sense. Unless he assumes I’m a nymphomaniac—only as an exhibitionist.
“~Roll the camera.” The mobster’s hand shook as he gingerly placed it on her velvety smooth inner thigh. “~How should we start?”
“~As quickly as possible!” The girl reached up with both hands and ripped the heavy robe off his drooping shoulders. Does he enjoy being suddenly naked in front of a group of clothed onlookers?
The instantly nude man was too taken aback to even stammer. His first response was to clutch down at his covering but he checked his action as the girl’s hasty fingers tore next at her own wispy negligee.
At least a baboon’s buttock is bald. Her lusty actions didn’t match her thoughts as her hands wantonly groped around his furry butt cheeks. Lyra pulled Sergey’s hips closer and buried her face in the mat on his chest: her tongue darted. This is disgusting as licking a sheepdog-groomer’s brush.
The fantasy he had hoped for was coming true too fast. The Obshina glanced at the crowd and he became intensely aware of his corpulent body. With the girl’s slim waist in comparison, he must seem like a walrus. But a walrus has a penis that can make an elephant shameful at the urinal. The mobster’s lower lip sucked onto his stubble moustache: he tried to imagine his accoutrement rising to rival a well-hung blue whale’s.
His male gear can’t respond as fast as I apparently want it to. Lyra put her one hand into the mafia leader’s matted swatch of black pubic hair. As blindly seeking a needle in a haystack: I need fumble until I feel a prick.
“~Keep going,” Sergey urged: he wished his gantry would elevate and take some focus off his flabby superstructure, “right there.” His mind was tracking her hand’s crotch action and didn’t notice what her mouth was up to. The nymphomaniac’s teeth crunched down on his left nipple: the shock ripped his concentration away from scanning the blueprint for his erection.
The nymph’s chin mowed through a jungle of dense underbrush and her tongue trekked up the male C-cup breast—to snap at his other areola.
“~Ow!” The man reacted to the succubus’s second lusty love bite with a cuff. Stimulation of his nipple was erotic but she invaded the no-man’s-land between playful and painful. His attention was again drawn from his mental battle in the bulge and a weak push of his front collapsed.
Unquenched desire showed in a pout, as the ravenous female glanced up from her unsuccessful effort. My recipe for his disaster calls for mixing in an extra measure of self-doubt—to prevent his stirring.
Get up! Sergey issued an internal command to a non-performing task member. His eyes flicked over to the small crowd. The Anaconda’s face had an unusual look—above an enviable male physique: it’s perfection caused him to feel even fatter. He should’ve taken his underling’s advice.
His gaze traveled to the other spectators and his mind left the jelly of his belly, to lament their witnessing the lack of pectin in his gummy bear. Why hadn’t he approached the bed with his back to the crowd? At least he was correct in judging the young female. She was uncontrollably frantic in front of an audience—even if he found this situation grossly unnerving.
Lyra roughly grabbed at his hand that was hanging limply at his side. She tugged it onto her breast but the man had to bend slightly to reach.
Sergey’s knuckles suddenly felt alone and lost in unknown hills. He scrunched his eyes and tried conjuring up an erotic image but soon realized the real situation was better than anything his mind’s eye could envision—except for his part. Why couldn’t he rise to this occasion? The mobster looked at her incredibly sexy body and to his relief, he felt a lower twitch.
“~Let’s go at it in the water.” Lyra also detected the slight thickening. Next phase! The frisky filly drew her failing stud to the hot water trough.
“~Oh ya!” Sporting a grin and emboldened by the slight arousal, the furry beast eagerly entered the pool with his sex-crazed water pixie. This erotic wet venue should put a tension spring into his rubbery diving board.
The fem-fatal cooed with genuine bliss and resumed the exaggerated motions of coaxing readiness. Under the water, her fingers worked hard enough for her arms to stir froth on the surface—but it produced no effects. The bilge plug is now pulled and his masculinity boat is utterly scuttled.
Sergey closed his eyes again but it wasn’t to bring imagination or even to blot out the observers. He mentally cursed his physique. Other than in extreme drunkenness, this was the first time his body had failed. Why did it have to be now in front of witnesses? The answer was multiple-fold.
Nervousness, about performing for an audience had initially weakened his confidence. The lustful pique of the demanding girl had piled on more pressure and lack of response had factored in a healthy slice of dejection. The hot water was a decisive blow to his physiology. A biological reason why reproductive elements of the male anatomy aren’t housed within the protecting body is they function best—when air-cooled. The combination added up to temporary impotency, as a prostitute’s daughter would know.
The water sprite urged the titanic porn star’s flanks onto the tub’s rim. In pretense, it was for her female wizardry to work better but in reality, it was where the assemblage would be acutely aware his limp wand. Short of necromancy, now nothing was going to animate his dead bone.
Then, the unforgivable happened. Someone laughed at the humiliating debacle and the mob lord’s mortification was complete. He snarled at the cackle and his livid eyes swiveled to spy the offender. Max blanched at his employer’s malevolent glare and his hand tried to stanch back his guffaw.
As a lively tuna from a trawler’s deck, Sergey flipped from the Jacuzzi. He snatched up his robe and donned it over a dripping wet hirsute mass. After terse words in his captain’s ear, the shamed mob kingpin scurried off: presumably to dress and to seek some spare self-esteem to put back in.
With three strides, the iron faced Anaconda closed the distance to the now silent culprit: he was starting his punch on the third step. A solid right fist hit the center pin of the subaltern’s face and the recently hurt nose now almost literally exploded. Max collapsed like a sack of clippings onto the grass: his both hands grappled at a ruined face and a blood torrent spilled through his fingers—like runoff rain through a storm grate.
The Russian mafia lieutenant rounded to the video camera but Sergey’s girlfriend stood between. Anaconda paused briefly, to malevolently stare and then with a blast of force he ferociously shoved her sprawling.
“~Give me the tape!”
Leonid struggled amateurishly and his face flushed pink in between the glowing red of his acne, as the mini-DV cassette could not be extracted without removing the camera from the tripod. The captain snatched the video recorder as soon as it was free and removed the tape himself.
“~Set up for another take downstairs.” Instead of handing it back to the operator, the Anaconda hurled the camera at Oksana. She defensively put her hands up and luckily caught the projectile before it could strike her.
The second-in-command grabbed a handful of Max’s armpit flesh. As a kitten is carried by a pinch of neck fur, with a display of extraordinary strength, the Anaconda lifted the offending goon by the skin of his ribs. The mewing though, was as a cat with its tail caught under a tractor tire.