The ice-eyed gentleman snaps his fingers imperiously to get the guards’ attention. Lad cannot avoid hearing it, he even jumps slightly, but studiously ignores the beckoning, playing dumb. Proof! He is French! From Paris! Only a true Parisien could risk death rather than obeying a rude command.
But Sarge – not being French – stops immediately, and almost jumps to attention, muttering some deferential words in Russian. An aura of authority and power emanates from the man and projects all over the surrounding people. He has the physique of a martial arts practitioner. Blonde hair, thinning on the top. His face would be rather common without the scar on his cheek. Legend has it that he got it in a duel, back when he was KGB. And his opponent ended up at the cemetery.
And those pale blue piercing eyes. With mixed feelings - a pang of fear, but also a strange kind of arousal – I realize I am looking at the quintessential Russian oligarch. Recognition confirmed: Victor Orlov. As usual, he is accompanied by his bodyguard – a blond, square-jawed, athletically built type. His towering frame is standing laterally behind his master, the badly cut suit he is wearing stretched by his powerful pecs, the bulge of an ill-concealed weapon obvious under the strained jacket. Sarge starts automatically unbuckling my cape and is about to expose my nude body for another inspection, but the oligarch shakes his head, freezing him on the spot, and dryly orders my arms to be freed and the collar removed. First surprise: the man seems interested in my face rather than in my body. He looks intently at me; then, satisfied, he stands up, bows formally, takes my hand for a perfunctory kiss, and addresses me in a surprisingly classy English, deliberately mixing a few Russian words:
“Welcome to the Secret Garden Moya Printzessa. I was waiting for you. I took the liberty of hmm… inviting you myself. But for a very good reason”
He grins at my surprised reaction; the man is pleased with his own coup de theatre. Duly noted. He just admitted having ordered my abduction! Clearly, he believes that anything he does is not a crime.
But Victor Orlov has certainly the power of making me feel like a princess as he helps me sit by him, in the high armchair. A small nod to a nearby servant and a bottle of Champagne appears on a silver tray accompanied by two crystal coupes, the size and shape of my breasts. He offers me one with a small flourish, and as we make a toast, my small patrol is standing nearby, dry, almost on attention. I smile sweetly at them as I join the toast:
“To the Greater Rossiya! Ura!”
Meanwhile, the servant sets an old painting on an easel, in front of us. It is a formal family portrait: a bearded, uniformed portly man with a beautiful petite lady.
“This is Admiral Zinovy Petrovich Orlov. My great-grandfather. A Russian hero. This portrait was completed just before he was blown to smithereens by a Japanese shell at Tsushima, in 1905. Regrettably, he never saw it.
As he patiently continues lecturing me, taking his time, I take a better look at the painting and almost choke on my champagne.
“The young lady is his second wife. She was considered the most beautiful woman of all Russia at the time. Princess Irina. Your great grand aunt.”
The young woman is dressed in a formal azure ball gown, a gorgeous emerald pendant enhancing the nude effect of her off-shoulders neck. The admiral has the same ice-cold eyes of the oligarch. And Princess Irina, well... she is me. A younger me.
Smiling, enjoying the theatrical effect, Orlov extracts from a small leather box a gorgeous, antique emerald-and-diamond pendant, unclasps the red cape draping it on my shoulders, and sets the necklace about my neck. It is the same pendant shown in the portrait. I must admit that the effect is magnificent, the open cape showing my breasts, the pendant shining emerald green and diamond white between them. I am about to close it with my left hand whan I notice the big bodyguard’s gaze, his expression raptured, a bulge on his strained trousers now getting conspicuous.
I smile sweetly at him for a split second, letting the cape open, then I nod to him imperiously:
“Drago Ivanovich! Nalit’ shampanskoye!”
Pour the Champagne. A small hazard. I didn’t expect the crash course of Russian to be useful so soon.
The man jumps as if stung by a bee. Then he quickly, awkwardly does as ordered: “Srazu, Moya Printzessa.” Right away.
Orlov looks at me, half amused, half admired:
“You are a princess!”
Smiling, he ceremoniously opens the lid of another antique presentation box. It is the type of leather box used for jewelry, but unusually large. Finely engraved on top, the owner’s name. Княжна Ирина. Princess Irina. But as I read the signature of the jeweler, I almost fall from the platform. К.ФАБЕРЖЕ. Karl Fabergé. Most famous jeweler of Tzarist Russia. Into the box, a shiny and smooth golden egg, connected to a wider base through a narrow short pedestal. The flat base is encrusted with small diamonds and a rather big emerald and marked Fabergé. A small Fabergé egg. Just an instant before me, Lad is the first to understand what the wonderful thing is, and on his puzzled face appears a naughty smile. It is an ass plug. A Fabergé ass plug.
“Princess Irina used to wear both jewelry pieces together. It was a signal to his husband. And to her lovers. It meant she was ready for them. As you will be in a few hours. I hope you will find the whole experience quite pleasurable, Moya Printzessa. Even more, if you think that once upon a time, this wonderful thing was enjoyed by one of the most beautiful Russian Princesses.”
The Russian nods to Lad, who has meanwhile washed his hands thoroughly in a nearby renaissance basin, and this time he promptly obeys.
“Docteur, please kneel.” The man automatically switches to the French diction when agitated. He helps me kneeling on a low platform in front of the Russians, my legs slightly spread, my feet just jutting from the end of it. A soft double click tells me my high heels have been secured to the platform. An impressive collection of carabiners and mixed rings adorn the unusual piece of furniture. But it is luxuriously padded and kneeling on it is almost comfortable.
“I guess you are familiar with Yoga poses, Docteur.”
Shit! He remembers the Sun Salutation. Giving away free information in the field is a rookie error. Even when it seems unharmful. I nod noncommittally.
“Very well. Now. Would you be so kind as to show us the Uttana Shishosana? On all four for a beginning, if you don’t mind, Docteur.”
The Extended Puppy Pose. Ass up in the air. I knew that. But there is nothing I can do now, so I dutifully comply, faking nonchalance.
I come onto all fours, the egg-shaped emerald dangling from my neck between my small tits swinging, and inhale deeply.
“Docteur, now, please… tits down, ass up”
As I exhale slowly, I move my buttocks halfway back toward my heels and drop my torso to the mat until my breasts touch the leather. In an impromptu variant of the asana instead of touching the mat with my forehead, I keep looking forward. Any opportunity is good for gathering more info.
The men move together towards my back, I hear Drago commenting in Russian. I just get a few words but they are enough to make me flush. I hear some dirty chatting behind me, then Lad’s educated voice.
“Very nice ass, Doctor, very nice. And it seems to meet the Russian taste. Now, please keep the position…”
I am left there for a while, wiggling my buttocks up in the air. Then I feel Lad’s fingers delicately opening my cunt. He moves them deftly about it, spreading some lube probably, circling my clit, doing something. Whatever he is doing, he is quite good at it. But the inference machine in my brains has concocted a hypothesis, and this is the moment to verify it.
“You are skilled Doc... I guess your gyno practice in Paris was shut down after some important husband understood why his wife needed to visit you so frequently.”
His fingers flinch and I can’t stop a deep sigh. Someone laughs. But the nano-microphone has registered my phrase, and I guess it will be easy for the ICT people at the Agency to connect the info and the software will identify Lad in seconds... we can destroy the whole ring starting from his former gyno practice. I smile inwardly.
“Smart mind and tight ass, eh, Docteur,” he confirms “Now, let’s see if we can make the latest more... agreeable to our distinguished customer”
Lad appears in my visual field and extracts the royal buttplug from the box. The man has become professional again, and he warms the portentous jewel with his hands as he spreads some lube on it. He disappears again, and I soon feel a gentle weight back there.
He pushes slowly but firmly, and after a soft resistance that makes me rest my forehead on the mat, inhaling, in an instant the royal buttplug slides into position, making a four-note sound whose vibrations propagate in my lower belly, with an effect which makes me exhale in delight.
I inhale and exhale three times, as the men behind me laugh, and just then I hear Lad’s voice:
“Doctor, please look at me and smile”
I comply, and a flurry of flashes signals Lad has taken a few photographs. He gets again in front of me, and proudly shows me one of the photos on his tablet. There I am, looking back with a naughty smile, tied, kneeling, legs spread, hard nipples brushing the platform, ass up, gaping pink pussy and Fabergé’s royal butt plug flashing diamonds and emeralds. I feel ashamed but can’t avoid feeling a certain pride. Fabulous set-up. Gorgeous pin-up. Me.
“Thank you, Docteur…” he winks “This will be great, you know. For the catalog.”