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CHAPTER12
Briana
Ivan unlocked the handcuffs, then with a rough grip on my shoulder he stood me up. Papa Georg took a step back, and an irrational wave of anxiety swept over me, that he would simply leave me to Ivan. But when I had gotten to my feet I turned to see him right there, only a few feet away, looking intently back at me as Ivan pulled my wrists behind me and fastened one of the pairs of handcuffs around them again, behind my back.
His blue eyes seemed as cold as ice, but I knew somehow that the chill there had Ivan as its direction. Maybe I imagined it, or maybe it came through some chemical telepathy rather than from the muscles of his cheeks the way it seemed, but I saw in Papa Georg’s handsome face the renewal of his promise to take care of me.
Not just the renewal, either—that sounded weak as the idea came into my mind. More like the affirmation, and even the strengthening. In the urgent attention with which his eyes seemed to study mine I found a pledge to protect me that steadied my trembling limbs despite the fear Ivan had induced in my mind and my body.
The insecure lieutenant clearly meant to scare me, for he jerked me toward the door with a much more violent movement than necessary. Ivan seemed to want to make me pay the price for my time with Papa Georg with the door closed.
Outside, three more men, all dressed in the dark suits Papa Nicolai apparently favored for his minions, watched me emerge from the cell. The leers on all their faces told me they had heard about the gangbang their boss had planned—and that they had every hope of taking part.
I felt my face work with alarm and shame. For a moment I had forgotten my near nudity and my only garment being a diaper—one I had been made to wet in the extremity of my need to relieve myself. The faces of Papa Nicolai’s guards brought awareness crashing back.
“You ready, whore?” one of the men demanded. “You ready for this?” He gestured toward his crotch.
I knew—in the best, most intelligent part of my brain, I knew for certain—that I should just shut up and let Ivan force me further toward wherever Papa Nicolai had chosen for my humiliation and sexual use. But my bad girl nature rose in my chest like a physical force.
Partly the defiance that surged in me came from sheer survival instinct. On the streets of Hoboken I had made good use of bravura—both to fend off aggressors and even, on occasion, to attract them. Despite my time and my training with my Advanced Guidance daddies and my Lumberjacks, those instincts didn’t lie buried very deeply at all.
Another part of my response came from that other bad girl trait, the one that made me so good at what my daddies had taught me. Despite all my soft, fuzzy feelings toward them, and toward Papa Georg above all right now, my dark sexual needs—my make me needs, as my daddies called them sometimes—always kicked in when some asshole pointed to his crotch.
“I don’t see anything,” I said with a sneer.
That brought a snarl from the pointer and a laugh from all the others. The pointer said something to Ivan in Russian, and Ivan laughed. Suddenly, before I could even figure out what was going on, I found myself on my knees on the cold concrete floor of the hallway. The feeling of unbalance that came from having my hands cuffed behind me brought panic rising from my belly into my throat. Worse, Ivan had the back of my head in his hand, fingers twisted in my hair so that I could see only the lap of the black pants of the man who had asked if I was ready.
His hands began to unbuckle his belt. Those hands seemed enormous to me. My heart fluttered, and despite myself—for I didn’t want to show Ivan and this crotch-pointing asshole that I had any special attachment to Papa Georg—I tried to turn my face to look back at the man who had promised to take care of me.
Ivan twisted my head in the other direction. Again, my cuffed hands made me feel like I would fall down, and I had to suppress another wave of alarm. I hoped desperately that Ivan had interpreted my movement toward Papa Georg as a simple attempt to avoid seeing the huge, hard cock that rose suddenly before my eyes, to the laughing applause of the other two guards.
“Vassily!” one of them shouted, in a half-encouraging, half-mocking tone, and then something in Russian that sounded like it must mean, “Good God, that’s a monster.”
I heard Papa Georg say, “Don’t make us whip you again, Briana.” His voice sounded just as cold as his eyes had looked. I knew he had no choice but to speak that way, but the sound still made me whimper in fear.
Then he put his hand on my shoulder, gripping me firmly—clearly to show Ivan that he meant to go along with the little scene Vassily had demanded. But my papa’s hand felt warm on my skin, and again I had the impression that some extrasensory shit had started to take place between us.
Or, I mean, I imagined it all. I know that’s what actually happened, because science, but I knew then that I wasn’t imagining it. I felt my papa telling me through the warmth of his fingers on my shoulder, despite the tightness of the grip that made my whimper become a cry of discomfort, that he would make sure I stayed safe.
Vassily spoke in Russian. Ivan replied.
Papa Georg said, “Give it a try.” He seemed to have a laugh in his voice, as if he intended to make fun of Vassily, maybe.
Vassily spoke in his terrible English, and he made his voice lower—maybe a whole fourth or fifth or whatever. My educational facility had had a music program, thanks to the generosity of the Selecta Foundation for Arts Education, but all I could remember was that the higher the numbers got, the further away the pitch was.
Even if Selecta had programmed me to respond to this asshole’s voice as the voice of authority, it wouldn’t have hit the correct pitch; my experience with my daddies, including Papa Georg most of all, had honed my hearing enough to tell.
“Suck it, whore,” he said.
I had no idea why I looked up from his cock into his face and said, “Suck it yourself.”
His blue eyes—a shade darker than Papa Georg’s but also, I thought in the strange stillness of that moment when the Russians were clearly all working out what I had said, somehow icier—went wide. Then, as his colleagues laughed, he slapped me, very hard across the face.
I cried out, tears seeming to jump from my eyes. Down below, though… my needs, my sheer badness, it felt like… to my horror, I felt my pussy clench. Papa Georg had made me come only a few minutes before, but something about this horrible place—no, about my new papa’s promise to me, and the way he had already delivered on that promise—made even that blow from Vassily, the asshole crotch-pointer, arousing.
Ivan spoke to Vassily in a tone so superior I could understand his meaning easily: You did it wrong, moron. Then, as I felt Papa Georg’s hand on my shoulder tighten its grip a little, as if to warn me to concentrate on what I did next, Ivan said in his version of the voice of authority, “Suck that big cock, whore.”
I needed the concentration my papa’s fingers urged on me. I had to force myself to remember that Ivan’s commands, when delivered at that pitch, had to seem to work on me. I let out a theatrical whimper of shame. I only had to turn it up a notch or two, because I really did feel my cheeks blaze with the humiliation of having to suck Vassily’s hard penis after he had slapped me for talking back.
I opened my mouth and put out my tongue. I lowered my eyes to the rigid manhood in front of me. With his hand on the back of my head, Ivan pushed my face forward. The other two guards let out whistles of admiration, clearly surprised to see what they thought must be the effect of the voice of authority—which of course Ivan himself must have told them about.
