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He was a daddy… a papa. Surely he would get up on the cot and rip the diaper open and plunge his huge, hard penis into my pussy. Daddies knew when to do that—though of course, when a bad girl had misbehaved it might be delayed to teach her a lesson.
But I had been so good for Papa Georg. Didn’t I deserve a fucking? My bottom squirmed under his soft grip as I felt myself wetting the diaper a different sort of embarrassing way from how I had before.
He leaned down to put his mouth against my ear. I thought he would say something like, Papa’s going to fuck you so hard now.
Instead I heard, in the voice of authority, deep and calm, “Don’t make a sound. They’re watching, so Papa can’t use you the way he wants. But Papa can make you come if you can keep quiet.”
I felt my eyes go very wide. Part of me wanted to say, No… even with the voice… I don’t think I can, Papa. I’m scared.
But Papa Georg moved his hand further down, between my legs, so that he had my pussy in his grasp though the diaper’s bulk still lay between his fingers and my clit. His mouth still pressed up against my ear.
At the very same time, he squeezed hard, down there, and he said in my ear:
“Come for Papa, sweetheart. Quiet.”
The orgasm swept through my body. The need to restrain myself extended it and heightened it, to an impossible duration and a nearly unbearable intensity. My limbs quaked and jerked, and my teeth clamped down so hard on the inside of my cheek that I tasted blood.
It went on and on, until I regretted begging for it, since keeping quiet proved such an ordeal. It made me long to snuggle with Papa Georg somewhere very, very far away… on a warm beach, safe in his arms, screaming out my ecstasy for the whole world to hear.
“Good girl,” he murmured, so lovingly into my ear. “Such a good girl for Papa.”
I gave one sob, a noise I knew any observer without access to the data from between my thighs would hear as a sound of need rather than of satisfaction. Really I didn’t even feel satisfied… relieved, maybe—as if I could go on, now… but I wanted my new papa to do so much more.
I understood that the stunning strength of the connection I felt to Papa Georg had a huge amount of illusion and fantasy in it—not to mention a big helping of Stockholm Syndrome. On a certain level I felt how disloyal to my Lumberjack daddies I would probably seem to them. I felt a tiny bit guilty about that, but all my daddies had made it clear that a bad girl could and should give her heart to as many daddies as she felt drawn to.
The way Papa Georg made me feel seemed much more intense than anything I had known before, though. I knew it must mostly have to do with him seeming like the only hope of anything remotely good coming from my kidnapping, but for fuck’s sake, he hadn’t wanted to kidnap me, I felt certain; I had seen that in his eyes the moment I laid eyes on him for the first time in Papa Nicolai’s interrogation room.
No, Papa Georg had stepped in to help me, even if in the end it just meant he would claim me as his own after his warlord boss had given me to the rest of the henchmen. At that moment, as my climax finally began to ebb out of my now relaxed muscles, I didn’t seem even to mind the thought of all of them using me… as long as the only one who punished me remained Papa Georg. Stupid Ivan’s spanking didn’t count: the firm hand here belonged to my new papa—much firmer even than Papa Nicolai’s.
“Good girl,” he murmured a final time. “I know you’re thanking me in your heart—and I’ll let you thank me properly as soon as I can.”
Despite everything, I felt lighthearted for an instant, and I almost giggled at the formality of the words. Daddies liked to say things like that: it was important to thank your daddy whenever he made you feel good in that special, naughty way that only your daddy is allowed to do. I wanted more, of course, but it still felt like one of those moments with my Advanced Guidance daddies and my Lumberjack daddies when I could let my bad girl defiance and even my adulthood slip away and just revel in the sheltering care of the papa who knew how to take care of me.
Then the door opened. From behind me, Ivan said something harsh and accusing in Russian.
Papa Georg got up slowly before he responded. His voice sounded dismissive—maybe of me, as a naughty little whore, or maybe of Ivan’s accusation.
It didn’t satisfy Ivan. He spoke to me, his voice just as angry. “Papa Nicolai wants to see you in your diaper,” he said. “Then we’re going to have a gangbang.”
