Inga

“Get up,” Molenski said.

He crossed to Inga and flicked the lapel of the bathrobe with the steak knife. “What’s this? Take it off.”

She slipped off the robe and let it slide to the floor.

“Pull down your bra.”

“Yes, Dimi,” she said, and seductively touched her tongue to her upper lip before grasping her bra and pulling it down over her breasts. They sprang free, her nipples erect and firm. She held the bra down with her arms squeezed against her side.

“Excellent. Let’s see how you bleed.”

Molenski took a step closer and ignored the sharp intake of breath from his bodyguard as he put the point of the blade against the swell of her bust.

Inga flinched in artificial pain as Molenski pricked her skin with the point of the sharp implement.

He maintained pressure on the knife as blood bubbled from the wound, pooling around the knife point and the depression it made. He seemed satisfied, pulling the knife away and watching as the blood slowly trickled down her pale skin to her nipple, where it formed into a droplet.

Molenski used the blade of his knife to collect the droplet and raise it to his mouth, licking it from the cold metal.

“Well, well, well! Even tastes like the real thing,” he said, like an excited schoolboy. He patted her cheek. “This is gonna be so much fun!”

He couldn’t wait to see how she bled when he really went to work. Finally, he could inflict the damage he had planned for that day in Russia, so long ago. It wouldn’t be quite the same as doing it to the real bitch, but it would do. A pity he had to wait even a few hours.

“Pick her a dress from Tatiana’s wardrobe and then take her to the Red Room,” he said to Ivan. “Pick from the left side of the robe; it’s the stuff she doesn’t want anymore.”

Ivan was unhappy, not only at what he had just witnessed but also at the mention of the Red Room. Molenski’s intentions were clear now. Nothing that began in the Red Room ended well. He tried to rationalize and let it go. Inga was a machine after all – it wasn’t as if the pain she felt would be real. He couldn’t let it go, though, and it was with a deep sense of disquiet he walked to the door of the robe.

“Come,” he said.

Molenski kicked off his shoes and lay down, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Ivan ushered her through and then closed the door before turning and finding her barely inches from him. Her bra was still bunched under her breasts, the trail of blood stark against her pale skin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief.

Inga looked up at him with wide eyes as he wet the corner of his handkerchief with his tongue and lowered it to her breast. He tried to remain clinical as he dabbed away the blood, but her nipples stiffened at the innocent attention. Suddenly the proximity of her semi-naked form in the cramped space made him blush.

A blush? Is that all? What’s wrong with me?

He finished more roughly than he had intended and pulled back as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

“You can pull your bra back up now.”

“No Myfriend, Dimi told me I must pull my bra down.”

“It’s Ivan…” he said absently. “Yes, he told you that, but it’s alright now.”

“It was his last order,” she said, reasonably.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed. How to get around a robot’s logic? Then it came to him.

“No, his last order was that I find you a dress to wear. To wear a dress, you need your bra on properly or Dimi will be displeased.”

“You are right, Myfriend.”

She pulled it up and smiled. He couldn’t help but feel a pang at her puppy-like response.

“Thank you, Myfriend.”

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t bother to correct her again. The truth was, he liked the way she called him that. It felt like their little secret.

“Now, let’s find you something nice to wear,” he said, turning back to the clothes.

“Nice. Giving pleasure or satisfaction; pleasant or attractive.”

“Yes. Nice, like you.”

He began to rifle through the multitude of hangers in the left ‘wing’ of the walk-in. Now and then he would pull a dress out at an angle to look at it and then back at Inga.

“Is that one nice, Myfriend?” She would ask every time he did this.

“Nyet, not nice enough for you.”

She followed him patiently as he looked and rejected at least five dresses before finally pulling out a light summer dress. It was white with black polka dots, and he looked at her as he held it out.

“Is that one nice, Myfriend?”

“Dah, I think so,” he said, pulling it off the hanger and displayed it to her. “Do you like it?”

“I am not programmed to have taste in items of clothing, Myfriend.”

“Well, I am. It will suit you – here, put it on.”

Inga took it from him and pulled it over her head. She pulled it down over her shoulders before shrugging it into place.

“Do I look nice?”

He reached out and brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen onto her face.

“More than nice. Beautiful,” he said.

Right then, even with the nasty bruise on her chin, he thought she was about the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Beautiful. Having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about.”

“Yes, all of those things,” he said, dreamily. “You are...”

“What the hell are you doing in there, Ivan? You better not be fucking my Inga!”

Molenski’s harsh voice shattered the moment and Ivan’s smile faded.

“Come.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

“Oh yeah, nice choice,” said Molenski appreciatively, when they emerged from the closet. “Jesus, I could fuck her right now! But we have to leave for the airport soon. Tatiana is a real cunt when I keep her waiting.”

“Do I look beautiful, Dimi?”

“What?” asked the Russian with raised eyebrows.

“Do I look beautiful?”

“Yes, you look fuckable.”

“Fuckable. Highly desirable as a sexual partner – able to be or worthy of being fucked; sexually attractive.”

Molenski looked at Ivan, the question on his face, one that he didn’t need to verbalize.

His bodyguard shrugged.

“Go! Take her to the Red Room and come straight back.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ivan led the barefoot Inga to the door and began to open it.

“Make sure my toolbox is on the bench,” the Russian said from behind him. “I don’t want to waste any time tonight.”

Ivan paused, then nodded once before continuing through the door, a knot of dread in his gut. Inga followed dutifully.

Isabella was cleaning up after the boss’s lunch when Ivan led the beautiful girl, now dressed, through the kitchen. She swallowed a sarcastic comment when she saw his storm cloud of a face. The girl turned and smiled at her again. Isabella noted the bruise on her chin. She didn’t smile back.

What the hell went on in that bedroom? Suddenly she was not so sure she wanted to be around when Mrs. Molenski found the girl in her home.