Slowly and gently, but with a stern resolve in his eyes, Papa Georg drove his cock deep into my mouth. My body shook on the metal chair with one thrust… two… three… four from Papa Nicolai—all before Papa Georg’s penis found the back of my throat.
I came: I couldn’t help it. What I could help was the way my body responded. If my Lumberjack daddies had been the ones fucking me now, I would never have gotten away with the concealment I managed; way back when they had decided to send me to bad girl prison, they had installed a sensor between my thighs.
From that point on, anyone in charge of me—even the guards in the detention facility—had known exactly how needy my pussy got, and exactly when whatever pleasure my daddies allowed me had pushed me over the edge into orgasm. The voice of authority had the power to keep my body from climax; I didn’t understand how, and my Advanced Guidance daddies’ explanation about limbic systems, amygdalae, and parasympathetic nervous responses made no sense to me. When I had asked Daddy Trevor, the smartest of my Lumberjack daddies, about it, he had laughed.
“Yeah,” he had said. “I’m actually not sure even Selecta understands how it works. I definitely don’t.”
Whatever: my daddies could keep me from coming. When they gave me the order in the voice—which they didn’t always do even when they decided to edge me as punishment or as a lesson in self-control—I didn’t have to worry about it.
I had a good deal more to worry about, from one point of view: the effect on my body didn’t resemble anything else I had ever felt in my life.
Tortured with pleasure: that always seemed the best way to describe it. Moaning, panting, screaming for release from the sensations of my daddies’ hands and cocks, the dominance in their eyes, mingled with love and care, that drove me wild, but never wild enough, my body obeying their firm purpose that I only feel real satisfaction when they decided. Then, coming like a freight train… like a cluster bomb… like a nuclear detonation… when at last they said—always in the voice—“Go ahead and come, good girl.”
Papa Nicolai undoubtedly wanted to do that to me, or at least something like it—as much of it as a crafty but ignorant criminal could imagine. Ignorant even of how a submissive bad girl actually got turned on… more crucial, ignorant of how my training and my conditioning actually worked.
And I had to keep him ignorant.
Thankfully the orgasms I had this way, utterly full, didn’t really show. Sometimes my daddies filled me with cock and told me I couldn’t touch my clit, and then a hard cock at just the correct angle slammed into my g-spot. Unable to obey their command, I climaxed, but it didn’t take a truly obvious form—definitely not the wild, cataclysmic ecstasy I had sometimes. When, say, Daddy John held a vibrator against my clit while he used his other hand to push my face into the mattress and filled me with his jackhammering manhood, I bucked under him like a bronco and screamed like a banshee.
Now, coming despite myself, I moaned around Papa Georg’s hardness, my eyes locked on his. My hips jerked hard, my hands clenching into tight claws on the cool metal back of the chair. Even I hardly noticed the extra spasm of my little orgasm, with Papa Nicolai’s hands holding me so tightly and his muscular lap slamming into my backside.
I almost kept it out of my eyes; I almost managed only to blink with the pleasure rocketing through my system and turning all the discomfort and the humiliation into ecstasy. Maybe I did, too: when Papa Georg narrowed his eyes and I knew in the marrow of my bones that he could tell I had just come, I couldn’t feel sure that my eyes had given me away.
But he did know—if the slight change in his gaze hadn’t told me, the secretive smile would have.
Fear raced up and down my body, electric in the wake of the pleasure from the rigid cock Papa Nicolai kept driving into me, and bringing on, to my astonishment, a second little climax even as the terror of what Papa Georg might do took hold.
When it became clear, a second or two later, even as a third orgasm made my hips jerk beneath Papa Nicolai’s hard fucking, that Papa Georg intended to keep his knowledge to himself, I gasped around the manhood he had been moving softly back and forth in my mouth. Emotion filled my chest, seeming to flow downward into my belly, into my thighs, not really bypassing my pussy but also not centering there.
I liked Papa Georg.
Who the fuck knows what ‘chemistry’ actually is. It’s not like I didn’t have chemistry with all my daddies—especially Daddy John, back in the Lumberjacks bunker. But what I felt about Papa Georg then, in spite of—no, to be honest, because of—the horrible, dangerous, degrading circumstances in which we had met… in that humiliating moment at least I felt like I had never liked anyone so much.
Met him? Is this what you would call meeting a guy… a daddy?
“Good girl,” he said, gently but also still with that belittling, superior edge that made a fire of shame and need seem to run along my skin, shooting out from his fingers into my nipples and my clit. “I’m going to come on your face while you get it from Papa Nicolai.”
He pulled his cock from my mouth and he pumped it quickly in his hand. I thought I could see it getting even harder as his climax neared. His eyes stayed locked on mine; I felt sure I could see in them the knowledge that I wanted the cock in my pussy to be his. The idea made me blush so hotly that I wanted to look away, but even though my conscious mind could hardly remember the command he had given a few minutes ago, to look at him, the voice of authority ensured that my body knew not to move my gaze from his face.
Papa Nicolai spoke to Ivan in Russian. His rhythm slowed inside me. I sobbed, taking my lower lip between my teeth and looking up at Papa Georg with my best submissive, pleading expression as I felt the warlord’s cock withdraw, because I knew what came next.
Papa Georg stroked the rigid length of his penis slowly. I saw his eyes dart over to Ivan, and then return to me as I heard Ivan do something that sounded like opening a drawer in a desk or a side table somewhere in the room. I knew what that meant, too.
“Ivan’s going to lube you up, sweetheart,” he said, and I realized he could do another thing my Lumberjack daddies could do—make a term of endearment like sweetheart sound like whore or slut… a degradation that sent heat to my cheeks and to my pussy in equal measure.
At the same time, strange as it always seemed to me, sweetheart still meant something sugary and candy-coated: it meant that the daddy who called me that thought I tasted good in some way, and made me think about how my mouth would taste to him—or, a bad girl thought, how I would taste if he decided to enjoy my shaven pussy with his lips and tongue.
Could Papa Georg see in my eyes how his good looks in that dark suit, his blond hair, and his icy blue gaze affected me when he called me sweetheart? I felt my pleading look get even more intense as I saw that he must, because his hand on his cock moved more quickly and I saw his hips thrust a little… I was turning him on with my submission… maybe even as much as Papa Georg turned me on.
I felt Ivan’s big, rough hands on my ass, one hand spreading my cheeks and the other, fingers slick with lube, against my anus, inside that tiny flower. I cried out, and I because I had to keep looking at him I imagined Papa Georg was the one doing it. Of my Lumberjacks Daddy Omar was best at getting me ready for that ultimate bad girl act… the final submission of my body’s most private place. Ivan probed roughly, distended my tight ring—not the way Daddy Omar did when he stretched me little by little. I sobbed, my hips moving forward despite myself, trying in vain to get away.
“Nyet,” Papa Nicolai said. Then, in English, in what he thought the voice of authority, “Keep that ass right where it is.”
I struggled to obey, desperate to avoid showing them that Papa Nicolai’s version of the voice didn’t actually work. I thought I could see in the way Papa Georg’s eyes flicked from what Ivan did behind me back to my face that he, my new papa, believed he could do it much better than the warlord’s lieutenant. I pushed back with my bottom, cried out in discomfort as I felt my anus prepared for the warlord’s cock.
I want to do it for Papa Georg, a wayward thought said.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Ivan said something in Russian. Papa Nicolai responded with a laugh.
Papa Georg snorted. Still not taking his eyes from me, he said in English, “You don’t understand, Ivan. If you want one of these whores to give the pleasure she can give, you have to praise her, the way you would praise your dog.”
I gasped, and cried out, because at the same time Papa Georg said dog, Ivan pressed two fingers deep inside my bottom.
“Remember,” Papa Georg said, in the voice—the real one that controlled me beyond will and even beyond any need I could ever admit, “don’t come, little whore.”
Oh, my God… Did he know? Did he understand? My body, on the very edge, about to betray itself completely, froze in place, and I gave a gasping sob. My breaths heaved in and out of my chest, my mouth wide open. My tongue felt around my lips, sensing that difference, the slight numbing and the filthy, naughty, used sensation that my mouth always got after a daddy had enjoyed me properly there.
That too would have made me come if Papa Georg hadn’t saved me with his instruction. I looked up at him, searching his icy gaze, trying to figure out if he had meant to help or had given me the command merely in the name of heightening his own pleasure by taking mine away.
I saw only coldness, only dominance and arrogant contentment, and then I felt the head of Papa Nicolai’s cock press against my smallest place. With a grunt of satisfaction, he began to invade my bottom, and I cried out in discomfort. The expression of helpless, degraded submission that I beamed into Papa Georg’s face only made him speed up the rhythm of his hand on his own cock.
Despite my fear and despite the terrible stretching of my anus on the thick, hard penis, I put out my tongue and opened my mouth. My Lumberjack daddies had taught me that, and it had become a reflex: when a daddy got ready to give you his seed that way, you showed how badly you wanted daddy’s special gift in your tummy. A reflex, but I would never have done it for Papa Nicolai. I did it because of the strange, powerful effect Papa Georg had on me: the need below my awareness, the need to submit to a daddy who could discipline me with a firm hand and take care of me with a full heart.
In his eyes I could suddenly see a moment of hesitation, and I felt my face grow hot even as I let out a moaning whimper at Papa Nicolai’s beginning to fuck my bottom in earnest. I knew what the hesitation meant: Papa Georg was deciding whether to blow his load on my face, as he had said he would, or in my mouth, as my tongue and my wide open lips begged him to do.
I saw Briana realize, with a deep blush, that despite her ready mouth, I might still come not there but on her pretty face. I knew she had seen my moment of decision, and I hoped she had taken a little comfort from it. Maybe she could see that like a true daddy, the kind who cared about their bad girl, I liked to give treats when she asked for them nicely.
And Briana, so incredibly hot with that submissive pout on her face and the tears in the corners of her eyes from the discomfort of Garonov’s cock invading her anally, had definitely asked nicely for me to come in her mouth.
The moment when I had to decide where to shoot my load, and Briana saw me making up my mind, might tell her also that I felt it too: whatever they called the thing where you suddenly felt like another person simply fit together with you. I had read it in her face, and I had known—as illogical as it seemed—that she wanted my cock in her little bottom rather than Garonov’s.
I had thought wildly then of simply picking her up and running out the door. I might even have made it outside onto the tundra. Spec ops would have picked up the strange motion from my transponder and Briana’s sensor; if the weather cooperated they could have extracted us within an hour.
Utterly dooming the mission she and I shared without her knowing it, of taking out Garonov and saving countless lives in the countries still desperately trying to remain civilized in Northern Eurasia.
I didn’t think there was any way I could even actually tell her I was an undercover agent, at least in the next few hours—or more probably days.
I would get a rescue op going, when I went off duty from Garonov’s guard detail. One that didn’t jeopardize either of our missions. That op would take time to plan, though, I knew. In the meantime, I simply couldn’t risk Briana knowing; I had to hope she would see me as another henchman—one who unaccountably knew how to use the voice of authority.
That intricate calculation flashed through my mind in a microsecond, and it didn’t stand in the way of my arousal in the slightest. Nothing could do that. The sight in front of me aroused me too powerfully; the alpha rage that boiled in my chest at the brutal way Garonov fucked Briana’s ass… at the idiotic grin on Ivan’s face as he watched… they made my dirtiest daddy instincts kick in.
I took Briana’s head in my right hand as my left flashed faster and faster on my cock.
“Not in your mouth, sweetheart,” I told her in a growl. She gasped again at the word sweetheart, and again I felt that tug of affection, the instinctive liking I had for this bad girl, enhanced by the intuitive knowledge that she shared the feeling. “On your face, just like I said.”
The circumstances demanded that I keep the degrading promise, and I felt no compunction about it: I like the way a naughty girl looks with semen all over her forehead, her cheeks, her chin. I saw in Briana’s eyes that she understood, and in her red cheeks that she appreciated, the special effect that a facial from a daddy has.
That sight, and the thought of what she would look like, with my cum besmirching her pretty features and Garonov’s cock still pounding her poor little bottom, drove me over the edge into orgasm at last.
I grunted as the seed shot out, a jet of white onto the bridge of Briana’s nose, another onto her cheek. The pleasure coursed through my veins. In my peripheral vision I saw Garonov witness the humiliating moment, and then I heard him give a cry as his own climax came on.
Briana sobbed, her body tensing hard between her two new, rough daddies. I had known that the voice of authority could keep her from climaxing, but they hadn’t told me how unbelievably sexy the effect would be: watching the arousal, the unreleased need, rise and rise in her body made me wonder how the Lumberjacks got any work done when they could fuck Briana Tragner whenever they wanted.
Papa Georg’s seed felt hot on my nose and my cheek. I closed my eyes, but my body still obeyed his instructions: I had to open them again, and look at him. I whimpered at the strange conflict inside my mind, my heart, my body; familiar now from my service to my other daddies but also very different here with this new one.
The thing my Advanced Guidance daddies had told me, that the voice of authority couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t really, subconsciously want to do, never left my mind. If my daddies hadn’t informed me of the fact, in so many words, I would have figured it out, because of the way it felt when I looked into Papa Georg’s face and saw his satisfaction with the pleasure he had taken in my body… on my body.
My blush got even hotter, and part of me—even after all this time as a bad girl and a sexual servant—said no, you’re not a dirty little whore who gets facials and takes big cocks in your ass. But at the very same time a shudder of wanton need gripped me there, kneeling on the metal chair. It made me push out my backside so that I could show Papa Georg how good a girl I could be when a man fucked my bottom, how much I deserved a reward for letting my new papa do such a terrible thing.
I felt Papa Nicolai’s seed shooting into me and I tried to work my bottom to open it further, to ease the discomfort and to make him finish quicker. He kept his hands on my hips, though, and held himself in very deep, even as I felt his hardness begin to grow softer.
“Do you want to see this slut come?” Papa Georg asked, his eyes still locked on mine.
I swallowed hard. I tried desperately to figure out what I should do, to preserve the idea that the warlord had acquired an unwilling but obedient bed girl. All my instincts told me that I needed to make Papa Nicolai think he had in me an unlimited source of reluctantly submissive pleasure. It would involve abject humiliation and almost certainly pain as well, but the illusion had to be maintained.
The role of Papa Georg represented a wildcard, though, and I couldn’t seem to think it through in a coherent way. Did he know that his was the only voice of authority that actually worked on me? Surely the command not to come—I could hear it in my head, over and over, low and tender despite the coarse words… Remember, don’t come now, little whore—meant that he did know, and he meant to spare me the danger of giving myself away?
“I promise you it will be worth watching,” he said. Then, in the voice, “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”
Oh, my God… maybe he was on my side? The experience of the darkness on the inside of my eyelids seemed a relief so great that I let out a sob from deep in my chest.
“Put your hand between your legs,” said Papa Georg’s voice, in the low, commanding register. I did it instantly, thrust my right hand down there. “Play with your clit.”
“Nyet,” said Papa Nicolai, before I could start. I stopped, and only then did I realize that Papa Georg hadn’t used the voice of authority for the final command. Papa Nicolai continued, very slowly, in English. “I want to look in her eyes.”
Papa Georg chuckled. I whimpered as the warlord pulled his cock from my anus.
Papa Georg said in the voice, “Open them, Briana. You may come now.”
“Not until I say so,” added Papa Nicolai as I obeyed Papa Georg and lifted my gaze to see the warlord moving around to my front, his softening cock still looking terribly thick to me. The sight brought another little noise from my throat as I felt how sore he had left my bottom with his brutal fucking.
He had spoken in his version of the voice: I had to control myself as best I could.
“Ivan,” he said, “spank this whore so she pays for her pleasure.”
Oh, no. All the many, many feelings my daddies had instilled in me about my punishments seemed to flood into my heart. I looked up into Papa Nicolai’s face with desperately pleading eyes. It wasn’t like Ivan would be the first man to spank me, but the experience had such an intimacy about it for me that my heart and mind screamed, Papa Georg! Not Ivan… Papa Georg!
But Ivan had already put one hand on my back, and I felt the rush of air as his other one came down. I heard the spank, and felt the burn on my right cheek and then another one, quickly, on my left.
My body shuddered as the familiar need that this kind of bad girl discipline always brought out in me. I cried out, my forehead creasing as I looked into the warlord’s cold eyes.
“Now,” Papa Nicolai said, in what he though was the voice of authority, “play with that tight little cunt.”
I still had my hand between my thighs, though my fingers hovered a millimeter away from the tingling, warm, bare skin of my pussy. I had learned how to keep them there way back in bad girl prison, when my daddies had started giving me the command to put my hand between my legs but not to touch myself. To have them there, so close, while Ivan spanked me, almost made me feel nostalgic for those days of my earliest training—but of course in bad girl prison I hadn’t felt myself in mortal peril.
The eyes I had looked into had belonged to one of the men who I knew—despite all my defiance—had the intention of making me better. They hadn’t gazed coldly and possessively out of the face of an unsmiling international criminal who probably delayed my execution once a minute or so, just to see if my pussy, ass, and mouth might continue to give him more pleasure than those of some other, less dangerous to keep around bed girl.
I looked up into Papa Nicolai’s face, tears forming in the corners of my eyes at the hard, rhythmic slaps that alternated between right and left cheeks. Each one brought a little whimper through my nose. I pretended that the command to play with my pussy had come from Papa Georg.
The order to masturbate… that instruction brought me back even more urgently to my real daddies. I hadn’t ever done it before bad girl prison. It still made me blush. I touched my clit, and I gave a gasping cry as the heat rushed into my cheeks as much as into my pussy. The arousal had subsided just a little since I had come with Papa Georg’s cock in my mouth and Papa Nicolai’s hardness hitting my g-spot, and then Papa Georg’s command not to come had kept me suspended over the gulf of pleasure. I felt the burning heat of Ivan’s spanks, how they moved my little cheeks and brought out the soreness of my tiny hole, too… how they made the dirtiness of having a man’s semen trickling from my anus seem all the naughtier…
I’m getting spanked because I took all their cocks… I got fucked like a bad girl… and now I’m…
The need surged like a raging fire, overwhelming every part of my body. Suddenly the fear Papa Nicolai inspired became part of my fantasy: he would do whatever he wanted with me… he knew how well trained a whore my daddies had made me… he meant to use me more thoroughly than I had ever been used…
I screamed, and I kept screaming, because the pleasure forced the sound from me. My left hand on the back of the metal chair clamped so hard I thought I would bend the steel. I kept looking into Papa Nicolai’s eyes, and to my surprise I saw them crinkle with a smile—not a nice smile, not like Papa Georg’s, let alone the kind ones a daddy like Daddy Omar gave me.
I kept rubbing my clit… I moved my fingers down and put them inside me… I returned to my clit. My hips bucked over and over… my bottom squirmed ceaselessly. I came again… and again…
Ivan had paused in his spanking, as if taken aback. Papa Nicolai said sharply in English, “Keep punishing her. She needs it.”