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“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.”
Oh, God… He was a cruel man, but he had a basic understanding of what it meant to be a dominant, didn’t he? I cried out as Ivan renewed my punishment.
“I told you,” Papa Georg said.
Papa Nicolai nodded, and then, abruptly, his eyes narrowed. “That’s enough,” he said, in what he thought was the voice, “stop, whore.”
With a theatrical sob, I obeyed, lifting my hand from my pussy and furrowing my brow to show my desperate need for more.
The warlord spoke to Papa Georg in Russian. He started to pull up his pants. I couldn’t remember if I still had to look at Papa Nicolai, so I turned my face to follow him as he moved toward the door. Glancing back at me, he saw me looking, and said, in English but without using his voice of authority, “Eyes down, whore, and keep them there. You don’t look anyone in the face unless you’re told to. Ivan and Georg will take you to your cell now. I’ll see you later.”
