The darkened building appeared abandoned at first glance. A keen eye was needed to see the discreet armed men who backed up the state of the art surveillance systems. One after another, at randomish intervals, the glossy black vehicles arrived and drove slowly out of view behind the warehouse.

Once totally hidden from view the metal wall silently slid aside, allowing each chauffeur to slowly drive his vehicle inside. Each paused on the painted yellow grid while a final scan of the vehicle was done. Only then were the heavy solid metal doors raised, allowing access for them to slowly drive down the ramp into the well lit underground parking garage. Pulling up in front of a lift each passenger had a fingerprint and retinal scan done before the doors opened. The smooth silver mirrored walls unmarred by a control panel hid various defenses. Lethal gas could be released if the operator pressed a button on his keyboard. Knockout gas was a different button. A third opened a small panel in the ceiling, just large enough for a stun grenade to drop down.

Mikhail was taking no chances.

You did not come here uninvited!!

The tall, dark haired man in the elegant bespoke almost black suit radiated power as he strode through the busy club, drawing some admiring glances from the new cunts who knew no better. The ones who did quietly murmered a few words and without exception the newbies turned pale and shrank into themselves. None of them wanted to draw attention to themselves. None of them wanted his eyes to fall upon them, to show any interest. The customers with a privacy panel open nodded respectfully then, as he walked on, they resumed whatever they were doing with the toys

Misha ignored them. He wasn't interested in repeat performances and even the new cunts would be too jaded for his admittedly extreme tastes. Too ready to crawl, too ready to please, even if it was only because they were terrified. The fact their fear was fully justified made no difference. He craved a new treat.

After placing his hand on a small screen he waited a moment for the retinal scan to finish. The third and final layer of biometric security was the breath scanner. It quickly verified he actually was Mikhail and the heavy, vault-like steel door to his office unlocked with a near silent sound. Despite the security Misha still checked nothing had altered, been moved. His eidetic memory was definitely advantageous.

Finally sure it was secure he sat down in the leather desk chair, rocked back onto its back legs and put his feet up on the antique mahogany desk. Sighing, he pulled off his tie and threw it across the room. He hated the damn things, the feeling he was being slowly strangled. Actually, as he well knew, strangling was worse. He had the garotte scar to prove it. He'd been too impulsive in his younger days...

Time to do some work! Being head of his bratva wasn't a free pass. It was bloody hard work. Often literally. He despised the older Pakhans who sat back, barked orders and let their men do all the shit for them while taking most of the rewards, both flesh and financial. Without exception they were a flabby, soft target, relying on bought men to protect them. He knew exactly how easy it was to get to them, to pick them off. He only needed a clean line of sight.

Mikhail ran things differently to the older generation. His bratva was based on respect, not fear and terror. His men were loyal because they wanted to be. It made a big difference to the running of things. His men got a far larger share of the proceeds and they seldom fought amongst themselves. He was the arbiter of any serious disagreements, rare though they were. When his men were seriosly hurt or killed he avenged them and looked after their families. He made sure the widows had money and, if they wished, jobs. He put their kids through school, thru university. He was there for them and his men knew it. It made all the difference to his men.

Mikhail did have strict rules. He was very clear that if you touched a child there was no second chance. You had crossed the line and paid the price. Immediately and painfully. If you came home drunk and seriously beat on your wife you got one chance, depending on her wishes. He did his utmost to be the opposite of his father in every way.

Much of the income came from the skin trade but that didn't mean you couldn’t have standards, have limits. No children and no selling drugs to them either!! His runners knew the cost if they did. He couldn’t stop the other families but he did quietly fund refuges and treatment centres across the region. It was a fine line between doing right and the dirty business that was people. He didn’t enjoy that side but the weapons and women... that's where the pleasure was.

His father had taught him to shoot when he was only seven, the hours spent with him some of the few times he'd known him to relax, joking and laughing. It was a good memory. Then came the seemingly never-ending lessons with knives and the men who taught him Krav Maga and general combat fighting, including all the dirty tricks that could save his life one day. The lessons were real.

The first time he got though his favourite teachers defence and stabbed him in the leg he thought his father would be proud. Until he put a bullet in the man's head. The reason: he'd failed. Father wasn't going to have his son and heir taught by a failure. Misha was ten. It was the last time he cried.

That night had irrevocably marked him. Watching the nearly naked young widow terrified, screaming and sobbing, futilely begging for mercy as she was handed over to the fifty or so men who had gathered to "do their duty" as his father called it was a night he never forgot. They'd brutally and repeatedy fucked all her holes, not always with their cocks. A bullwhip had peeled strips off her already bruised flesh. Covered in blood she continued to scream although the open mouth ring gag distorted the sound.

A few of the men took souvenirs. Her nipples were the first to go. One of them used pliers to remove a tooth. He'd later have it plated in gold and add it to the necklace of 31 he already wore. Mikhail still mentally shuddered every time he remembered playing with them when he was younger, when it was only a shiny bracelet.

When they had tired of that sport they'd dragged her to the decorative fountain. Mikhail hoped she'd drowned while his father had fucked her ass one final time. It was better than afterwards when he'd forced a 3 litre jeroboam in as the men cheered. Even with all the cum and blood it had taken considerable effort to force the large vodka bottle in.

The men left her like that, torn open and draped over the edge on full display when the fresh cocksleeves arrived. In the morning it looked like nothing had happened except for a few clumps of blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

That night Mikhail silently promised himself things would be different when he was Pakhan. There were better ways to ensure she never spoke of the things she'd seen while married.

Now, almost 30 years later it was a different world, at least on the surface. There was still a never-ending supply of fuckmeat, juicy cunts to be used and trained to service the cocks that filled them, to be debased and hurt. Cocksleeves that lived for getting stuffed full, who dripped just thinking about multiple men taking their pleasure from well-trained holes were plentiful.

The deluded cunts on OF and other media had no idea they were being assessed by men who could take them whenever they wished and make them disappear into another world. In fact the bratva had got many of the best cocksleeves that way. They'd flaunted the size of the dragon they could fuck, shown they loved multiple cocks and squirted when tied up and forced. Half the work was already done with these cunts.

They took ftom Reddit and Tiktok, from the bird, from all social media. Mikhail would regularly send the jet to Malaga to pick up a select few for a luxurious holiday. Or so they thought.

Once aboard accounts were hacked again, documents altered. The women had posted about finding God, or love, or going on an off-grid retreat for their mental health. Myriad reasons but the same result. Accounts changed to private or closed altogether. Leases were broken on houses and flats or quicky sold. Bank accounts were emptied and closed, stocks and shares sold

Seeing the expression on their faces when they realised the present of a holiday from a well-known identity was a trap was priceless. Learning the provided 'security' were really there to rape their precious holes was even better. The idea they honestly believed every man could be controlled by the givng or withholding of her 'valuable' holes never ceased to make him smirk.

Reality hit hard.

A few weeks in the remote arid Mongolian desert with a steady stream of men using them soon had new attitudes forming. Though it was unnecessary to shackle them as even a fool could see there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, they still wore them to reinforce the fact they were now helpless toys, property for the use of men.

There were three basic wooden buildings. One was for the eight bratva men who'd flown in with the cunts. Bunk beds and several large fans, a microwave, sink and two big freezers and a table were the basic features. It was still stifling but at least the air moved.

The smallest building was constructed more securely, a restricted, sand free place for the communications and weapons. Insulation stopped the machines from overheating or freezing, depending on the season. It was always a pleasant contrast to the desert air. There were also some tools and medical supplies including epipens. They'd never needed one but the checks on the cunts occasionally missed allergies.

The third rectangular building was about three times the size of the mens quarters. The floor was bare wood and the only 'furniture' a variety of wooden rails and bars in one half of the room. Along the far wall there was a row of eight small stacks. Each comprised of an identical small coarse green and white towel, neatly folded, with a matching square for washing. A shrink-wrapped tablet of generic soap, a new toothbrush, toothpaste, a packet of dental floss and a hairbrush sat on top of each alongside a small plastic bowl, also green and white.

Two incongrous padlocked doors were in the middle of the third, shorter wall. One led to a small annex holding an actual bed and various moniters and medical paraphernalia. The other led to a slightly smaller room, just large enough for a very basic shower and toilet. The cunts wouldn't know this till later.

That was it. No beds, no softness, nothing to give hope. The one ceiling fan barely moved the air.

Apart from the buildings the only thing breaking the view of the miles and miles of sand was two tanks that appeared to be of similar size, and one smaller one. Another wasn't visible as it was underground, only a small hatch showing in the concrete. It contained aviation fuel for the jet, enough to completely refuel and still have a decent reserve. The two visible ones contained water while the smaller one held the fuel for the small generator.