1I Want
By: RJN
Chapter One: "He"
I would try to placate you. I would try to justify my motives and say, "I never intended it to be like this." But, there's no point. My entire life, I've been trained for this… to be this. I would say, "I never wanted to do this," but the truth is I've always wanted this.
You see, my mother and father were true conservative Russians. Pure-bred and clean, like the expensive dogs that the store clerk always tries to sell you. "Its blood is like gold. You can't get anything purer." Their blood was red. I know this because I watched it seep out of their skulls. You can never imagine how much blood there is, not because of a single piece of metal as big as your nail. Not until you see it. And I saw it.
My parents always tried to train me for a future husband, ever since I could remember. If only they knew then what their training would accomplish.
I remember being slapped for not sitting with perfect posture. I remember being punished for playing outside and getting dirty with one of the cleaners' sons. It was a training almost all pure-bred Russian girls know of. But in my case, the training exceeded expectations.
My training… it included destruction and decomposition. The falling apart of a male mind like the rotting of flesh. Pieces would fall down, and blood would ooze out. I would seduce and dazzle like a murderer would cut and scorch.
I was learning the high points and crescendos of a man's pleasure rather than the gentle and forgiving words of school lessons. I was bearing the brunt of man's temper and wants, courtesy of my father, rather than the enlightening symphonies of music or art. My parents dreamt of a perfect girl and I was sent to them: a perfectly malleable piece of clay… with no restrictions.
"Place your arms on the wall."
I hesitated. Rookie move.
"Davai!" A fist punched the wall next to my head and I flinched. Again, rookie move.
My hands raised themselves of their own accord and landed graciously on the beige wall I was staring at. The room we were in was beyond lavish. I had never seen anything like it… pristinely painted walls, a bed large enough for five burly men or 10 skinny women, a stretching beautiful fur rug, which looked soft enough to lose one's fingers in, hundreds of records, about four or five bookcases, stuffed to the brim with new and old books, and a dark wooden desk. Everything was immaculate and clean… no dust, nothing placed askew, and no signs of life beyond the obviously personal touches of décor. I think I would have liked that room, had I been given a chance to revel in the positive feelings for a few more moments.
I felt a dry hand land on my lower back, on top of my dress. It stayed there but I felt one of the fingers move around and sort of try to feel me without the courage to actually touch. I breathed out and tried not to sound shaky. After all, I knew this. I wanted this.
"When they gave you to me, I wasn't sure I wanted you." My breath hitched, and I looked down, afraid of his power over me.
"Of course, I thought you were pretty but everyone they give to me is. I wouldn't accept anything less. Anything less would be an insult and I don't take too kind on insults."
I nodded, thinking he might want me to reassure him. That I agree with him and obey him even if I didn't want to.
"Sergei, my… assistant, he warned me not to hurt you too bad." His hand moved up, so slowly that I think he was trying to find something inside me, with every slide and caress. His deep breaths were ghosting over my neck, as he was craned over me, his other hand resting a centimeter from my own on the wall.
"He told me that you are the daughter of an important connection." His voice was hoarse, like he spent an entire evening screaming and his volume dropped down to a whisper, as if he was afraid of his own words.
"What he doesn't know… is that I play with my toys however way I want. And you, kotik…" His lips touched my neck and I felt one of the gentlest and softest kisses I have ever received.
"You are one of my most special toys." His fingers clasped the buttons of my dress and ripped them off. I was shaken from the sudden change in demeanor and from his seemingly kind yet cold words.
His lips turned wet with saliva and they trailed to the side of my throat, as I leaned towards him, giving him my neck and simultaneously my submission. His hands, large and rough, pushed my dress down and thus stole my last piece of armor. I was instructed not to wear anything underneath and he took full advantage of that.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm down my breathing and my shaking arms. As his hands did their duty and his body tried to satiate his mind, I found myself at the brink of reaching acceptance. "This is who I am", I told myself and his wandering hands, his journey for pain and pleasure, his need for dominance and power, threw me down into the depths of want. I wanted love and care. I received blood and rough hands.
My name is Misha Kazarova. I was 13 years old the night that I was given to Joseph Stalin. I was 27 the day I was freed. This is my story as the secret mistress, toy, bitch… love of the dictator of the USSR and murderer of millions.