With my Lumberjacks I still had to ask to go to the bathroom, but they hadn’t taken an interest in potty-training me. To my blushing amazement I had found myself thinking about it sometimes, on the toilet, and wondering whether I would feel differently about that kind of discipline now that I had advanced so far in accepting my submissive needs.
Now I wished I had no such needs… the feeling of arousal—the wish that Papa Georg would come and step inside the little room and close the door… my fear and anger at these fucking assholes… they drew a deep sob from my chest that I knew to my fury would only amuse them all the more.
Two or three more had come. They spoke in joking Russian. One said, his English heavily accented but much better than the first, “Come on, whore. Don’t keep us waiting. Go pee-pee for us. If you do it now we might let you off the bed to clean up after you’re done.”
I scrunched my whole face tightly. I didn’t know why I kept trying to hold it in, but I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t bear to give these assholes any compliance at all. I sobbed again as I felt a little bit of pee squeeze itself out and trickle down onto my pussy, drip onto my thigh. The henchmen guffawed.
Then I heard Papa Georg’s voice, in Russian. Angry and commanding. I focused on the sound, and it distracted me for the moment from the pressure between my legs. Another man answered Papa Georg, his tone resentful. Papa Georg spoke again, the meaning clear: Do what I said.
He said in English, “Briana, Vassily is getting a diaper for you.”
Oh, no. “But…” I said before I could stop myself.
“Papa Nicolai wants to see everything it means to be a bad girl in training,” he said. “He’s heard about what they did to make you such a good little whore. He ordered out for diapers to fit you.”
My breath came panting in and out of my mouth. Papa Georg’s voice somehow made me feel like he had everything under control despite the world of pain and fear and degradation I had come into against my will. The idea of wearing a diaper in front of these Russian criminals, though—it made my heart race with a mixture of emotions I could never have named.