Page 1 of Lethal Torture

1

ZINAIDA

It’sten p.m. on a Saturday night, and I’m having an extremely tedious sexual encounter with one of London’s lesser Russian oligarchs.

I flick his unimpressive cock with my whip.

“Da!”His hips thrust eagerly upward.

“Oh, you love that, don’t you?” I feather my whip around his straining shaft and he groans, panting as he nears his climax.

I detach from the man on the bed, resist the urge to check my phone messages, and stare out the window of the Shangri-La penthouse to the city lights below. Not because the view excites me.

It doesn’t.

I’ve stared at this same view countless times, always at the invitation of men who consider themselves powerful. They think I will be impressed by their ability to rent the most expensive suite in London for a date.

I’m not.

I could buy the Shangri-La and everything in it a hundred times over.

I’m staring out the window to avoid the Russian’s very bad breath.

He didn’t get that breath from dinner, which we had at the Araki, London’s most exclusive sushi restaurant. Georgiy Ivanov reserved the private room, again no doubt to make an impression. Marty, the head chef, did an admirable job of keeping a straight face when he saw me.

It’s the third time this month some idiot with a black credit card has booked out his private room in an effort to get me into bed.

The other two ended as most of my dates do: with a polite negative and a mutually beneficial business deal.

But those men don’t traffic innocent women to predators.

I take a deep breath of nice clean air before I twist the whip around Ivanov’s balls, just hard enough to make him wince, and lean down to whisper in his ear, “I hear you’ve been a very bad boy, Georgiy.”

He groans and bucks hard, his inconsequential dick quivering with excitement.

“You’re a piece of shit.” I turn the handle of the whip another inch. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

He whimpers pathetically, the stiffness of his cock betraying just how much he’s loving the cut of rawhide, and every word of the humiliation.

That’s the thing about so-called powerful men.

Deep down, they all want to be spanked by nanny and told they’re a bad boy.

They bore me to fucking tears.

I whisper a steady stream of ever more degrading comments into Ivanov’s ear, lashing him ruthlessly with my whip until he’s right at the brink.

“You think you’re such a big man,” I hiss in Russian. The switch to his own language causes him to actually start shaking with anticipation. “People think you’re such a bad, dangerouspakhan,but deep down, you know you’ve got a tiny dick and a hungry ass aching for a finger, don’t you?”

His dick leaps with excitement, and he lifts off the bed as if I’m actually going to oblige him.

“You’re going to have to beg, Georgiy,” I say calmly. “If you want to come, I need to hear you beg.”

I flick the whip away from his cock, and he pouts.

I mean the fucker actuallypouts,like some petulant five-year-old deprived of his toy.

“Please, Zinaida.” He writhes on the four-poster bed, hands and legs bound to each corner, cock ring making his pathetic hard-on look bigger than it actually is.