It was with the coldest of ice blue eyes that Peter Yashin gazed down on the
courtyard below him. He was standing in his father’s office; a room so opulently furnished
it might bring into question the man’s commitment to the communist cause. But as Leonid
Yashin was Head of the KGB in the Soviet controlled state of Mastrovia, no one would
question any of his actions. Not even the president of this puppet of Moscow would
question a directive issued by Leonid; such was the power the man yielded.
Peter took a sip from his glass of iced vodka, a rather fine Belvedere from Poland
which he had recently taken to drinking, much to his father’s annoyance for his
unpatriotic preference. And as he flavoured his palate with its glacial pureness, Peter
slipped a hand inside his shirt and caressed his nipple with the tip of his finger,
rejoicing in the coolness he had stolen from the glass. His sensuous pleasure in this
self-arousal was enhanced all the more by the vision he looked upon in the courtyard – a
young police cadet stripped to the waist – an Adonis of perfect muscular proportions and
handsomely crafted facial features.
Abandoning his nipple as he looked hungrily at the youth, Peter dipped his index
finger into the vodka and brought it to his mouth. His full luscious teenage lips parted
in acceptance and his soft supple tongue welcomed the digit. He closed his eyes as he
sucked on his finger, allowing his mind to drift as he recalled the times he had sucked on
the young cadet’s cock.
A shiver of pleasure ran through Peter as those wonderful memories washed over him.
The cadet’s cock was even more beautiful than his body; long and thick and vibrantly alive
– it truly was a magnificent creation, both visually and in action. No cock had ever
filled Peter so well and no man had ever brought him to such incredible orgasms.
As he looked on him again, Peter’s hand drifted downwards passed the swell of his
well toned pecs with their small pink nipples that stood out cold and hard, then over the
plane of his ripped flat stomach that carried not an ounce of fat, to the seven inches of
pale cock that protruded from his flies and oozed silvery pre-cum from the slit of the
pink head. Peter cupped his cock head from underneath and poured a little vodka over the
glistening skin and captured the icy liquid in his palm. He gasped as the coolness struck
him then gasped again as he massaged the liquid over his glans, pleasuring his cock head
with deftly fingers that had all the dexterity of an expert tongue. Again Peter closed his
eyes in fond reminiscence – so skilful the cadet had been with his tongue. How had a youth
of but twenty years old managed to acquire such a talent?
Peter bristled and reopened his eyes, all fondness now cast aside. The answer to
that question was obvious – that was why the cadet was standing in the courtyard and
Peter’s father was striding towards him.
He heard the smack through the opening in the window: a hard slap across the left
cheek that spun the cadet’s head to the side, then in quick succession a reverse swipe
across the right cheek to spin his head again. This violence was followed by a tirade of
abuse that was hurled at the young man in a fevered pitch. Peter listened, fully aware
that the words were for the benefit of the assembled audience; the Mastrovian police force
who were colleagues of the cadet – the young man who was the focal point of Peter’s
father’s current wrath.
“Filthy dog!” Leonid Yashin yelled. “You are employed at my patronage to keep
stability in this cesspit of a country – to keep your peasant race in check – to maintain
law and order in this piss stain on the globe. You are NOT here to fraternise with Russian
boys. Do not think that every race is as degenerate as your own and indulges in such
disgusting practices! If you must fuck boys then fuck your own perverted youths – but not
Russians! Russian boys are NOT to be approached. MY SON IS NOT TO BE APPROACHED! How dare
you make advances! How dare you touch him with your grimy hands! How dare you think he
would even entertain such an act! SCUM! DEGENERATE FILTH!”
Another slap across the face drew blood from the nose; it poured down the cadet’s
chin and dripped onto his muscular chest; the swell of his pectorals was accentuated by
the bound wrists to his front. Peter winced at the severity of the blow, but he felt no
remorse for what he had done to bring this situation about. The young man deserved this
punishment – how dare he flirt with another boy just because Peter had laughed in his face
when he suggested they make their affair public.
Peter had enjoyed the sex with the cadet – he had enjoyed it enormously; but surely
he must have realised that it could never be anything more. He was a cadet in the
Mastrovian police force and Peter was a high born Russian with influential connections in
the Politburo. Peter was destined for greatness, and could not be associated in any way
with a bit of Mastrovian rough. Peter had used him for pleasure, and given plenty back in
return; but their affair could never become public knowledge - it could never be known
that Peter had given his ass to a Mastrovian man. He would be a laughing stock in Moscow
and his father would be furious – even more furious than he was at present.
It had been foolish to get involved with him, but oh so delicious. Peter knew that
the affair had to finish and had intended to terminate it in the fullness of time. But the
cadet had fucked him so well, thrilled his body so intensely, it was difficult to bring
things to an end. Yet Peter knew an end must come; and he would have been prepared to do
it gently if only the cadet had remembered his place. But he had dared to flirt in front
of Peter with some dark skinned Mastrovian slut of a boy in a stupid attempt to make Peter
jealous and yield to the cadet’s wishes to openly perpetuate their connection in defiance
of all social norms.
What an idiot!
How dare he?
His father was right – he was degenerate filth. The Mastrovian dog deserved all that
he got.
It was no lie that he had told his father. The cadet had touched him – he had made
advances – Peter had been mortally offended by his behaviour – what did it matter if he
had been economical with so much else – Peter’s honour demanded satisfaction.
So the cadet was to be flogged in front of the capital’s police force as an example
of Moscow’s power over this pitiful little country, and a reminder to the inhabitants that
they should know their place – every last one of them, including the police.
Peter took another sip of his vodka whilst he leisurely toyed with his cock. Then he
unfastened his trouser button and let them slide down to his thighs. He wore nothing
underneath. Peter’s hand drifted round to the swell of his peachy ass – he stroked the
fullness of his stunning buttocks, delighting in the wonder of his own naked flesh. He
massaged his meaty buns; then slowly he teased the depths of his crack and fingered his
ravenous hole. A digit slipped in to be followed by another and Peter let out a slow deep
groan.
God, how he loved to get fingered!
But much more so, Peter loved to get fucked!
On his back, on his front, standing up or bending over; squatting on top or rolled
into a ball – any time of the day and especially at night, Peter was always horny. His
appetite for cock was enormous and few men had the prowess to keep up – the cadet having
been a wonderful exception. It was a blow indeed that the affair was now over.
But a new man would be easy to find. This was Mastrovia after all – a gay lad’s
heaven; where women were for bearing children and men preferred to fuck each other. And
Peter was nineteen and stunningly handsome, with wavy blond hair and ivory skin that had
never been exposed to the sun. He was so exotically different from the local lads. He
exuded an aura of pure sexuality and had an ass to die for that just demanded to be fucked
– what Mastrovian man could ever refuse him? And what Mastrovian man would ever defy him
after this exhibition of Peter’s devious control?
Down in the courtyard, the command was given by Leonid Yashin for the flogging to
begin. The young cadet was tethered to the whipping post which had been installed for the
occasion. A Mastrovian police captain stepped forward – this would be the man who would do
the flogging and exact Peter’s revenge.
Still fingering his asshole, Peter looked at the captain with carnal interest – he
was massively built and had such an air of authority despite being under the Soviet yoke –
his face was hard and rugged with the most incredible coal black eyes. The captain removed
his uniform jacket then much to Peter’s delight he removed his shirt to reveal a rich mat
of black hair covering his broad manly chest.
Instinctively Peter’s fingers pushed deeper into his asshole and began to frig in
and out. At a guess Peter would put this man at around forty years old, twice the age of
his former lover, but maturity might be interesting for a month or so. Peter made a note
to find out the captain’s name; perhaps he might be the lucky one to next gain his favour
and know the joys of Peter’s ravenous ass.
The captain stood to the side and was handed a whip – a short handled cat of nine
tails. Peter watched with growing excitement as the captain made a few trial swishes then
without any warning he brought the whip crashing down on the young cadet’s back, striking
him squarely between the shoulders.
“One!” shouted a Russian military officer who stood to the opposite side of the
Mastrovian police captain; he was there to confirm that proper strokes were delivered.
Peter saw his former lover jerk at the blow and responded in kind as he pushed his
fingers deeper into his ass; he centred a pad over his prostate and massaged the sweet
spot, letting out a pant to accompany the Cadet’s groan.
“Two!”
The blow landed a little lower, the cadet groaned a little louder and Peter circled
a little firmer over his prostate, luxuriating in the wonderful sensation.
“Three! Four! Five!”
Lower and lower; louder and louder; firmer and firmer did Peter press and massage.
He groaned along with his former lover as the cadet’s back was flayed for a sin of Peter’s
invention.
“Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!”
The captain returned to the top of the shoulders then worked his way back down
again. With each blow Peter thrust his fingers up his ass, now frigging himself with four.
Peter frigged and massaged as the captain swished and flayed, masturbating his ass to the
rhythm of a whip; thinking of a cock he could no longer have and fantasising over another
that was there in the courtyard – a mature meaty flogger to fuck his youthful ass.
“Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen! Fourteen! Fifteen!”
Peter was panting out the numbers in his head, dizzy with the metronomic sound of
the count and the thrill of the blows as they fell on the cadet. The yells of his ex-lover
as he struggled under the pain were more intoxicating to Peter than the vodka that he
drank; and the fire in his ass which Peter continued to frig, yearned for the cadet’s cock
and that of his tormentor to stoke his heightening passion. He took a gulp of the vodka
and drained the glass then in true Russian fashion he tossed it aside and smashed it in
the hearth. He grabbed hold of his cock which was lobbing up and down, and squeezed hard
on the rigid flesh. As he continued to frig his ravenous ass, Peter wanked his throbbing
cock; pleasuring himself simultaneously at both front and back.
“Sixteen! Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty!”
The cadet was sinking, his contrition was complete and Peter was soaring with such
blissful revenge. The cadet’s agony was Peter’s ecstasy; his subjugation was Peter’s
mastery; his public humiliation was Peter’s private triumph. As the cadet yelled under the
impact of the final stroke and count, Peter yelled as well under the waves of orgasm that
flowed from his balls along his cock and deep into his hungry bowels. Arcs of rich creamy
teenage spunk shot out of the young Russian’s cock and splattered against the wall that
concealed him from the outside. The cadet, whose name Peter was wiping from his memory,
had brought him to a climax for the final time. Now the Mastrovian dog who had dared to
cross him could be consigned to the gutter and forgotten forever. He would have no more to
do with such degenerate filth.
Such was the view of Peter Yashin as he collapsed against the wall still riding his
orgasm; four fingers up his bum that he wished was a cock and a hand massaging his own
ejaculating meat.
But fate can be fickle and ever so cruel – cruel like a Russian bitch in heat!
Down in the courtyard, the punishment now over; the captain who had delivered the
strokes went to assist in the freeing of the cadet from his bondage.
“Forgive me, Evgeny, but I had no other choice,” he whispered into his nephew’s ear.
“I held back as best I could – be assured that the blows would have fallen harder from one
of their own men – they can be so easy to fool at times. We will tend to these wounds
immediately, although I fear there will be some scarring. Bare your marks proudly, my boy,
in remembrance of our struggle. The times are changing, Evgeny, and this public exercise
may yet serve us well. We will rise from the ashes of our subjugation as these communist
mongrels fall all around us. And we will have our revenge – on the Russian dogs who think
to enslave us, on that bastard of a tyrant who has issued this decree, and on his
manipulative son who has brought this all about – he above all others will know of our
revenge. The revenge of the Vorinovs will be brutal indeed.”
So spoke Alexi Vorinov – a man of his word, and the future chief of police.
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