CHAPTER3
Briana
Ivan looked down at me, his brows knit in confusion.
“Open your mouth, whore,” he said, trying again to find the correct pitch.
I didn’t have to do anything; I had sold Papa Nicolai on his own intelligence. Before I could even shake my head with my lips tightly closed, the warlord spoke to his henchman in Russian, his deep voice scornful. The words, I felt sure, could only mean, “You did it wrong, asshole.”
I remembered something Daddy Trevor had told me—“The smart ones who know they’re smart are the easiest to fool… we make them think they’ve figured out the problem, that it’s the temperature that’s fucking up their comms.”
What a strange way to confirm the theory,my brain thought as I bolstered whatever my new papa (until I got rescued, anyway) had said to his minion by pursing my lips and moving my chin in a frantic back-and-forth movement of refusal.
For a moment, I felt a giddy pride in manipulating them all this way, and again I realized how narrowly I was avoiding laughter—and then I considered what kind of laugh would emerge from my throat and understood I had started to experience fairly severe shock. If I did laugh, it would come out as a manic, highly disturbing sign of near-lunacy, as the various parts of me failed to integrate sensation, emotion, and thought.
My mind had gotten very familiar with dissociation over the past six months—the daddies in Advanced Guidance had made sure I could recognize it, because of the important role it played in submissive sexuality. I had even reached the point, before they sent me to the Lumberjacks, where I could control it to a certain extent, and more important, enjoy it when it allowed me to get my darkest sexual needs satisfied.
I couldn’t enjoy it now, though, or I would ruin any chance I might have of surviving whatever these Russian criminals had planned for me.
I quelled the pride and I committed to my performance as the reluctant bad girl sexual servant Papa Nicolai thought he had stolen from the American contractors—it seemed most likely that the warlord believed my Lumberjacks’ cover story of being well-armed communications techs. I couldn’t imagine he would have kidnapped me, otherwise.
Papa Nicolai spoke again in Russian, giving Ivan an order. The lieutenant tried again, and this time his voice did sound right. The Selecta doctors had given me a specific attunement to my daddies’ voices. Only they could actually make me obey, but I could recognize the precisely calibrated activation of the vocal cords, always in a precise tonal ratio with the speaker’s usual speaking pitch.
“Open your mouth, whore,” Ivan repeated.
I had thought I would have to work harder to put on a convincing act. Honestly, I had hoped I would have to work harder. But even though my body didn’t react automatically, the way it would have if one of my daddies had issued the command, need surged between my thighs at the sound of this reasonable imitation of the voice.
In fact, the humiliation of having to obey this moderately handsome minion of a criminal warlord made that need mortifyingly stronger. I felt my shoulders tense with the helpless thrill of arousal, and that reminded me of the handcuffs around my wrists and my nakedness on the hard metal chair.
My brow knitted with mingled shame and need as I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue, and a little moaning whimper emerged from my throat. I looked at the huge, hard cock in front of my eyes, brandished in Ivan’s hand. I watched him lower its head as with the fingers still twined in my hair he held me still so that he could thrust deep between my lips.
He filled me, and he put his other hand behind my head, grasping the back of my neck tightly. I could feel in the muscles of his hands the raw aggression and the animal need my naked form had excited. Above me—far above me, it felt like, in my dissociated state—I heard him grunt with helpless pleasure, and I had to resist another pulse of pride at having seduced him so thoroughly into thinking himself my absolute master.
Such a shameful pride and such an ambiguous happiness: I could achieve it, whether with my caring daddies or this brutal criminal, only by a bad girl’s reluctant submission to the ultimate authority of a hard cock’s enjoyment. As if to reinforce the breaking of the pride I moaned around the gag of rigid flesh that Ivan kept holding deep inside my mouth.
I whimpered with discomfort as he began to thrust only half an inch or so in and out, using the back of my throat in his urgent quest for release. The shameful sounds of a well-fucked mouth, the gluck gluck gluck that a hard cock only made in the mouth of a trained bed girl contrasted, in the close air of the room, with my little noises of submission.
“Is she good?” Papa Nicolai asked.
In English… to shame me further, I understood somewhere in a part of my brain that felt like it had floated up to the ceiling. That part had enough independence to feel some scorn for the warlord.
Of course I’m good, I thought with an inward sneer, but this is just opening my fucking throat and suppressing my gag reflex. I hadn’t perfected that response, that deep-throating skill, until my daddies in Advanced Guidance had gotten hold of me, and given me real lessons in breathing and muscle relaxation, but I had started practicing all the way back on the streets of Hoboken.
“Da,” Ivan replied, as if he couldn’t remember how to speak English because my mouth made his cock feel too good.
I whimpered again as his cock used me, as he held my head and thrust with dominant masculine abandon. Every driving invasion went balls deep now, and I had to concentrate to keep my teeth covered as his wiry pubic hair tickled and brushed my lips and nose and cheeks.
“Come in her mouth,” Papa Nicolai said. “Then Georg will take a turn. I’m going to have the cunt and the ass myself.”
I knew for certain that he had used English in order to degrade me, to crush my innocence—that is, the innocence I had gotten so good at projecting, because of course my real innocence had vanished sometime on my eighteenth birthday or thereabouts.
His crudity still worked; I felt my face burn with shame and my pussy flow with helpless arousal. I cried out around the hard cock thrusting in my mouth and I struggled against the handcuffs.
To my utter mortification, I felt desperate to use my right hand between my thighs as Ivan brutally enjoyed my mouth—the way my daddies would let me do, if I had obeyed them fully. I thought of the little vibrator in my nightstand in my little room in the Lumberjacks’ bunker, of how Daddy Trevor called it my naughty girl toy. I moaned as I felt my bottom squirm under me, moving against the hard surface of the spartan chair’s aluminum seat, pressing down in a fruitless search for friction and the release it might bring.
I crossed my calves, under the chair, and I squeezed my thighs together. I knew they would see, these criminals, and the knowledge made me even hotter down there.
“No,” Ivan said, his voice pitched at the correct level despite its thickening with the pleasure. “No, slut. Sit still on the chair. No coming for you.”
Oh, no. My piteous whimper around his hardness had nothing feigned about it. If my real daddies had given me that order in the voice of authority, my body would have done much of the work for me, the conditioning taking over at a subconscious level. Without the real voice, the task of keeping myself from giving into my wanton nature got much harder. If I didn’t work very hard now, I could well show the Russians that their fake voice of authority didn’t actually work on me.
But my daddies’ training saved me. If Daddy John were the one using my mouth like a pussy, pounding his lap into my face and grunting with the satisfaction to be had at the soft back of my throat, he might well have forbidden me to ease the need between my thighs. He wouldn’t have done it in the voice, though; Daddy John especially loved to enforce that kind of discipline on me as he enjoyed me, unless I had earned an orgasm as a special reward.
More often, though, Daddy John would fuck my face as part of a session of sexual discipline—the kind I earned pretty much once a week for the general slovenliness I couldn’t seem to shake.
My Lumberjacks, like my Advanced Guidance daddies, took very seriously the fundamental nature of the SRD Protocol that everyone just called the Bad Girl Rules. At its most basic level, it only had one rule: Bad girls only get fucked with a very sore bottom. In practice, that one principle meant a whole bunch of other, smaller rules, like Daddy John’s favorite: Bad girls only come when they truly earn it. When he punished me for my untidy room, I definitely hadn’t earned such a reward; if Daddy John caught me squeezing my thighs as he used my mouth he would give me a warning. If I did it again, he would get the strap and whip me as I served him on my knees.
Just the thought of it, along with the almost painful memory of the kind of orgasm Daddy John would finally bring me to, with his cock deep in my ass at the end of that kind of session, made my whole body buck, there in front of the Russians. My floating brain somehow sorted it all out, though, and with what felt like the ghostly help of my faraway daddies—oh, please… let them not really be far away!—took charge, quelling my panic.
They’ll see that needy spasm as me reacting to the voice. Now I just need to keep still.