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CHAPTER1
Briana
“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.
