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CHAPTER8
Briana
Papa Georg and Ivan walked me down a long hall. The place wasn’t a dungeon or anything, which the word cell had me think of, just the same nondescript office park—or, more probably, military bunker—style room, but much smaller. As far as I could tell, wherever the warlord had brought me had nothing special about it—a bunch of hallways with concrete floors, metal doors, and rooms of varying sizes. I kind of felt like we must be underground, but that sense could have come from having spent so long in my Lumberjack daddies’ own bunker, which felt like a slightly nicer version of Papa Nicolai’s.
Also, I had gotten used to thinking of warlords like him as belonging to the Russian underground, so maybe that idea influenced my thinking—as well as my knowledge that the push from spec ops forces like the Lumberjacks had driven these private armies further underground than they had already been, pretty literally. From what I could gather as I had filed my daddies’ reports, Papa Nicolai and his ilk had started to leave their beautiful dachas and take refuge below the surface of the earth to seek security and escape detection.
I had walked in silence, my teeth slightly gritted at the soreness between my thighs and in my ass from the warlord’s brutal fucking. One thing bad girl prison will definitely get a young woman used to is walking around naked with clothed men. The temperature in Papa Nicolai’s bunker—I just decided to call it that, since I didn’t have any better information—came a little short of where my daddies kept it, but it didn’t stiffen my nipples or anything.
Nor did I have any trouble keeping quiet as Ivan said degrading thing after degrading thing about my ass and my pussy and my tits—he clearly felt the need to practice his English, and took considerable pride in knowing so many dirty words. I hadn’t gotten anything quite so crass and lewd either from my Advanced Guidance daddies or from my Lumberjacks, but as far as I could tell, all daddies liked to talk dirty. Though Ivan’s commentary on how he had enjoyed seeing his boss’ cock deep in my ass left me cold, I couldn’t deny that it made my nipples tingle when Papa Georg, who had remained silent until we reached the cell, took a turn.
He put a hand on my ass as he redirected me toward the door that Ivan had opened, and he said, “I know your little cunt and bottom are sore, sweetheart. We’re going to give you some time to rest before Papa Nicolai uses you again.”
Maybe the little room with a cot and a bucket had served as a medical exam room at some point, or maybe as a broom closet. Like the rest of the place it had nothing special about it—except, I noticed, that someone had attached a pair of handcuffs to each side of the metal frame of the cot.
Ivan said something sharp and—I could tell just from the tone—unpleasant in Russian. Papa Georg answered, and I heard the word nyet, but I couldn’t make out anything else. Then Ivan grabbed me roughly by the elbow and shoved me toward the cot, stepping into the little room close behind me and putting his hand on my ass to push me further.
Papa Georg spoke sharply, and now I thought I could figure out what their disagreement involved. Though he clearly stood lower on Papa Nicolai’s chain of command, Papa Georg took serious exception to Ivan’s intentions for me.
If I hadn’t guessed them immediately, those intentions would have become instantly clear anyway, because Ivan followed up his shoving with out-and-out manhandling. With one hand on my backside and the other on my neck, he bent me down over the cot. The hand on my butt moved around me and grabbed my wrist.
I cried out in alarm at the effortless strength in his aggression. I could remember my daddies in Advanced Guidance treating me this way, but only after I had rebelled somehow. From what I learned during my time there, I knew now that they had used force on me in a very precise fashion, and only at times when my body had gotten ready for it in some way. With their skill—and on the similar occasions when my Lumberjack daddies had punished me, they had shown the same kind of expertise—my real daddies had protected me even as they made me feel my helplessness.
Ivan’s grasp on my neck and my wrist, the sudden violence of his movement, could not have differed more. I cried out, and I struggled without even thinking about it. My old bad girl instincts took over, and I cried out, my limbs flailing uselessly against the henchman’s casual brutality.
“Oh, my God,” I screamed. “Fuck you!”
Ivan had my wrist down by the handcuffs on the right side of the cot, but he obviously couldn’t get my hand through the metal circle with just his right hand, and he had to use his left to control the rest of my body with his grip on my neck.
“Calm down, Briana,” I heard Papa Georg say, from behind Ivan. He had used the voice of authority; my body seemed to hear it before my mind did, and I ceased to struggle instantly.
I knew then that Papa Georg’s ability to use the voice couldn’t just represent a coincidence, because calm down was the phrase my Advanced Guidance daddies had relied on from the very beginning of my training—both to teach me about what the voice could do and to reestablish a baseline physical state when I had started to lash out as a result of getting overwhelmed by sensations, emotions, and thoughts.
Calm down didn’t just mean that I stopped resisting: it meant something special about my relationship with the daddy who spoke the words. Its power came, my daddies had taught me, from my need—body and soul—for a firm-handed daddy to take care of me.
I don’t know what would have happened if Papa Nicolai or Ivan himself had somehow had the ability to use the real voice of authority. I doubt the question has any meaning, because as far as I could tell the whole thing depended on the man using the voice actually inspiring trust: Papa Georg, despite the terrifying circumstances, had done that.
He had convinced me that whatever his outward presentation as the minion of an evil warlord, he was a firm-handed daddy who intended to take care of me. So calm down worked for him, even with Ivan bending me over a cot and getting ready to handcuff me to it so that, undoubtedly, he could rape me. Because Papa Georg had told me to calm down, I remained bent, and I let Ivan put my hand through the cuff and tighten the metal ring around my wrist.
“That’s right, bitch,” Ivan said in his weak imitation of the voice. “Calm down.” Even if Selecta had programmed me to respond to him, I suddenly realized I wouldn’t have had to—he wasn’t like Papa Georg, or even like Papa Nicolai. There was a very good reason I just couldn’t think of him as having Papa before his name, let alone Daddy. “I’m just going to fuck you like Papa Nicolai did. You can take it like a good girl. Then we’ll leave you here and let you think about being a good little whore and not trying to get in the way when we feel like fucking a tight cunt and a pretty asshole. Then we’ll come back and do it again to make sure you understand.”
I could hear the rage in his voice, and I thought I could hear the fear that it came from—of his warlord boss and, maybe even more of Papa Georg. In the degrading words I detected defiance of the other man, who must have risen quickly in whatever fucked-up organization these gangsters had, though he was obviously still subordinate to Ivan.
Who is he? Why can he use the voice? Double agent? Triple agent? My mind spun wildly even as fear churned in my stomach despite the command to calm that nevertheless prevailed in the rest my body. Somewhere deep in my psyche, despite the fear that Ivan would carry out his threat, I knew that Papa Georg would take care of me.
He did. He spoke in a calm voice, in English.
“You want to give her an infection in that tight little cunt, Ivan? You think Nicolai will like that? Having to call a doctor or have her die from a fever? The whore needs to rest and wash up. She’s valuable—at least until Nicolai gets tired of her. He didn’t seem to me to be getting tired of her just now, did he?”
Ivan kept holding me bent over the cot, but I heard him snarl an answer in Russian to Papa Georg.
The other man replied, his voice sounding dismissive. I could hear in the tone that either Papa Georg really had no fear of Ivan, or he had gotten very good at pretending he didn’t.
“Lie down on the bed,” Ivan said in his version of the voice of authority. “I’m going to whip you, slut, for fighting me. Then Papa Georg will wash you, since he cares so much about that.”
I felt my forehead furrow very hard. I realized what must have happened—Papa Georg must have said that it made no difference to him whether Ivan whipped me instead of fucking me. My stomach lurched with a feeling of betrayal, but my mind fought it off. I clung to the idea that my new papa had done that because he had no choice: he had saved me from getting raped by Ivan, but he couldn’t save me from this whipping.
But I’d been wrong. Papa Georg spoke again, his voice just as flat and dismissive. Did he really feel that way, or did he feel the need to cover over his actual emotions? Desperation to know built in my chest like a rising stream. He asked Ivan a question. Ivan didn’t answer.
“Whore,” Papa Georg said in English. “Papa Ivan is going to watch me whip you. As you may have guessed, I have a good deal of experience teaching sluts their lessons. Papa Ivan will whip you next time. Lie down on the bed and put your left hand out so Papa Ivan can cuff you there too.”
My whole body shuddered. He hadn’t spoken in the voice, and I knew why. He wanted to show Ivan that when a daddy treated me with skill, he didn’t need the voice. I would do what the daddy said because I knew I had no choice—and because my bad girl needs demanded it. The lesson could only be lost on this cruel, unintelligent henchman, I felt certain, but it wouldn’t be lost on me. I clambered onto the cot, my head bowed low, my movements very awkward because of the wrist Ivan had already secured to the metal frame.
The thin mattress had no sheet; its rough ticking felt scratchy on my skin. I thanked God that it seemed new and clean. With my lower lip between my teeth I lay down on my belly and put my left wrist out against the cold black metal. Ivan grabbed my hand roughly and shoved it through the cuff, then tightened the steel ring on my wrist.
“You’re going to get used to lying like that,” Papa Georg said from above me in a cold voice. “When Papa Nicolai gives you to his men, you’ll get it like that all night.”
He said something in Russian as Ivan stood up. I had my face turned to the right, my cheek against the mattress, so I saw Ivan stoop and reach under me to bring out a towel. Confusion boiled in my mind as he folded and then rolled it, looking into my eyes with a narrowed gaze and a forced sneer on his lips.
“Lift your ass, whore,” he told me in English—not using even his bad imitation of the voice, as if wanting to see what Papa Georg had done would work for him.
My face burning, I obeyed, and Ivan slid the folded and rolled towel under my hips.
“There we go,” Papa Georg said as I lowered myself again, my blush only getting hotter as I felt how the makeshift bolster lifted my backside for my naughty girl lesson. “Now watch, Ivan.”
