I felt Papa Georg’s hand reach around from my cheek to take hold of my head, gathering my hair into a rope he could use like a horse’s reins, to move my mouth up and down.
I cried out, and I obeyed though he hadn’t used the voice. I lowered my gaze so that I saw only the wiry golden curls of his pubic hair. The instincts my daddies had fostered in me let me relax my neck muscles so that the hand in my hair could push my lips a long way down. The throbbing hardness filled my mouth much too full, but I knew how to do it. I knew how to please a demanding papa like this one.
All hope of this man’s helping me had flown away; I felt certain now, from the way he had looked at me, that his ability to use the voice of authority must be a cruel coincidence. He must just sound exactly like someone the Selecta doctors had attuned me to. I had made the mistake of trusting them—I should have known that something as new and untested as the voice wouldn’t have the reliability they had promised.
At the same time, the way Papa Georg used me, combined with this frightening coincidence, stirred something in me beyond even the helpless arousal the other henchman had brought between my thighs. The man whose hardness I served now was a daddy, I could tell, just as much as my Advanced Guidance daddies and my Lumberjack daddies. He might call himself a papa, but what I sensed in his face and in his voice and in his firm, controlling hands… it meant daddy to me.
“I want to see her play with that little cunt,” he said in English, his voice so deep and rich I felt like the degradation enfolded me and the flush of shame covered every inch of my skin. I wanted to look up, to see what expression Papa Georg had on his face as he said the terrible thing. I wanted to see whether he had looked over at Papa Nicolai or he still had his eyes fixed on me, enjoying the sight of his manhood thrusting between my lips. “And I know for a fact they train these whores to use their hands.”
Papa Nicolai grunted something in Russian, to Ivan I guessed, because I heard the other henchman rise from his chair. I couldn’t pay any attention to what he did, though, because Papa Georg spoke again in the voice of authority, to me.
“My balls, Briana,” he said. He accompanied the words with an abrupt motion of his hand, using his grip on my hair to pull my face off his penis. He turned my head firmly as with his other hand he took hold of his rigid cock, glistening from my mouth, and began to pump it gently in his fist, while he pressed my lips gently against the wrinkled skin of his scrotum.
He shaves his balls,I realized with a little surprise, just like my other daddies. Until I had wound up in bad girl prison, I had never known the pleasure of serving a man who groomed down there. ‘Papa’ Ivan—I didn’t think I could get myself to call him papa, at least in my head, though Papa Nicolai earned the title through being so menacing, and Papa Georg through his clear daddiness—definitely did not take care of himself in that way. Nor had any of the men I had blown back in Hoboken. I couldn’t suppress a little whimper at this new similarity between Papa Georg and my Lumberjacks. What did it mean?
Nothing, I told myself. It means nothing.
I kissed my papa’s balls. I licked. I wanted to be a good girl for him.
I felt Ivan behind me freeing my hands, and as soon as he had finished I reached up, the way I knew how, and cupped Papa Georg’s sack on my fingers, stroking gently as I licked and nuzzled and kissed. I knew that his shaven balls would feel the touch exquisitely, and he responded with a grunt of pleasure that made me smile.
Be a good girl, now, I told myself. Papa will reward you if you’re a good girl. Papa wants to see you play with your little pussy, doesn’t he?
I realized in my distant, floating mind that this unexpected daddy had thrown me deep into the state of mind I called naughty girl. His effect on my body, through the voice of authority, through his hard cock and his shaven scrotum, had wrapped me up in the fantasy of a bad girl desperate for discipline, for the boundaries that only a firm-handed daddy could give.
“Put your other hand between your legs,” Papa Georg said, his voice at normal pitch—so that I would have to show just how badly I needed to play with myself. “Get that cunt ready for Papa Nicolai.”