CHAPTER9
Briana
I hadn’t seen him take off his belt. When I heard it whistling through the air, I let out a cry of surprise, and then I felt my body jerk in fear an instant before I felt the kiss of the leather across both cheeks. My brow furrowing and my eyes tightly closed, I whimpered at the sting.
Ivan said something; I had no need of Russian to understand the dismissive tone. He had scoffed at what he saw as the lightness of the lash. I knew precisely how Papa Georg would respond before he answered the foolish criticism, and though I couldn’t understand the Russian words I felt certain I had gathered the precise meaning of what he said in his deep, calm voice: “Just wait. We don’t want to injure this whore, but we can make her very sorry if we whip her the right way.”
This interpretation of Papa Georg’s response, coming from my knowledge of how real daddies did things, made me squeeze my eyes even more tightly shut. It set my nose twitching with the beginning of tears against the scratchy ticking of the mattress. I missed my Lumberjacks, and that brought part of the sadness, but more of it came from the simple, almost purely physical release that Papa Georg’s skill had started to give me.
As if to let me know that he understood, he said in English, his voice suddenly very stern, “You’re going to learn, Briana, that you have to obey us, no matter what we decide to do with you and your sweet cunt and asshole.”
He brought the belt down again, just a little harder than the first time. I yelped as the smart from the leather began to build. He spoke again to Ivan, the meaning of the single Russian word even clearer to me: watch.
Then Papa Georg started to whip me in earnest, the rhythm fast and steady, the lashes harder and harder as my bottom and my upper thighs got warm under the lash. By the tenth time he brought his belt down across my backside, my hips had started to jerk violently atop the rolled towel with each renewal of the pain.
I panted between parted lips, tears streaming down across my face and onto the mattress. My daddies had whipped me many times, and paddled me, and even caned me, but although I had gotten used to some parts of it, I had never accustomed myself to the pain, or the effect it had on my body.
I had started with my knees tightly shut, the reflexes of a modesty that despite everything in my past I could never seem to let go of. These men had seen everything, had done or watched me submit to everything, but my blushing instinct still sought to hide the pout of my pussy and the little rose of my anus from them—even when they handcuffed me to a cot for a whipping.
When Papa Georg really started to punish me, though, my legs reacted with an even more basic instinct than the one that made me try to hide my private places: I began to writhe over the rolled towel, and I cried out at the almost involuntary movement as I felt how it exposed my pussy and even my cringing bottom-hole to Ivan’s gaze.
Papa Georg kept whipping me, hard and fast, delivering the lesson he had to give—for my survival, I understood somewhere in the back of my mind. Whether he was actually on the same side as the Lumberjacks and Selecta, or he just wanted to make sure he could use me to rise past Ivan in the warlord’s organization, Papa Georg meant to make sure I lived at least until I could be passed on from Papa Nicolai to his minions. He brought the belt down over and over, the sound of its crack against the agonized flesh of my bottom and thighs loud in the tiny room.
My backside felt like some fiery devil had come from Russian hell to lash me with a whip of flame. I screamed, full-throated, my legs completely out of my control and desperately trying to turn me onto my side. My hands, confined by the metal of the handcuffs, still could push my upper body up on the cot, trying to crawl away from my whipping.
The whipping stopped. For a moment I thought it had ended, but then Papa Georg spoke again. The words might as well have been in English: “Hold her legs,” because I felt Ivan’s hands gripping the backs of my knees. I sobbed and turned my face over my shoulder so that I could see Papa Georg’s shoulder, see that he had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve to give himself a freer swing as he punished me. To my horror, I started to beg.
“Papa… please… please… no more?”
Papa Georg’s response came in the form of more whipping. I couldn’t see his face, only the moving shoulder. My body jerked under the lash. I had felt the familiar arousal at the beginning of the punishment, but now I only felt the burning pain with which he enforced his authority.
I screamed, “Please! Please! I’ll be good!”
A word in Russian, to Ivan.
“Da,” Ivan responded. I thought I could hear in the lieutenant’s voice, even in that brief grunt, a grudging respect for his subordinate’s skill.
“Stay like that, Briana,” Papa Georg said. “Or…” I had the impression he hadn’t actually had a new thought, but instead had decided to make whatever this or led to more emphatic for Ivan—and for me.
When he spoke again, his voice had returned to that true daddy degradation that suddenly started to turn the burning agony in my ass into a warmth spreading forward. I had to furrow my brow and bite my lip to push down the whimper of need that almost rose from my chest.
“Get up on your knees and display that naughty backside. After I wash you, you’ll stay like that with the door open to show everyone walking by what happens to a little whore when she’s disobedient.”
Ivan laughed. The contrast between the steady voice of Papa Georg, calming with its sheer authority and even soothing in its familiarity, and the juvenile humor of Ivan, drew a sob from deep in my throat. My burning bottom cheeks squirmed as my mind started to return from the remote place it had gone—the place it always seemed to go during extreme punishment like the whipping Papa Georg had given me.
I knew it would take a moment before I could obey the humiliating command, and I knew my new papa understood that. I let the process unfold in my body; my muscles, which had tensed very tight at the beginning of my punishment and then relaxed at last as I yielded to my papa’s fiery discipline, started to tense again, in order to follow his instructions. My sob became a soft moan of mingled pain and growing need.
Papa Georg had the experience to know it would take me a moment. Ivan didn’t.
“Do it, bitch,” he snarled, trying yet again to pitch his voice correctly to command my body. Again the contrast between these henchmen of Papa Nicolai, and my probably illogical certainty that Papa Georg meant to protect me, sent a thrill of arousal coursing through my whole body.
I didn’t know what effect the real voice of authority would have had in this situation, but I tried to do what I thought Ivan expected: I scrambled up, pushing awkwardly with my cuffed hands so that I could bring my knees toward the head of the cot and then press my upper body to the scratchy surface of the mattress. My nipples stood stiff at the touch, and the intense feeling of submission this position—Posture 1, they called it in bad girl prison—always brought.
“Knees apart,” Papa Georg said, his deep tones seeming to take effortless control of the situation. I whimpered as I felt him enforce the command with a hand down between my thighs, an inch below my pussy. His fingers took hold just where it would bring a surge of the terrible need there, the warmth that flowed more urgently by the second from my whipped bottom-cheeks to my quickly dampening sheath.
His other hand pressed down on the small of my back. “Further,” he said simply. “Offer your cunt and your ass, slut. Show us who they belong to.”
“Oh, no,” I whispered as I complied.
I heard Ivan’s voice, then. “That’s right, bitch,” he said.
I thanked God my face was hidden, pressed against the mattress, because I couldn’t suppress a smile, though thankfully I kept back the giggle that threatened to come out. I couldn’t imagine a more obvious sign of weakness than he had just shown me with his attempt to make me think him the one in charge.
I wondered for a moment whether Papa Georg had also had to suppress a laugh, because his next words, in Russian, sounded subservient to an almost comical degree—a question he asked Ivan that I thought must be something like, Should I go ahead and follow your other orders now?
“Da,” Ivan responded. Then he spoke to me, his voice dismissive. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.” He obviously meant to make sweetheart sound the way Papa Georg made it sound, a word that made my value to him clear, but only as a fuck toy. It came out, though, as unintentional self-mockery.
They both left the room. The light in the little cell, from a single bare bulb overhead, seemed to beat down on my blazing bottom-cheeks; I could almost feel how it illuminated my bare pussy and the forbidden valley of my ass, showing anyone who might pass by the wrinkled bud of the anus Papa Nicolai had fucked so hard.
I heard footsteps in the hallway, more than one set. I heard them pause. A new voice spoke in Russian. Other men laughed.
“You understand English, whore?” the first voice said. “You’re the one from the American bunker, right?” His voice became teasing, a travesty of sympathy for a penitent child. “Were you naughty? Did you get your little ass whipped?”
I heard Papa Georg, then, speaking several sentences in Russian, his voice jovial. The other men laughed.
“See you later, whore,” the first man said. Whore barely had an effect on me at this point. Get some new material, I thought. His parting shot sent a surge of fearful arousal through me, though. “Papa Nicolai will get tired of that asshole and give it to us before too long.”
I heard Papa Georg come into the room. I knew what he must have said to the men in the hall—he had told them what had happened in the warlord’s interrogation room, or whatever the room where Papa Nicolai had fucked me might be called. My face burned, and I wondered yet again what this man’s intentions for me were. I told myself Papa Georg hadn’t had a choice—to get the men in the hall to leave me alone he had needed to satisfy their lewd curiosity. Still, he had sounded so demeaning, so dismissive that my heart quailed as he sat at the end of the cot.
I heard a faint sloshing, and I finally remembered Ivan’s other instructions. Then I moaned as a warm, soapy washcloth pressed against my pussy.
“Do you think you can be a good little girl from now on?” Papa Georg asked, his voice soft, his tone so patronizing that my pussy clenched and my hips jerked. The washcloth moved up and down, gently soothing and cleansing. “Can you be good for Papa Georg?”
“Yes, Papa,” I whispered. “I’ll try.”