CHAPTER5
Briana
I sobbed into Papa Georg’s balls, still kissing, over and over, as I obeyed. He let go of his cock, and took my hand from underneath his sack, moving it firmly to take hold of the rigid length of his manhood.
I let out a little cry at the sensation of his long, strong fingers closing around my hand and guiding it to where I could feel the essence of his masculinity, his authority… his dominance. I knew the feeling—both the physical one of having my daddy take my little hand and put it on a naughty place and the emotional one of knowing myself for the bad girl I was… the naughty girl whose daddy had big girl time with her, to teach her the lessons she needed so badly.
Desperately but also as gently as my daddies had taught me, I moved my hand up and down the hard, silken shaft, wet from my mouth, rigid and ready for me. I nuzzled Papa Georg’s fragrant balls and I moaned at the heat I could feel in my little hand’s grip, at the sheer size of his cock.
I wanted it in my pussy, suddenly; I ached for it. My fingers down there went from my clit to my empty sheath, pressed inside where my daddies’ cocks belonged—where this cock, the one my new papa had allowed me to touch, belonged right now. In obedience to his command I kept kissing his balls and stroking his penis with infinite respect, but I wanted Papa Georg’s manhood inside me.
Instead I sensed Papa Nicolai standing up, and although all I could see now was the warm darkness between Papa Georg’s legs, I heard him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. He said something in Russian, and I felt Ivan’s hands pulling me up from the chair.
“Stand up, whore,” Ivan said, in his imitation of the voice of authority. I heard Papa Nicolai pull the chair out from behind me as I obeyed. Moaning, I did my best to keep my face buried in Papa Georg’s lap, bending my knees and stooping, still kissing and still stroking. Papa Georg had my head in his hands, and to my surprise those hands felt gentle, as if he meant to soothe me and tame me the way a kind man trains an animal.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. Don’t stop.”
I whimpered into the warm, wrinkly pouch that bulged just a little with its precious contents. I licked them, giving each ball its own turn, concentrating on that assigned task and Papa Georg calling me a good girl, even as I heard Papa Nicolai issue another order in Russian, and I felt Ivan lift me up and put me, kneeling, on the seat of the chair he had turned around.
“On the cock,” Papa Georg ordered, using the voice of authority so that he released me from his previous instruction. Again he enforced the command with his hands, but without any violence; he moved my face and simply thrust himself softly into my mouth as I sobbed with shame and need at this humiliating position.
I still had my hand between my legs, and I kept rubbing my pussy in search of release even though I knew Papa Nicolai must be watching every motion of my fingers on my shaved private lips. I felt how exposed my soaking vagina and my cringing anus were to his lustful gaze. I moaned with each slow fucking movement of Papa Georg’s cock in my mouth, because I knew how very intent the Russian warlord must be—how hard his cock must have gotten—to make good on his promise to use me not only between my thighs but also in the much tighter place between my bottom-cheeks.
I cried out as I felt him touch me there. Right there. A fingertip against the little button that Daddy John called my special flower. The wrinkly, hidden place that had never had a cock in it, or even a lewd, naughty finger of my own, before two weeks into my training in Advanced Guidance.
My AG daddies had broken my bottom in thoroughly, when I had finally crossed the line they had carefully drawn for me. I had acted out, screaming at a cafeteria worker because she had given me a smaller helping of mashed potatoes than the girl before me in line had gotten.
Daddy Trevor, the Lumberjack who had studied my AG file most closely, told me later that though my daddies in bad girl prison hadn’t known exactly when I would act out, they had known I would. That figured, because what happened to me then—the whipping until I begged my daddies to fuck my virgin bottom—had seemed so very thoroughly planned, in retrospect.
As I had lain in my cot afterward, my hand behind me to feel the strangeness of the tiny hole three strong men had used, one after another, the very first time anyone had put his cock there, I had felt bizarrely cared for. Just as I felt cared for every time my Lumberjack daddies had my ass—even when they did it with authority, as a disciplinary measure.
Papa Nicolai, on the other hand, did not make me feel that way, even though the pressure of his fingertip on my anus was so light.
“You keep fucking her face, Georg,” he said, his Russian accent seeming to add an extra hint of menace. Then he spoke in his version of the voice of authority. “American whore, take your hand away from your cunt. I don’t want you to feel any more pleasure than I can help when I fuck you.”
I cried out around the thrusting cock as I pulled my hand from my pussy as if from a hot stove and put it on the back of the chair. I half expected Papa Georg to become rough with me, to match his boss, but he said in the true voice, “Look at me, slut.”
I raised my eyes, and I saw a complex expression in Papa Georg’s cornflower blue gaze that I couldn’t read at all except for an assurance that I pleased him. I had a sudden desperate need to know whether that just came from his basic instincts as a natural daddy, or it meant something more—like his version of the voice working on me did have a secret… a good secret.
My mind refused to think the complicated thoughts needed to figure that out… Papa Nicolai had his hand further down now, driving two fingers into my shamefully hot sheath, pumping them roughly in and out… I couldn’t even seem to form an idea beyond oh, God and what’s going to… I couldn’t even get to happen.
I made a mewing sound around the hard length of Papa Georg. He took my left hand from around the base of his cock and moved it firmly to join my right on the back of the chair. With his own other hand he kept a steady hold on the back of my head, thrusting very slowly and gently in and out and holding my eyes with his.
“I know,” he said, his voice—his normal, still very deep voice—full of the mixture of affection and humiliation that seemed so familiar to me. I couldn’t even remember where my knowledge of that tone, or the warm emotion that rose in my chest at the sound, came from.
Daddy… daddy… My brain… my heart… my body… they all remembered at a level much deeper than even that primal word could express what it felt like to have a daddy.
And not just one daddy, but two… three… somehow my body knew that it had served many daddies, some of them warm and teddy-bear-ish and others rough and brutal. So many of them… firm.
Papa Nicolai’s fingers felt firm, inside my pussy. Too firm and too rough, fulfilling his promise that he didn’t intend me to enjoy the use to which he would put my most private places. Looking into Papa Georg’s eyes, and seeing there that he understood the terrible force of need that I felt might rip me apart, I moaned and I gave in to the mortifying paradox I had known since my earliest days in bad girl prison: the more brutally a daddy used me, the less pleasure he wanted me to feel, the more satisfying it seemed to me.
“I know,” Papa Georg said again, just as I felt the head of Papa Nicolai’s hard penis thrust into me, rushing to open me and fill me without any further preparation and without any warning. So thick… like the rest of him, so long and hard. I cried out around the cock in my mouth, my body spasming, close to coming not in spite of the warlord’s brutality but because of it.
“Da,” Papa Nicolai grunted as he put one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hip, holding himself deep in my pussy, his firm lap against my backside. I could hear pleasure in his voice, even in the Russian monosyllable. “Da.” He said something else in Russian.
“Tell her in English,” Papa Georg suggested, his eyes not straying from mine though he addressed the warlord. I felt my face crumple with shame because the hot, guttural sound of Papa Nicolai’s words had made it very clear more or less what they meant.
“This is a tight little cunt,” Papa Nicolai said, and as I whimpered with shame he began to fuck it, hard and fast.
My whole body seemed to clench; most of all, my hands on the back of the chair, because my desperation to touch my clit got so very intense. Still Papa Georg held my gaze, even as the chair beneath me creaked and rocked with the force of the fucking Papa Nicolai gave me. The warlord seemed intent on getting as deep into my vagina as he could, every thrust seeming to fill the passage and press against the very entrance to my womb.
I cried out as I felt his grip tighten, his hips pounding into my ass over and over. My hands gripped the back of the chair so hard, and I remembered Daddy Omar taking me this way, forbidding me to touch myself but without using the voice of authority, making it a true test of my obedience despite my rebellious nature.
“It’s hard,” Papa Georg said softly. I felt my eyes widen even as tears formed in their corners at the discomfort Papa Nicolai’s cock brought between my thighs. “I know. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you, Briana? Even now that you’ve learned to be a good girl for the daddies who know how to use you.”
He cradled my jaw in his hands, his fingertips gentle on my neck. He had pulled his cock most of the way out of my mouth. I sobbed and suckled at the head of his rigid penis, understanding nothing more than the need to please my daddy… my daddies… in hope of the release they might give me if I could yield myself properly to them.
Papa Georg knew my secret, whether or not he had a secret of his own that might help or hurt me. He knew that for a bad girl like me, the brutality of a Papa Nicolai and the tenderness of a Papa Georg went hand in hand. He knew that climaxing even under the cruel thrusts of the warlord’s thick cock was more than a distinct possibility—that I would inevitably, shamefully come… I would come soon, unless I used all my skill… and that I needed to use that skill because a bad girl like me couldn’t show a man like Papa Nicolai that his arrogant, thoughtless, barbaric dominance made my body melt.
I didn’t think that whole complicated idea: its truth and its meaning had impressed themselves on me gradually from my first whipping in bad girl prison. It didn’t even represent an idea to me, so much as a basic system—the dawning understanding my training had given me of how my brain, my heart, and my body worked together to make me the bad girl I was, and the good girl I had become without losing an iota of my defiance.
My Lumberjack daddies had gotten very, very good at keeping me at the edge of orgasm and then tipping me over only when I had earned it. Papa Nicolai didn’t have anything like their skill, and that—paradoxically—made this moment terrible. My body’s need for release vied urgently with my whole soul’s need to keep the warlord from learning how easily he could control me not with the voice of authority or even with whips and chains but with cruel, dark pleasure.