soldier

St. Petersburg, spring 1709.

The city stank of thawing mud, tar, and the sweat of a thousand laborers hauling stone for Peter’s endless palace. Deep beneath the unfinished fortress, in a vaulted cellar lit by a single iron candelabrum, Wanda Maximoff waited.

She wore a gown of black velvet cut scandalously low—corset laced so tight her breasts were pushed high, nipples barely veiled by crimson lace that matched the chaos swirling in her eyes. Thigh-high boots of supple leather hugged her legs; between them, a silver chain disappeared into shadow, its end clipped to a ring in the stone floor. In one gloved hand she held a short, braided cat-o’-nine-tails; in the other, a candle of scarlet wax, already dripping.

Kneeling before her: Private Ivan Petrov, nineteen, fresh from the Ukrainian frontier. His uniform—green coat, white breeches—lay folded neatly on a crate. He was naked save for a leather collar buckled tight around his throat and iron manacles that chained his wrists to an overhead beam. His cock stood rigid against his belly, flushed dark, the head slick with pre-come that dripped in slow, steady beads to the flagstones. A thin line of wax already traced the ridge of his hip—Wanda’s first mark.

“You carried dispatches through Cossack lines,” she said, voice silk over steel. “Now you carry *my* pleasure.”

She circled him, boots clicking, tails of the cat trailing over the sweat-slick planes of his back. Each pass left a faint red line; each line made his cock jerk. 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. Ivan hissed, hips bucking, but the chains held him fast.

“Count, boy.”

The first lash of the cat landed across his shoulders—nine stinging kisses.

“One, Mistress.” His voice cracked like green wood.

The second crossed the first, blooming crimson.

“Two, Mistress.” Pre-come dripped faster.

By fifteen, his back was a lattice of welts, his breath ragged, cock leaking a steady stream. Wanda set the cat 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.

“Not yet.”

She rose, unclipped the silver chain from the floor, and re-fastened it to the ring in his collar. A sharp tug **** him to his knees. Wanda stepped over him, boots planted wide, and lowered herself until her cunt—swollen, slick, framed by black leather—hovered inches from his mouth.

“Worship.”

Ivan 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 she pushed him onto his back—chains clinking—and straddled his face reverse. The silver chain now dangled between her breasts; she looped it around his cock and balls, pulling tight until he groaned into her cunt. She rode his tongue again, slow and cruel, while the chain kept him on the edge—every twitch of her hips tugging the noose tighter.

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 of magic snaked from her fingertips, wrapping his nipples, pinching hard, then sliding lower to circle his balls, squeezing in time with her cunt.

“Please, Mistress—”

“Not. Yet.”

She leaned forward, bit his lower lip until blood bloomed, then slid a single gloved finger—slick with her own arousal—into his ass. Ivan’s eyes rolled back; his hips bucked wildly. She crooked the finger, 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. 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 floor and tugging his balls with every thrust.

A third tendril of magic slipped lower, thicker this time, pressing into his ass alongside her finger. Ivan sobbed—pleasure, pain, surrender. 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 cat 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 cat, 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, bodies sticky with wax, come, and sweat. Wanda traced a lazy rune on his welted back, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tomorrow you ride to Poltava with Peter’s orders,” she murmured. “But tonight, boy, you are *mine.* Every welt, every drop, every scream.”

Ivan’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.