"You promised you'd be gentle,"

He did promise, but he never kept his promises. Ever. And she certainly wasn't going to keep her's. He was sure of it.

She was on the floor, all pretty and blonde and innocent. With her skirt hiked up, and her hips exposed. The white panties clinging to her skin were pathetic; hardly leaving anything up to the imagination, the little slut. She's making noises like she wants something, as if she thinks she's going to get anything oiut of this. He supposes that she might-if she pleases him right first.

He kneels down, and takes her by the hair. He jerks-she whimpers-it's a pretty sound, it is, high-pitched and whiny. He didn't like whiny, but it suited her.

"I want you on your knees,"

"You said you'd never make me-"

His hand meets the soft skin of her face with a harsh smack.

And then there's no more talking. There's not silence, though, oh, no. There's sound. And it's more sickening than arousing. It's all sucksucksuck and deeperdeeperdeepertake.

And Olga wants to vomit. She wants to bite, she wants to make him bleed and feel pain. But she doesn't. She obeys, because it's for a good cause, right? It's for the end of it, when he cums undone inside of her, and helps her plan a family. It's for the smiles they'll fake the next day, for the makeup that will hide the black eyes and the bad taste in the mouth that will be dissolved with alcohol.

It will all be worth it, she hopes.