The nobleman who was taken captive

St. Petersburg, late autumn 1710.

The Winter Palace’s subterranean wine cellar had been emptied of barrels and filled with shadows. Iron rings studded the vaulted stone; chains of blackened steel hung from the ceiling like frozen vines. A single candelabrum of twelve tapers burned scarlet, wax dripping in slow, deliberate tears onto the flagstones. The air reeked of oak, beeswax, and the sharp bite of anticipation.

Wanda Maximoff stood at the center, a vision of crimson and black. Her corset was whalebone and midnight velvet, laced so viciously tight that her waist looked breakable and her breasts—full, pale, nipples rouged dark—spilled over the top like forbidden fruit. Thigh-high boots of patent leather gleamed; between them, a silver chain disappeared into the slick heat of her cunt, its other end clipped to a ring in the floor. In one gloved hand she held a braided flogger of nine suede tails, each tipped with a tiny silver bead; in the other, a candle of blood-red wax, already weeping. A black leather mask covered the upper half of her face, leaving only her mouth—painted scarlet—and the chaos in her eyes visible.

Kneeling before her: Count Nikolai Romanov, twenty-four, heir to one of the oldest boyar families. His silk shirt had been cut away with surgical precision; his breeches hung open, cock thick and flushed against his belly, the head slick with pre-come that dripped in a steady silver thread. A heavy iron collar—engraved with Wanda’s personal sigil—locked around his throat. His wrists were bound behind his back with crimson silk rope, elbows pulled together until his chest thrust forward, nipples peaked and ****. A spreader bar of polished oak kept his knees wide; a second chain ran from the collar to a ring in the floor, forcing his head down, ass up, every muscle trembling.

“You defied Peter’s decree on serf taxes,” Wanda purred, voice velvet over razors. “Tonight you pay *my* tithe.”

She circled him, boots clicking, flogger trailing over the sweat-slick curve of his spine. Each pass left a faint red line; each line made his cock jerk harder. When she stopped behind him, she pressed the candle to the small of his back and tilted—hot wax spilled in a molten ribbon down the cleft of his ass, pooling at the base of his balls. Nikolai hissed, hips bucking, but the chains held him fast.

“Count, *boyar*.”

The first lash of the flogger landed across his shoulder blades—nine stinging kisses, silver beads biting like teeth.

“One, Mistress Scarlet.” His voice cracked like crystal.

The second crossed the first, blooming crimson.

“Two, Mistress Scarlet.” Pre-come dripped faster, pooling beneath him.

By twenty, his back was a lattice of welts, his breath ragged, cock leaking a steady stream. Wanda set the flogger aside, knelt, and took him in her mouth—slow, deliberate, tongue swirling around the head, tasting salt and desperation. When he whimpered, she pulled off with a wet pop and bit the inside of his thigh hard enough to bruise.

“Not yet, *Count*.”

She rose, unclipped the silver chain from the floor, and re-fastened it to the ring in his collar. A sharp tug **** him to crawl forward until his face pressed between her boots. Wanda stepped over him, boots planted wide, and lowered herself until her cunt—swollen, slick, framed by black leather—hovered inches from his mouth. The silver chain now dangled between her breasts; she looped it around his cock and balls, pulling tight until he groaned into the stone.

“Worship.”

Nikolai obeyed instantly—tongue plunging deep, lapping her from entrance to clit in long, worshipful strokes. Wanda’s gloved fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him harder, faster, grinding her clit against his nose until she came with a sharp cry, thighs clamping his head, flooding his mouth with the taste of chaos and honey. She held him there through the aftershocks, smearing her release across his lips and chin, then yanked the chain until he choked.

She pushed him onto his back—chains clinking—and straddled his face reverse. The silver chain now tugged his balls with every roll of her hips; she rode his tongue again, slow and cruel, while crimson tendrils of magic snaked from her fingertips. One wrapped his left nipple, pinching hard; another circled his right, twisting until he sobbed into her cunt. A third slipped lower, pressing into his ass—slow, slick, stretching him open while her cunt milked his tongue.

When she came a second time, she rose, turned, and sank onto his cock in one slick glide. The chains above rattled; the candelabrum flickered. She was scalding, impossibly tight, inner muscles clenching like a fist. Wanda set a brutal pace—hips snapping, leather creaking, breasts bouncing with each thrust. Crimson tendrils wrapped his cock where it disappeared inside her, stroking in time with her movements. Another tendril circled his balls, squeezing gently, then tighter, until he sobbed with the need to come.

“Please, Mistress Scarlet—”

“*Silence.*”

She leaned forward, bit his lower lip until blood bloomed, then slid two gloved fingers—slick with her own arousal—into his ass alongside the magic tendril. Nikolai’s eyes rolled back; his hips bucked wildly. She crooked her fingers, found the spot, and pressed—hard. He came with a broken scream, hips jerking, spilling inside her in thick, hot pulses that overflowed and ran down his balls in creamy rivers.

But Wanda was far from finished.

She rose, turned, and presented her ass—still dripping with his come—over his spent cock. With a flick of her wrist, the chains shortened, forcing his arms higher, arching his back until his welted skin screamed. She sank back down reverse, taking him to the root, then leaned forward, hands on his knees, and rode him hard. The angle let him watch—his cock disappearing into her cunt, slick with their release, her ass bouncing, the silver chain now clipped to a ring in the ceiling and tugging his balls with every thrust.

A fourth tendril of magic—thicker, hotter—pressed into his ass alongside her fingers, stretching him wide. Wanda fucked herself on his cock and the magic tendril, rhythm relentless, until she came again—harder, squirting around him in hot gushes that soaked his thighs and the flagstones beneath. She didn’t stop. She unbound his wrists, flipped him onto all fours, and took the flogger again. This time the lashes landed on his ass—sharp, stinging, each one making his cock—somehow hard again—slap against his belly. When his skin was a map of crimson, she dropped the flogger, straddled his back, and slid down until her cunt swallowed him from behind. One hand fisted in his hair, the other reached beneath to stroke him in time with her thrusts—slow, then faster, until he came a third time, weaker but deeper, a guttural sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

Near dawn, the candles guttered. They lay tangled on the bearskin—her boots still on, his collar still buckled, iron rings still warm from their bodies. Wax had hardened in flaky trails down his back and ass; come dried in sticky rivers across his thighs. Wanda traced a lazy rune on his welted chest, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tomorrow you ride to Moscow with Peter’s new tax edict,” she murmured. “But tonight, *boyar*, you are *mine.* Every welt, every drop, every scream—etched into your noble blood.”

Nikolai’s cock twitched against her thigh, spent but stirring. Wanda smiled—slow, wicked—and clenched the magic tendril still buried in his ass.

The Scarlet Witch always collected her due—with interest.