Fucking Lieutenant Kresky. While my daddies were off in country, doing their Lumberjack thing, fucking Lieutenant Kresky was in charge of the little base in the underground bunker. And he had just given me an order.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant?” I asked, trying hard to keep my temper.
“You heard me, SRD. I need you to get me coffee.”
What. The. Fuck. He wasn’t my boss. Okay, technically he was, because my spec ops daddies had put him in charge. But I didn’t get coffee. I filed reports, like a secretary—fine. I set up meetings like a secretary—sure.
I didn’t get coffee. Except that I kind of did, for my daddies—because I loved them.
I didn’t love Lieutenant Kresky. He wasn’t a daddy. He didn’t have the right to punish me, the way my Lumberjacks did… let alone the right to fuck me any way he chose, whenever he liked, the way they did.
Dammit. They’ve been gone way too long. I’m so damn needy. The faces of Daddy John, Daddy Omar, and Daddy Trevor rose into my mind’s eye… and not just their faces… their huge bodies, their muscular chests, their enormous thighs, and in between those thighs…
“SRD, do we have a problem?”
The lieutenant stood over my desk. He could get his own fucking coffee. He was standing up and I was sitting down and the break room lay about fifty feet away. No, I wasn’t in the middle of anything, but the principle mattered. I didn’t get coffee for Lieutenant Kresky. I was a bad girl, trained in Advanced Guidance back in the States, turned into a military fuck toy aka SRD—Sexual Relief Device—and sent to a bunker in the frozen tundra. I served special operations forces as a morale booster, and I’d become damn good at my job, shameful as many would find it.
Shameful as I still found it, a lot of the time.
I did not get coffee for Lieutenant Kresky. I looked up at him. Not bad looking, but a bureaucrat—not a real warrior, like my daddies. He didn’t even know how to use the voice of authority my daddies used with me.
“Not on my end, sir.” I kept my voice as level as I could. “But I don’t get coffee.”
“Alright then,” the lieutenant said, “you’d better go ahead and get your paddle instead.”
My lips parted and my heart started to beat fast. I felt my face flush hot with anger and embarrassment.
“No fucking way,” I said, my calm starting to evaporate.
“SRD, Captain Bradley told you I’m in command. I heard him.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Captain Bradley, Daddy John. He hadn’t meant that this asshole could paddle me, though. He definitely hadn’t.
But he could. He could get two corporals from the tech unit in here to hold me down, and he could go into my quarters to get the fucking paddle himself and pull my fatigues down and paddle me until I could hardly walk, if he wanted. Then he could tell Daddy John about my insubordination, and Daddy John wouldn’t just paddle me again—he and Daddy Omar and even Daddy Trevor wouldn’t let me come for a week.
I felt my face crumple. It was all just because I missed them: I knew it. Tears filled my eyes and I got up abruptly, lowering my swimming gaze so I wouldn’t have to see the lieutenant.
“Your decision, SRD,” he said. “Coffee or your paddle.”
He wasn’t an asshole: he hadn’t even insisted on the paddle. But I couldn’t take it. I rushed from the room and down the corridor to the exit out into the snow. I just needed a few moments to myself. I keyed in the code I wasn’t supposed to know. The big metal door opened.
I didn’t even think about the security risk—about the heat signature I might create. The cold surrounded me, embraced me as I went up the stairs to the other door, the one that just looked like the entrance to an abandoned building. It was so cold out there, I would get frostbite if I stayed for longer than a minute. I would clear my head and then go get coffee. I stepped outside, gasping at the cold.
Someone grabbed me from behind. I felt a hood go over my face, smelled a chemical smell.
“You’re going to call me Papa Nicolai,” said a voice in lightly accented English. Whatever drug they had used on me had left me in some strange state where I felt like I had already woken up, but somehow hadn’t been aware of… well, anything—where I was, who I was, and especially how they had, it seemed, bound me to a chair.
I shivered. Bound me naked to a chair, I realized.
Except for the hood, which the hand—presumably—of the man who had just told me to call him Papa Nicolai now pulled off my head. I looked up at him—a big, dark-haired man in a business suit with a definite air of wealth and crime—blinking. With a smile that I couldn’t help labeling cruel, he took a small step back and sat down.
Papa Nicolai and the two other men I now noticed sitting in front of me in comfortable-looking armchairs wore business suits without ties. I could hardly have imagined a more stereotypical picture of a Russian organized crime warlord and his mobster minions.
For a moment, fear rose from my belly through my ribs and into my throat. My hands, cuffed behind me around the back of the hard metal chair in which they had put me, tried to get free. At the same instant I became fully aware that I had no clothes on. Nakedness had become almost second nature in the Bad Girls facility where Selecta, the megacorp that more or less ran the government these days, had ‘reformed’ me. It took me a second to realize that it meant something different here, just having been kidnapped: I could see the difference in the eyes of Papa Nicolai and his henchmen, their evident satisfaction to have a gorgeous young American sexual servant naked and restrained in front of them.
“You’re here,” he said, as he settled back into the center armchair, “because we know about the voice of authority, Briana.”
Shit, they even know my name. The part about the voice made nowhere near the impression on me that the sound of my own name did, coming from the warlord’s mouth. After all, they clearly didn’t understand how the voice worked.
I forced a skeptical look onto my face. Not a sneer, because I thought a sneer would probably look fake. I felt like I could pull off skepticism, though. I definitely had a lot of practice, since I had perfected it during my short-lived career as a real bad girl.
I mean, doing crimes and stuff back in Hoboken. Nothing big and definitely nothing violent. Nothing that got me into drugs, thank God, though I’d had some close calls living in the squats, as everybody called the abandoned housing Selecta hadn’t gotten around to razing yet.
In front of five different judges I’d done the skeptical look, with just enough sweetness to imply my innocence—my modesty, even—in addition to my ignorance of what a crime might even be. Only the fifth had seen through it, with the help of a whole bunch of surveillance footage Selecta had decided to release because—I learned later—they had set a trap for me with the permission of the fourth judge.
That memory, unfortunately, flashed into my mind right there, naked in front of Papa Nicolai and his goons, distracting me. But my hard swallow as I remembered added to the impression of innocence I had resolved to present.
That simple fucking trap the judge set. They hadn’t even had to entrap me, though the corporate laws had completely decriminalized even entrapment, when Selecta felt like entrapping girls like me. They could have handcuffed me and made me look at a particular sort of naughty pictures, as they had done to a couple of the bad girls I had met in Advanced Guidance.
They hadn’t needed to do that with me, though: the judge had authorized the sensor between my thighs, installed via nano-drone, and then my attorney—my gorgeous, Selecta-hired attorney, of course—had suggested I might show my gratitude for his having gotten me off on the charge.
My stupid fucking body had done the rest. The picture in my mind’s eye, of me on my knees in front of my lawyer as he fucked my face with abandon, his big but beautifully manicured hands firmly around my head, long fingers interlaced in my disheveled blonde hair—that had sent an electric thrill to my pussy. The sensor, newly installed between my vagina and my anus, they told me in Advanced Guidance, had done the rest, beaming the information straight to Selecta and qualifying me for bad girl prison.
My body had betrayed me.
Just like it had already threatened to do now, in front of the Russians.
The Russians had kidnapped me, it seemed, because they knew about the voice of authority. Unfortunately, they almost certainly couldn’t actually have understood the report they’d heard about a bad girl—that is, formally, an SRD, a Sexual Relief Device—whose special ops daddies could command her to do whatever they wanted.
Whatever they wanted. That part, to my mortification, represented nothing more or less than the truth. In the detention facility where they had ‘reformed’ me, they had installed whatever fucked-up technology allowed the men they gave me to—the ones I had to call Daddy—to order me around.
Not just order me around; when my daddies used the voice of authority, I couldn’t do anything but obey them. No matter what they told me to do.
So if they told me to kneel down right in the situation room and suck all their cocks, yup—I did it. I didn’t have a choice. It only got more degrading from there.
The Russians had heard about it, I realized, and they wanted me. Nicolai—Papa Nicolai, he had already commanded me to call him, in his lilting accent—had told me as much the moment before he pulled the bag off my head somewhere, I had to assume, in Russian-controlled territory.
It looked like a bunker, but I probably thought that because I’d spent the last few months in a bunker with my spec ops daddies. Really, it looked like a meeting room on a cheap floor of an office building, or a classroom in a community college. It probably felt like they had taken me underground simply because I’d awoken in the dark, instantly sensing the bag over my head.
Bunker… dungeon… a place where bad girls like me received their just rewards. Well, I had news for ‘Papa’ Nicolai: I had already done enough time in jails, prisons, and bunkers that I didn’t really have any just rewards coming any longer.
No, I got them in the ass pretty much every day from my Lumberjacks.
My spec ops warrior daddies called themselves that—the Lumberjacks—because most of their job consisted of taking down communications towers that the warlords had generally disguised as the ugliest fucking trees you could imagine.
Also, they looked like lumberjacks. They even wore flannel sometimes, when they were off duty.
Papa Nicolai turned to the goon on his right and said something in Russian. He—a not really unattractive guy, younger than his boss and sporting cold blue eyes and a black beard—grunted an agreement and got up. He took a step toward me, so that he loomed over me, moving a little to my left side.
The metal chair they had put me in stood a little lower than your average chair, probably precisely so that my eyes would be level with this man’s belt, the buckle of which he now started to unfasten, two or three inches away from my face.
I looked up at the guy, doing my best to keep the skeptical expression on my face. My heart raced as I tried to figure out what to do, when the next thing happened—the thing I felt one hundred percent sure would happen.
Papa Nicolai spoke, but in a voice a minor third lower than the one he had used before. “You’re going to suck Ivan’s cock, Briana. I want to see how well your daddies trained you.”
I understood all too clearly that I probably had less than a second to make up my mind. Really, I didn’t actually make up my mind. I just did the stupid, brave thing.
Also the thing my treasonous body craved. If the daddies in bad girl prison had managed to instill one actual message, one honest to God life lesson, it was that my body would always win: the trick to living a reasonably happy life, even in a bunker in God only knows what icebound country, lay in accepting my pussy’s lewd, humiliating needs. Once I did that, I could begin to govern them.
My advantage over my Russian kidnappers lay in them not understanding me or my training in the slightest, and so I had to maintain that edge if I possibly could. I let my body’s craving take over, and I pretended that Papa Nicolai’s attempt at the voice of authority had worked on me.
His lame attempt, I thought to myself with an inward sneer, even as I transformed my features from the skeptical expression to a well-practiced pout of grateful submission. I parted my lips as if my panting need to serve this handsome henchman could not be denied any longer. I gazed up at him, widening my eyes and crinkling my brow to suggest that if he would only pull his cock out of his pants and shove it into my mouth, I would know joy such as had never before fallen to my lot.
It took the goon by surprise. His own eyes widened, and I thought I could tell that despite his handsomeness and his evident effort to maintain a suave manner in front of his crime-lord boss he didn’t have a lot of sexual experience. His face told me that he certainly hadn’t received a lot of oral, and he certainly hadn’t had a girl on her knees in front of him, her eyes begging him to thrust himself deep inside her waiting, open mouth.
You don’t have to do it exactly right, I told myself as I felt my heart start to race. They don’t know how it works, so they’ll accept whatever you do as coming from the voice, as long as you obey in some way.
The thought reassured me. I didn’t think I could possibly imitate the effect of all the different emotions, urges, and thoughts that roared and roiled in my mind when one of my daddies used the voice of authority on me. Some of it always felt voluntary—that represented the true key to the subroutine my Advanced Guidance daddies had installed in my brain.
A man whose voice, in that lower register, I had been programmed to obey, could only command me to do what my subconscious mind already wanted to do. Subroutine and program were the words my senior daddy had used to explain it to me, anyway, after he had told me to bend over a bench and spread my bottom-cheeks for a punishment plug.
On the other hand I had once heard one of the doctors get mad about it and say that they shouldn’t mix up people and computers that way. One of the daddies had asked the doctor how they should explain it, then, and the doctor had said something like, “Biometrically calibrated preconscious psychosexual suggestion,” which had made the daddy laugh.
It didn’t feel like a program, though. I couldn’t deny that it felt, well, a lot less straightforward than I imagined a robot felt. I mean, a robot doesn’t feel—doesn’t feel anything at all, and that probably makes for the most important difference. A robot couldn’t feel the feverish welter of emotion and sensation that took hold of me when a huge, gorgeous man took out his cock and told me to kneel and present my anus for plugging—or for a hard fucking I knew would leave me walking with gingerly steps for the next two days. And when a daddy I had been programmed to obey gave the instruction in the voice of authority, that mixture inside my head only got more confusing.
But the Russians didn’t need me to imitate the strange, halting way I always obeyed, as my body and my brain found their way to the forbidden pleasure of submission, to my dark need for the discipline of a strong, firm-handed daddy. They had no idea what I really looked like when I opened my mouth for Daddy John, Daddy Trevor, or Daddy Omar—my Lumberjacks.
I swallowed hard, and a tear actually welled up as I thought of them, wondering what had happened—whether the Russians had killed them when they kidnapped me, or if they were alive and wondering who had stolen their bad girl.
“Oh, look,” said the warlord. “The little whore is sad because she has to suck your cock, Ivan.”
I kept my eyes on Ivan’s face. I bit back the words that had risen in my mind, and let them sound there and there alone.
My Lumberjacks are going to come for me, asshole. And they are going to be very, very angry.
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.”
I swiveled my own eyes over to Papa Nicolai. Notice everything, I told myself. I didn’t have the easiest time concentrating, with Ivan’s hard cock an inch from my face—and it got much harder right then because the henchman snarled something else in Russian, which I knew just from the sound of the words must be directed at me rather than his boss. He accompanied the harsh words with a sudden movement of his right hand: he reached out and seized the back of my head, twining his fingers in my blonde hair.
My mouth had remained open: that came from my training, and if it had in fact been one of my daddies who had given me the command to get ready to suck his cock, it would have been the same. Obeying that way, instinctively and consistently, just represented a part of owning my body’s wanton needs.
Ivan started to thrust his hips forward; I could see the red-brown head of his penis coming closer, and I knew he meant just to take my mouth by force, as I felt sure he had done with reluctant girls before.
“Nyet,” Papa Nicolai said in a cold voice. That was one Russian word I knew, at least. The warlord’s face had a cruel look on it: narrow eyes and the barest hint of a thin-lipped smile. To my dismay, Papa Nicolai had a handsome face, as attractive as Daddy John’s really. He reminded me of old paintings of noblemen and kings—I thought I remembered a picture of Peter the Great, imposing and dark, that this criminal resembled.
I knew my fate probably hung on Papa Nicolai’s intelligence—and on my being able to outwit him in the end, thanks to knowing more than he did. If I had a glimmer of hope at doing that, it needed to start here. I looked into the man’s dark eyes and saw calculation, and I thought I had a shot.
What happened next confirmed my hope for the moment at least. The warlord looked back at me, and he said, his voice precisely pitched a minor third lower than his usual speaking tone, “Answer Papa Ivan. Are you hot to suck a big Russian cock, slut?”
I gave myself to the play I had made, then. I closed my mouth, as if having been given this countermanding order to speak, I had no choice. I turned my face into a mask of mortified, submissive woe, and I looked up at Ivan with wide eyes.
“Yes, Papa,” I lied. “I’m so hot to suck your cock.”