CHAPTER16
Georg
Briana, nearly hidden from my view as Garonov and Ivan used her and the rest of the guards clustered close around, jerking off at the lewd sight, let out a whimper that I knew must betoken panic.
Shit.
I knew exactly what had happened, because as a daddy who likes fucking his naughty little girl’s most private place, I had devoted a good deal of effort to making sure I understood all about the muscles there. Panic represented the least desirable emotion, when it came to Briana’s being able to obey Ivan’s petulant command.
I cursed myself for warning her about Ivan. That had only made the problem worse.
The neurological programming involved in setting up the voice of authority inside Briana’s brain meant that I could solve the problem by issuing a command of my own, at the proper pitch. Her limbic system would simply override the panic and she would be able—as I knew she wanted—to open to Ivan as her prison daddies had trained her to do.
Bad girls like Briana had a special relationship with anal sex of course: their feelings about doing dirty things with dominant daddies made them the unique sort of sexual creatures they were—and made them immensely valuable both to Selecta and to the military organizations who had found them such a boon to morale. Anal lay at the core of those feelings, because a naughty girl’s bottom-hole always seemed to her the most shameful place to do the dirty things she both longed for and feared. Much of the training her daddies in Advanced Guidance had given her had involved discipline given right there, with their special toys but above all with their hard cocks.
Briana could do it—she had done it, for Garonov—and I could help her get control of her body over the panic. But to intervene again would mean open conflict with Ivan, and almost certainly conflict with Garonov. Their guns—all their guns, including the other guards’—were only a few feet away. Ivan had the only truly hot-headed personality among them, but with hard cocks and the standard degree of alpha rage even less dominant men can experience in that state, it could well become very violent very quickly.
I had seen it before, in fact: Ivan had shot another henchman for telling him, in a half-joking tone, that he should give someone else a turn in the ass of another girl Garonov had given to his guards. This situation came too close to that one for comfort, and having to shoot it out in such unfavorable circumstances, when I had a reasonable hope that I might be able to get Briana rescued before too much longer, represented the last thing I wanted.
She cried out in discomfort and Ivan grunted in a dissatisfied way that I knew from experience meant someone had denied him what he considered his rights.
“I told you to open this ass,” he said, again using his pathetic version of the voice of authority.
For a moment I thought I would have to go for my own gun, still in its shoulder holster, and start shooting. The suspicion that Briana and I had formed an alliance against the warlord would kill both of us. If I killed Garonov and Ivan to make the world a better place, my actual mission to strategically penetrate Garonov’s organization be damned, I would make it clear I was the only enemy agent, one who happened to be able to use the real voice.
I would die in the process but Briana could well survive. And, who knew, maybe I’d manage to kill them all and Briana and I could get ourselves picked up. It would leave practically the whole of Garonov’s empire intact for the next claimant to emerge and keep doing terrible things, but it would buy the good guys some time, anyway.
My hand went inside my jacket, but before I touched the butt of my gun, Garonov, to my astonished relief, came to the rescue. He unwittingly kept me from—probably pointlessly, but maybe satisfyingly—giving my life for the chance of saving Briana’s. I couldn’t blame him, though.
“You’re doing it wrong again, Ivan,” he said in Russian.
Then he spoke again, in English, in his own version of the voice—the one that sounded very similar indeed to the correct use, by a trained daddy.
“Open that ass, whore. Let little Ivan put his cock in you, and we’ll make you come.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
* * *
Briana
When Papa Nicolai gave me the same command Ivan had, my brain froze for a split second.
I can’t… he’s not my papa…
Then my body said otherwise, and a wave of arousal and shame swept through my whole body, so strong that I felt like my skin had turned to fire. I sobbed around Papa Nicolai’s cock, and I obeyed him; I pushed with my bottom in that humiliating way, and I felt myself open to Ivan.
It’s because of Papa Georg… I told myself, and I kept telling myself. It’s all because of Papa Georg, my real papa…
And it was, because I could never have thought that Papa Nicolai could have the role of papa for me, could give me such a terrible command and make me obey just with the sound of his words. I started to float away again as the asshole guards—Vassily especially—cheered to see Ivan fucking my bottom.
But I heard myself whimpering around the thick, hard penis in my mouth and I knew that Papa Georg’s presence only explained part of the way it felt to have him make my bottom open for the warlord’s lieutenant. My bad girl needs had triumphed, and I realized I had learned something important about the voice: Papa Nicolai had managed to use it—really use it—despite my not being programmed to obey him specifically.
My body wanted to obey him, even though I loved Papa Georg. Nearly my whole field of vision was taken up by Papa Nicolai’s thrusting lap, but out of the corner of my eye I could see his hand move down my body, and I remembered what he had promised. I cried out around his thrusting manhood, my hips thrusting up and taking more of Ivan inside my too-full bottom so that I could present my clit. My hands, still clutching the backs of my knees, trembled with needy anticipation.
Papa Georg had told me not to come until he said so, and he had used the voice. I felt my brow furrow anxiously, and my mind came back to earth as I wondered what would happen… how I could obey both commands…
You can fake it,my brain told me. You used to do that all the time, back in Hoboken.
I had faked it back then, for boyfriends—if those guys could even be called that, the ones I more or less used to keep myself safe on the street. I had felt like I gave convincing performances, too—my fake orgasms certainly seemed to fool the guys.
But I hadn’t done it since my daddies had taken over, in bad girl prison. They had shown the very first time they got their hands on me that they knew my body better than I did, and when they finally allowed me a real honest-to-God climax it hadn’t resembled any performance I’d ever given. The sheer involuntary movements of my muscles, the tension and the release, represented something I didn’t think I could ever reproduce voluntarily.
And Papa Nicolai and his asshole lieutenant Ivan had witnessed it for themselves, when they first woke me up in their interrogation room. The bozhe’s fingers came down on my clit, and I bucked atop the bench, my bottom—full of Ivan’s surging cock—squirming atop the shamefully wet diaper. I moaned around the thick manhood that Papa Nicolai held deep in mouth, keeping my head in place and moving his hips in small thrusts to enjoy me so dominantly it sent me floating straight back into the ether.
You can do it, my brain told me again, they saw you, but they didn’t understand. Only Papa Georg really understands.