Violet's Fingers Ch. 03 - Sex Stories

Violet's Fingers Ch. 03

... covering his body and ordering the onlookers to their dormitory. She then turned to Violet, crouched against the stone wall. Winded and still clutching a branch of ivy torn off trying to escape, she was a mess, a guard's fingers still clenched in her hair.

"Bring her to my room," Matron said.

Violet did not resist being dragged, spitting blood up the stairs, even held her arms out patiently as the guard fastened her to the rusty rings on the wall; she had done it before. To me, she was being transformed into a marionette, except here, the purpose was not to enable movement. I must point out this room was no grim dungeon, but the bright windowed study next to Oksana's office. Her reputation, the muffled sounds through the walls and the evidence on the survivors was all she needed to ensure obedience.

But Violet was relaxed facing Oksana here. She knew the familiar sound of the bluebird on the sill, pecking at the seeds placed for him, the smell of the fresh polish on Matron's boots and the leather of her glove. Violet was expecting the bout of rage and held her head high, taking the blows without flinching or making a sound. Then Oksana controlled herself.

"Why? What did he do?"

"Nothing yet. But he is here to kill Dilli. An assassin." Violet's words were slurred and Matron thought she said -----.

Violet flexed her shoulders against the ties, ready. Oksana turned away and pulled on her glove, clenching her fingers so that Violet could hear the scratch of its ...

... hooked spikes. Her immediate need was to show the inmates the retribution for such a terrible crime, she felt bad hurting Violet, even when she had done such a terrible thing. But worse was thinking ahead. Ultimately, Violet would have to be executed and with this on her mind, Oksana's cold countenance was dissolving even as she sent the guard outside and closed the door. She could not bear the thought of this dreadful place without Violet's company. She looked forward to the evenings when she would poke her head around her partly opened door, her long, dark hair curtaining her face.

Asking politely if Madam Koslova would like a game of chess, she would slip past without waiting for a reply. She greeted the pieces on the chessboard near the window with her fingertips, checking their positions before making her move. Oksana would bring a bottle of vodka and contemplate her response. Violet, far ahead of Oksana, laid bare her strategies, making the chess pieces characters in a story laced with fragments of unfamiliar language to keep her on her toes. Oksana didn't mind, she was learning and she could listen to Violet's voice all night, watching her fingers flitting over the board, being led to faraway places, described in cryptic detail. Her stories were never predictable; subtly didactic, they showed how intensely aware she was of the diaphanous edges of her student's understanding.

But now Violet had brought it all down, forcing Oksana into a corner. She squared herself ...