CHAPTER10
Georg
It took all my self-control not to linger with Briana. I knew how close to orgasm she must be—it didn’t take a readout of the sensor between her thighs to detect her pussy’s warmth or wetness. Really, I would have known from the whimpers she couldn’t suppress as I cleaned her up.
I soaped her sweet, neatly shaven privates in silence, wishing I could tell her how badly I wanted to give her a climax to help her relax just a little—and wishing even harder that I could reveal that I would start doing everything in my power to get her rescued as soon as I left her cell.
Instead, I rinsed off the soap and dried her gently. Briana’s whimpers of need turned to sounds of discomfort at her soreness down there. Then I bent over her and said in her ear:
“Papa Ivan is dangerous.” I emphasized the papa, hoping she would understand that the best way to make sure Ivan didn’t harm her was to give him the respect he craved but would probably never deserve.
Briana replied with a little noise of acknowledgment deep in her throat. I supposed she hadn’t needed my warning, but I felt compelled to help her as much as I could given that I knew I must not reveal to her anything that might compromise her safety.
I still had more I wanted to say, though. The connection I had felt to this bad girl—this sweet, bright, gorgeous bad girl kidnapped by the evil warlord I had come here to bring down—had only gotten stronger over the last few minutes. That short space of time somehow seemed like an eternity—like a division between everything that had come before, in my mission and maybe even in my life, and what I had to do now.
I gave into my instincts. I had started to rise, but instead I put my lips next to Briana’s sweet, warm ear, nearly covered with her disheveled golden hair, and said very softly, “I’m going to take care of you.”
I put my left hand on her back, and rubbed one small circle. Briana let out a tiny moan, and then she whispered:
“Thank you, Papa.”
Then I did rise and step away, to keep my hand from going lower and soothing her in a way that, if one of the guards passing by in the hall saw it, might suggest that I meant to trespass on Garonov’s rights. Given what happened to the regular girls Garonov acquired and housed here in his bunker at the hands of the men he employed as his private army, that probably wouldn’t have posed a problem. But I couldn’t risk it getting back to Ivan, after I had stopped him from fucking Briana.
Yes, Ivan was dangerous: petulant, immature, and always ready to strike out before thinking. The warlord would have killed his favorite a long time ago, I felt certain, had he not been the son of Nicolai’s dead best friend.
Instead, Nicolai Garonov had raised a series of second lieutenants to the position I now held. Every one of them had died within six months of becoming part of the triumvirate with which Garonov preferred to rule, though Ivan had only literally murdered one, as far as I could tell. Nicolai himself had killed two others, almost certainly on faked evidence concocted by Ivan. American spec ops had slain two more.
I walked back to my own room and got my cigarettes, suppressing my absolute disgust as I picked up the package. I had been forced to choose between them and some kind of fake drug habit, as the only way to attain a few moments of privacy; my room had three listening devices in it, I had ascertained ten minutes after moving in. Since a fake drug habit could, I knew, turn into a real one all too easily, I had elected to harm my lungs instead of my brain—and everything else, as I knew from my life before the agency.
Maybe that drew me to Briana, I reflected as I walked down the hall to the bunker’s back door. She had come up on the streets of Hoboken—that had stood out to me in her file.
I pushed open the door and stepped out into the freezing night. As I lit a cigarette I thought about what I would say when I heard the familiar, soft beep in my ear. The microdrone had spotted the flare of my match, I knew; it only took a few seconds for it to arrive and make its tiny alert sound.
“Briana Tragner taken unharmed. Op sec endangered. Recommend extraction.”
* * *
Briana
I actually managed to fall asleep. When I woke up, with my mouth drooling onto the mattress and my arms and legs aching, I could hardly believe it, but my body’s exhaustion seemed to overcome everything—except that I needed to pee now, really badly.
“Hello?” I said. Well, I tried to say it; it came out as a croak made up entirely of what sounded like random vowels.
I worked my mouth, moving my jaw and trying to generate some saliva. The thought of my current, undoubtedly terrible state of hydration almost made me laugh. It made me remember a conversation with one of my Advanced Guidance daddies, when I had tried to claim that they were abusing me by not letting me have a glass of water whenever I asked. He had said something about young people and their water bottles, and whisky having been enough for his grandpappy.
Knowing that I’d survive—or at least I’d survive not having drunk my usual forty-eight ounces of water the previous day—didn’t make my cottony dry mouth feel any better, or help me bring up the spit I needed to get my mouth actually working.
“Hello?” I tried again, a little more sure of the sound I would produce, though my voice still sounded weak to me when the word emerged. How could it not, when I was calling more or less into a mattress?
I heard footsteps outside and I remembered the horrors of the previous—who knew? Six hours, maybe?—more sharply. Especially the part about Papa Georg leaving the door open so everyone could see my naughtiness and its reward. Oh, God… When the owner of the footsteps arrived, what would he do with the kidnapped bad girl made to offer her pussy and her asshole so shamefully to every passerby?
Two thoughts crashed in: disbelief at how my bad girl needs could somehow get me warm between my thighs at this idea, even handcuffed to a cot in a cell in a Russian warlord’s bunker, and the memory of Papa Georg speaking soft and low into my ear. The two thoughts, I felt certain, had a lot to do with one another: if Papa Georg hadn’t told me he would take care of me, I would never have gotten aroused by the terrible fantasy of taking the cocks of Papa Nicolai’s henchmen whenever and however they decided to bestow them.
It worked the same way it had worked in bad girl prison, and the same way it worked in my Lumberjack daddies’ base: when I knew—or, I supposed, when I believed—strong men who had my best interests at heart had taken me in hand, I could somehow relax into the darkest depths of my shameful desires.
How absolutely insane, though, to feel that here in this cell, with the light beating down from the bare bulb to show off my whipped bottom, my shaven pussy, my roughly fucked anus. And, worse, to feel it so strongly… more strongly than I had felt it even with Daddy John, whom I had thought I might be falling in love with just last week, before…
I sobbed into the mattress. I tried again, as loud as I could, because the pressure in my bladder had started to become unbearable.
“Hello?”
The footsteps had stopped for a moment, as if someone had wondered if they heard something and then decided they hadn’t; now they started again and got closer.
“Hello,” I heard a man’s voice say, in a Russian accent so thick I could hear it even in hello.
Not Papa Georg—not even Ivan. And I could hear in the single word such mockery and such lust that it made my heart race.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said bluntly into the air just above the mattress as far as I could get my mouth above its surface, trying to articulate each word clearly and slowly in hope the henchman would understand.
His cruel laugh seemed to indicate he had gotten the message—from the urgency of my tone if not from the meaning of the words.
He said, injecting all the degradation imaginable into the single syllable, “Go.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my forehead creasing so hard I wondered if I could literally pull a muscle that way. Down below, my hips jerked in helpless, unwanted arousal while my bladder muscles contracted desperately, trying to contain the shameful golden fluid I couldn’t help picturing—though any thought of liquid only made the problem worse.
The man standing outside the door, watching my ordeal, called out in Russian. I heard more footsteps.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. “Oh, God… please… Papa.”
My Advanced Guidance daddies had known how to employ the bathroom, and the feelings of the bad girls in their care about the bathroom. They had put regression through remedial toilet-training to shameful but very effective use in making me into an effective fuck toy for my Lumberjack Daddies. It began with having to ask to use the potty and, when I disobeyed or talked back, it progressed into more humiliating territory—above all being made to pee in front of them, and even being dressed in a diaper, when I decided to push the boundaries.