CHAPTER2
Briana
Ivan started to unbuckle his belt. He might have an air of inexperience, but the decisive way his hands moved over the silvery metal of the buckle and the shiny black leather of the belt told me that Ivan had the essential dominant instinct I had come to know so well in my daddies.
Those urges, I saw in the icy blue eyes that made such a uniquely Slavic contrast with his high cheekbones and dark hair, had all the urgency of the henchman who feels entitled to get laid a good deal more than he actually does. I couldn’t really see my naked body reflected in the pupils, but I could feel running down my spine the acute consciousness of how my nudity had affected Ivan’s sexual needs.
I heard the clinking of the belt buckle. To my distress, it drew my eyes downward again. The sight of the masculine fingers unfastening the button of the dark trousers and starting to open his fly brought to my mind’s eye the memory of Daddy Omar (code name Lumberjack Three) getting ready to punish me before he used my mouth to assuage the erection that whipping me always gave him.
I had talked back to Daddy Omar, in the situation room, where I served as my Lumberjacks’ secretary, more or less. The one thing spec ops warriors needed possibly more than an SRD was someone to do their paperwork. I had talked back to Daddy Omar because he had told me that his report needed to take priority over my streaming old horror movies.
Really I had talked back because I needed a whipping. Or at least a spanking. I remembered now how I had cried out in alarm when instead of sitting down and ordering me over his knee he had started to unbuckle his belt.
Daddy Omar hadn’t had to use the voice of authority. I had said, “Oh, Daddy… please, no?”
He had said, “You know what to do, Briana. Over the back of the chair and panties down. You know we can’t tolerate insubordination here. Lives are at stake in every report.”
He had whipped me so hard, with his heavy jeans belt, but he hadn’t needed to use the voice to keep me over the back of the chair.
The memory made me furrow my brow hard, and pant like a puppy with a treat held in front of her nose.
“You’re hot for it, aren’t you?” Ivan said, his English a good deal more heavily accented than Papa Nicolai’s. “You can call me Papa Ivan, when your mouth isn’t full.”
Papa Nicolai clearly wanted to get in on the lewd action, displaying in person the petty jealousy I had come to associate with the warlords as I got to know them from afar, watching their movements through the intelligence my Lumberjack daddies gathered. He spoke in a cartoonishly lecherous voice.
“Use the voice, Ivan,” he said, leering at me and making me think that if his bushy mustache had been a little longer he might actually have twirled it. “Make her answer you.”
For a horrible moment I thought I might actually laugh. That would have completely destroyed the impression I had resolved I must create: that they could use the voice of authority with ease and that it turned me into an unwilling but—despite my unaccountable innocence and basic modesty—nevertheless eagerly compliant concubine.
I needed to create and maintain a fantasy—something I knew a good deal about. If I laughed, I knew, I would destroy my chance at disarming them that way. I might also make them feel the need to get rid of me.
I turned the laugh into a moderately convincing cry of distress.
They don’t know what it should look like, I told myself, managing to calm my racing heart a little. I could see on Ivan’s face that he had taken my submissive little noise as the cry of a girl who knew she must suck the long, hard cock he had just pulled out of his navy blue briefs despite her shame and reluctance to do such a dirty thing.
They don’t know how well your daddies trained you.
Even before my trip to Advanced Guidance bad girl prison, I hadn’t minded giving head, despite my being completely self-taught in the lewd art of pleasuring a hard penis. I hadn’t really associated it with anything that felt really important to me though—I had to wait for my time in detention to become the truly passionate bad girl cocksucker I was for my Lumberjacks.
Everyone who grew up in the care of a megacorp-sponsored educational facility as I had got a rather mixed message about sex. We learned two distinct things from the combination of school rules about close contact with the opposite sex and our health and human development curriculum: consensual sex—even of the most conventional cock-in-pussy face-to-face kind—had something naughty and adult about it. It was also, we heard, absolutely healthy and necessary for the species’ survival.
Less conventional ways of fucking didn’t feature in our coursework, so we had to figure that out on our own. After leaving the educational facility at eighteen and taking to the streets of Hoboken, I had occasionally sucked cocks as a way of growing my bad girl credibility and getting stuff like food and shelter. It hadn’t felt particularly connected to my deepest needs and urges—in fact I found kissing the guys I gave blowjobs more unpleasant than taking their hard penises to the back of my throat.
My Advanced Guidance daddies had changed that. At first I had thought I could fool them into thinking that sucking their cocks represented a major ‘breakthrough’—the thing they always seemed interested in me having. They had much too complete an understanding of me, though, for that to work. The sensor between my legs and their computer models, I learned to my horror, told them everything about me—my brain, my body, my deepest needs, my dirtiest fantasies.
I felt my brows work and my cheeks flush with hot, rising shame, now, as I looked up at Ivan: real shame, something I had supposed, when I arrived at bad girl prison, I couldn’t ever feel. My mouth had started to water at the sight of his throbbing manhood, the way he pumped it arrogantly in his hand to get it ready to use me. I didn’t actually want to suck his cock, but my body responded as my daddies had trained it to do.
“Answer me, slut,” Ivan said, lowering his voice something like a minor third. I’m not a professional musician or anything, but I have a pretty good voice and I sang in my EF chorus; I knew a minor third when I heard one, and more important, daddies who actually knew how to use the voice of authority knew that the pitch had to be precise.
So I had a dilemma: should I obey, as if the voice could be invoked in such a slapdash way, or should I show some resistance? I decided to take a gamble on the possibility that I might be able to reel Papa Nicolai in a little closer, set him up a little better if I made the voice seem just a bit more complicated than Ivan at least had grasped.
I frowned hard, as if to suggest that I had almost felt an inescapable compulsion to do as the henchman had said. I shook my head.
Ivan looked over at the other henchman, sitting on the other side of Papa Nicolai. I saw an instant of uncertainty in Ivan’s eyes.
Ah. So there’s some instability in the power structure here, I thought. Ivan is the top minion… lieutenant, let’s call it… but blond guy—he looked more Swedish than Slavic, that one, and his rugged good looks made the other two men look like schlubs—is probably threatening to take over the lieutenant slot.
I didn’t know how I could possibly use the insight, but at least it gave me something to think about. I felt a ray of hope make its way into my heart as I noticed myself noticing things: Daddy John had given me what he called ‘observation lessons’ in the three months since I had first deployed with the Lumberjacks, sitting me down every day in front of a different reconnaissance video and telling me to watch it five times and notice something new each time.
I had a dangerous moment as I remembered him telling me, in that serious, unsexy voice that nevertheless turned me on so damn much, “Notice yourself noticing, Briana. You’re here because in addition to being such a good little bad girl, you also have a major aptitude for reconnaissance.”
That’s something these Russian fuckers definitely don’t know, I thought to myself, to recover from the sob that had risen out of my chest at the memory of Daddy John’s deep voice and his chocolate eyes.
I couldn’t see how blond guy had reacted, and I couldn’t read in Ivan’s expression anything more than the momentary glance had conveyed: he worried about how he looked to Papa Nicolai when blond guy could see.
It’s a start, anyway. I filed it at the back of my mind as Ivan got control of his expression and turned his eyes to look at his boss with a sneer of scorn. He said something in Russian that I assumed must mean something like, “I thought you said this whore obeys when you use that tone.”