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His lame attempt,I thought to myself with an inward sneer, even as I transformed my features from the skeptical expression to a well-practiced pout of grateful submission. I parted my lips as if my panting need to serve this handsome henchman could not be denied any longer. I gazed up at him, widening my eyes and crinkling my brow to suggest that if he would only pull his cock out of his pants and shove it into my mouth, I would know joy such as had never before fallen to my lot.
It took the goon by surprise. His own eyes widened, and I thought I could tell that despite his handsomeness and his evident effort to maintain a suave manner in front of his crime-lord boss he didn’t have a lot of sexual experience. His face told me that he certainly hadn’t received a lot of oral, and he certainly hadn’t had a girl on her knees in front of him, her eyes begging him to thrust himself deep inside her waiting, open mouth.
You don’t have to do it exactly right,I told myself as I felt my heart start to race. They don’t know how it works, so they’ll accept whatever you do as coming from the voice, as long as you obey in some way.
The thought reassured me. I didn’t think I could possibly imitate the effect of all the different emotions, urges, and thoughts that roared and roiled in my mind when one of my daddies used the voice of authority on me. Some of it always felt voluntary—that represented the true key to the subroutine my Advanced Guidance daddies had installed in my brain.
A man whose voice, in that lower register, I had been programmed to obey, could only command me to do what my subconscious mind already wanted to do. Subroutine and program were the words my senior daddy had used to explain it to me, anyway, after he had told me to bend over a bench and spread my bottom-cheeks for a punishment plug.
On the other hand I had once heard one of the doctors get mad about it and say that they shouldn’t mix up people and computers that way. One of the daddies had asked the doctor how they should explain it, then, and the doctor had said something like, “Biometrically calibrated preconscious psychosexual suggestion,” which had made the daddy laugh.
It didn’t feel like a program, though. I couldn’t deny that it felt, well, a lot less straightforward than I imagined a robot felt. I mean, a robot doesn’t feel—doesn’t feel anything at all, and that probably makes for the most important difference. A robot couldn’t feel the feverish welter of emotion and sensation that took hold of me when a huge, gorgeous man took out his cock and told me to kneel and present my anus for plugging—or for a hard fucking I knew would leave me walking with gingerly steps for the next two days. And when a daddy I had been programmed to obey gave the instruction in the voice of authority, that mixture inside my head only got more confusing.
But the Russians didn’t need me to imitate the strange, halting way I always obeyed, as my body and my brain found their way to the forbidden pleasure of submission, to my dark need for the discipline of a strong, firm-handed daddy. They had no idea what I really looked like when I opened my mouth for Daddy John, Daddy Trevor, or Daddy Omar—my Lumberjacks.
I swallowed hard, and a tear actually welled up as I thought of them, wondering what had happened—whether the Russians had killed them when they kidnapped me, or if they were alive and wondering who had stolen their bad girl.
“Oh, look,” said the warlord. “The little whore is sad because she has to suck your cock, Ivan.”
I kept my eyes on Ivan’s face. I bit back the words that had risen in my mind, and let them sound there and there alone.
My Lumberjacks are going to come for me, asshole. And they are going to be very, very angry.
