Hi Lit friends!
As I mentioned in the previous chapter, the next few installments of KOL are going to be truly "Non-Con", so please feel free to skip ahead to the sweeter treats once I have them posted, if you still like this story but the dark stuff isn't quite your cup tea :). There will be a few more "mini" chapters of Karl and Ava posted in Romance, before Lena and Renz eventually wrap up in the promised HEA.
However...for those of you who do enjoy reading rough sex, spankings, bondage, and some mild anal play (evidently this needs a warning too as I received a very offended anonymous email regarding Ch. 2...please don't hate me Anon, I'm still new to Literotica etiquette!), then do read on ;).
Hope you enjoy!
Love,
B xoxo
*
Aleksandr knew that there was nothing Ilise hated quite as much as weakness.
It didn't matter if it was weakness of the heart, or wit, or body, or reason. Frailty was a tragic vice she unwaveringly held no patience for.
It was also largely why she'd never desired to become a mother. To Ilise, children were the weakest creatures of all.
Ilise functioned with an incredible strength of form and of mind, one of the primary reasons he'd become so infatuated with her. As well-bred as she was well-educated, she could argue amongst the most distinguished of academic men on a variety of topics, shaming them to submission, just to turn around and charm her inferiors with her infectious feminine allure. She possessed exceptional strength of body, a decorated golfer, cyclist, fencer, and archer, with a reputation for merciless competition against female and male opponents alike.
Ilise held herself to the highest standards of perfection of health, wealth, intellect, and even leisure, and she preferred to surround herself in similar company.
Which is why it was no surprise to Aleksandr that after his brother had shot him, Ilise's erotic passions for him had quickly simmered to distant fondness, before eventually cooling to near disdain. His body still hadn't healed, and Ilise was beyond annoyed.
Caring for a man, even a man she loved, was akin to torture for a woman like her.
He absently surveyed the room that had become his new prison, the bedroom of an ostentatious penthouse a mere short carriage ride away from the castle that bore his family name. Expecting no less than the absolute best everywhere she traveled, Ilise had liberally spent his money enhancing their surroundings to suit her specific tastes. And because Aleksandr loved her, and remained grateful for her reluctant care, he was more than eager to finance her whims to her heart's content.
Unimpressed with the original furnishings of the hotel, she'd ordered ornate carpets sourced from the Near East, new silk furniture from Paris, and paintings by celebrated Flemish artists. As a child, Ilise had loved nothing more than playing in the rolling fields of flowers in the meadows of Jagdschloss Schade, her family's summer palace, so Aleksandr ensured deliveries of fresh exotic blooms each morning before she awakened.
But the power of his indulgence did little to sway her increasingly foul temper, and irritation with his weakness. He knew he was no longer a lover to her, barely even a pet, for her disgust for him grew ever more apparent each time she left him alone, locked in the bedroom, for longer and longer stretches of time each day.
And just like a dog, Aleksandr waited for her in pathetic, whining sorrow, salivating and ecstatic whenever she returned to him.
She'd been gone for an especially long time today. After she'd brought his brother's pitiful plaything Lena into their suite, against his advice, Ilise had disappeared right along with the girl, and hadn't yet returned.
It was now well after midnight, and Aleksandr lay helplessly in bed. A part of him wanted to go out and look for her, but he hadn't yet the strength to carry his own weight for longer than a moment or two. He'd come to depend on Ilise for almost everything during his recovery, especially after she'd decided she no longer wanted to stay in München.
With the empire presuming him dead, Ilise had truly become the beginning and end of his entire world. The life of Ludovic Wolfenbarger was lost to him forever.
Not that he entirely minded. There was a part of him that was more than eager to permanently distance himself from the names the barbaric Johann Wolfenbarger had given him. Those names had always felt like a façade, even a curse, for his paternal heritage had infected him far more than it fortified him.
Even as a boy, he'd always secretly known himself by the names his mother had given him. His middle names. Aleksandr after her father, and Rikhard after her brother. His identity had never truly been that of a Wolfenbarger, for he'd been born a bastard, and raised without privilege.
Still, there was no denying that there were certain advantages to the life of wealthy industrialist Ludovic Wolfenbarger. Advantages, he was slowly realizing, he'd never fully appreciated.
There was his beautiful wife Ava. The quick-witted, sharp-tongued, stunning blonde angel, wholly loved by the only parts of himself that were still good.
There was his precious daughter Odette Alexandra, who held his blackened heart in her chubby fingers, a charming little cherub happiest when surrounded by baby animals.
And then, of course, there was his unborn child...
Aleksandr briefly wondered if there was a way he could contact Ava, to find out about the baby, but he quickly banished the thought before his heart could react. His family was permanently lost to him now.
He couldn't long for something he'd relinquished his claim to.
And all for Ilise.
Feeling suddenly forlorn, Aleksandr strained to reach an end table, intent to help himself to another dose of morphine. Ilise had found a doctor to keep him well supplied with the drug, secretly, and she paid him generously with her daily outings.
He prepared the injection quickly, slapping the crook of his arm in impatience as he waited for his lifelines to rise. His hand shook in greedy tremors as he brought the needle closer to his scabbed and bruised skin, a truly pathetic sight.
Perhaps his body craved the drug more than he
actually
needed it.
With a reluctant sigh, Aleksandr replaced the needle on the table, and collapsed back into bed. Addiction was for the weak.
And Ilise hated the weak.
With a brief sweat, followed by chills, and then another short fever, the hunger for morphine began to slowly wane by a small fraction.
But his favorite distraction soon shifted his attention away from his shameful cravings. It was the delicate sound of expensive heeled shoes against the marble foyer of the suite.
Ilise had returned.
Aleksandr couldn't wait. He reached for his cane and struggled out of bed, desperate to see her.
"What are you doing? Get back into bed," Ilise chastised. Her garnet gown hugged her ample curves deliciously, and he couldn't tamper the automatic rise in his arousal her presence always inspired.
Ilise was a drug even more powerful than morphine, a dangerous aphrodisiac he'd been helplessly addicted to for years now. Her form was so
destructively
erotic, even when fully clothed, that whenever he saw her, he could think of little else than falling to his knees and worshipping her with his body, before shamelessly begging her for his own release.
"I wanted to see you before I retire for the night," Aleksandr admitted. He'd tried to sound strong, assertive the way she liked, but the subtle roll in her eyes indicated that she found him pathetic.
"We can't risk you being seen, Alek. Especially not now. There are some...complications," Ilise said. He watched her, as if in a trance, as she slowly pulled off her black lace gloves and matching shawl, fully exposing her creamy alabaster shoulders and delicate hands of porcelain.
His eyes remained transfixed on her overwhelmingly sensual form as she walked to her tea room, pouring herself a larger than normal glass of nightly sherry.
"What kinds of complications, Ilise?" he asked. He held his breath as he approached where she sat, knuckles whitening around his cane. He didn't dare reveal to Ilise just how much pain he was in. He wasn't sure what ached more - the bullet wounds in his chest, or the full-body starvation for morphine.
