Page 17 of Vicious Doll

He maneuvers me until I'm on hands and knees, Mikhail's massive cock positioned at my lips, Volkov behind me. They enter simultaneously—Mikhail's thickness stretching my jaw to its limit, Volkov's more moderate but still substantial length filling me from behind.

It’s not the first time I’ve been in this position but it’s so much better than anything I’ve ever experienced before. Maybe it’s the thrill of fucking such dangerous men that puts the cherry on top but being taken, used, filled from both ends nearly makes me writhe like a cat in heat.

I take Mikhail deeper, feeling him hit the back of my throat, using every trick I learned in club bathrooms and Sienna'sspecialized training. Behind me, Volkov sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me forward onto Mikhail in a feedback loop of penetration and surrender.

Time dissolves into a blur of sensation—positions changing, bodies rearranging, sweat-slick skin sliding against skin. Mikhail lifts me like I'm weightless, impaling me on his substantial length while Volkov watches with predatory interest, stroking himself until he's ready to replace Mikhail.

They pass me between them like a weapon being shared, each using me according to their nature—Mikhail with brute force that knocks the breath from my lungs, Volkov with calculated precision that finds nerves I didn't know existed.

"Harder," Volkov commands Mikhail, his voice precise as surgery even with his cock destroying my throat. "Arch your back more." His fingers thread through my hair with a hard grip, using me like a whore and I loved it.

"Bozhe moy," Mikhail groans, his earlier one-word vocabulary suddenly flowering into strings of Russian that flow like dark poetry. "Ty prekrasnaya v svoey sile... kak ogon', kotoryy ne mozhet byt' potushen." The words spill from him in rhythm with his thrusts, eloquent in ways his English never allowed.

"Look at me," Volkov growls, grabbing my hair as Mikhail pounds into me from behind. "Fuck, your eyes when you're being taken..." His breathing hitches as he watches me get filled, his own cock rigid. Sweat drips from his forehead as he thrusts, matching Mikhail's brutal rhythm. "That's it, take him deeper. Show me what that pretty throat can do."

His composure cracks when I hollow my cheeks around him, a Russian curse tearing from his lips. His hips buck forward involuntarily, control slipping as pleasure overtakes calculation. “…just like that," he hisses through clenched teeth, his accent thickening with each thrust.

Mikhail grips my hips, surprising me with tenderness. "Ty ponimayesh', chto my vse tut slomannye?" he whispers, words flowing like wine now that pleasure has unlocked his tongue.

"Fuck," Volkov grunts, fingers digging into my scalp as he empties down my throat with a strangled groan. He staggers back, collapsing onto the mattress, chest heaving as he watches Mikhail take over.

And holy shit, the mountain of silence turns into a fucking avalanche. Mikhail's massive hands bruise my hips as he drives into me like he's trying to split me in half, muttering filthy Russian phrases that don't need translation to understand. The quiet, stone-faced giant becomes pure animal—all grunts and growls and sweat-slicked power.

It's always the quiet ones who fuck like they're exorcising demons. The ones who barely speak two words suddenly find religion when their cock's buried deep.

We fuck like the world is ending—because for us, it might be. Tomorrow brings Vienna, brings Harlow, brings the possibility that one or all of us won't survive what comes next. This isn't about connection or even particularly about pleasure. It's about feeling something real, something visceral, something that cuts through the layers of lies and masks and false identities.

When I finally cum—Mikhail beneath me, Volkov behind, both filling me in a fullness that borders on pain—it's not with a scream but with a broken laugh that might be mistaken for sobbing. The release isn't just physical but existential—a momentary clarity in which I recognize exactly what I've become and find I don't particularly care.

Afterward, we lie in a tangle of limbs, sweat cooling on skin, the room thick with the scent of sex and spent adrenaline. No one speaks. No one needs to. This wasn't about words.

Volkov is the first to move, extracting himself with that same fluid efficiency, reaching for cigarettes and lighter. The flameilluminates his face briefly—calm, composed, already mentally elsewhere. He passes the cigarette to me after one drag, a strange intimacy more revealing than what came before.

Mikhail stirs, his massive arm still draped across my waist, his breathing already steadying toward sleep. He murmurs something in Russian, too low for me to catch, but Volkov's expression shifts—just slightly, a secret glimpse of what might be genuine emotion.

"What did he say?" I ask, exhaling smoke toward the cracked ceiling.

Volkov reclaims the cigarette, taking another drag before answering. "He said even broken things deserve moment of peace."

The words settle over me like a blanket—not warm, exactly, but substantial. I close my eyes, feeling the steady thump of Mikhail's heart against my back, the weight of his arm anchoring me to the present.

Tomorrow brings Vienna, brings Harlow, brings the next bloody chapter in whatever story I'm writing with my bad choices and worse luck. But tonight—for these few hours stolen from fate—I'll take the closest thing to peace people like us can find.

In the arms of monsters who recognize their own kind.

Morning breaks like a headache across Eastern Europe—gray, persistent, and unwelcome as fuck. I peel myself from the rumpled sheets, Mikhail's massive arm still draped across the mattress where I'd been.

My muscles scream from the kind of workout Equinox doesn't advertise in their glossy brochures. Three people, one mattress, and enough baggage to sink the Titanic twice over. Just another Tuesday in my new life.

Volkov's already up, of course. The man probably schedules his REM cycles with military precision. He's at the grimy kitchen table, surveillance photos spread before him like tarot cards predicting someone's bloody future. Harlow's, if we're lucky.

"Coffee," he says, sliding a chipped mug across the table without looking up. Not a question, not an offer—just the bare minimum acknowledgment that I exist and might require caffeination before discussing murder plans.

I take it, grimacing at the first sip. Tastes like motor oil filtered through Soviet-era asbestos. "Jesus. You Russians consider this coffee? No wonder you're all so fucking grim."

His eyes flick to mine, that ghost of amusement dancing at the edges. "Is fuel, not pleasure."

"Story of my life lately," I mutter, dropping into the chair across from him. My thighs protest the contact, bruised in patterns that match Mikhail's massive hands. Memory flashes—his Russian poetry when he was balls-deep, the eloquence that only emerged when his brain short-circuited with pleasure.

---