“Good girl,” he murmured.
Ivan said something in Russian. Papa Nicolai responded with a laugh.
Papa Georg snorted. Still not taking his eyes from me, he said in English, “You don’t understand, Ivan. If you want one of these whores to give the pleasure she can give, you have to praise her, the way you would praise your dog.”
I gasped, and cried out, because at the same time Papa Georg said dog, Ivan pressed two fingers deep inside my bottom.
“Remember,” Papa Georg said, in the voice—the real one that controlled me beyond will and even beyond any need I could ever admit, “don’t come, little whore.”
Oh, my God… Did he know? Did he understand? My body, on the very edge, about to betray itself completely, froze in place, and I gave a gasping sob. My breaths heaved in and out of my chest, my mouth wide open. My tongue felt around my lips, sensing that difference, the slight numbing and the filthy, naughty, used sensation that my mouth always got after a daddy had enjoyed me properly there.
That too would have made me come if Papa Georg hadn’t saved me with his instruction. I looked up at him, searching his icy gaze, trying to figure out if he had meant to help or had given me the command merely in the name of heightening his own pleasure by taking mine away.
I saw only coldness, only dominance and arrogant contentment, and then I felt the head of Papa Nicolai’s cock press against my smallest place. With a grunt of satisfaction, he began to invade my bottom, and I cried out in discomfort. The expression of helpless, degraded submission that I beamed into Papa Georg’s face only made him speed up the rhythm of his hand on his own cock.
Despite my fear and despite the terrible stretching of my anus on the thick, hard penis, I put out my tongue and opened my mouth. My Lumberjack daddies had taught me that, and it had become a reflex: when a daddy got ready to give you his seed that way, you showed how badly you wanted daddy’s special gift in your tummy. A reflex, but I would never have done it for Papa Nicolai. I did it because of the strange, powerful effect Papa Georg had on me: the need below my awareness, the need to submit to a daddy who could discipline me with a firm hand and take care of me with a full heart.
In his eyes I could suddenly see a moment of hesitation, and I felt my face grow hot even as I let out a moaning whimper at Papa Nicolai’s beginning to fuck my bottom in earnest. I knew what the hesitation meant: Papa Georg was deciding whether to blow his load on my face, as he had said he would, or in my mouth, as my tongue and my wide open lips begged him to do.