Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 66851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“May I hold Marianne’s hands while Daddy Jacob whips her?” she asked in a small, pleading voice.
I had a tiny, lingering moment of taboo curiosity, wondering whether in fact Ashley had asked to hold my hands so as to keep herself out of danger of putting her own down between her legs in a moment of weakness, as I paid the horrible price of my misconduct. Then the tears welled up, joining the wetness on my cheekbones and spilling onto the fake leather upholstery of the table.
“Yes, honey,” Daddy Jacob said, his voice seeming to soften a little. “You go ahead and do that.”
Ashley stepped forward and reached out. My daddies had cuffed my wrists to the legs of the table, so she spread her arms a bit as she took them in her own. I looked up into her face, past her ample breasts, bra-less in her nightshirt. To my dismay, despite the fear coursing through my system I felt the need blossom even further between my legs: I didn’t want Ashley just to hold my hands. I wanted her to take off her nightshirt so that I could see her gorgeous breasts, and bury my face in them, kissing and kissing to make her feel good in exchange for her sympathy—or even for her own helpless arousal at the sight of me about to be terribly punished.
“Just look at me,” she said softly. “It will be over soon.”
“Oh, God,” I sobbed, and then I felt Daddy Jacob’s left hand on my back, and I gave a cry of fear because I knew it meant the belt would follow, much too soon.
It did. The leather cracked against my bottom, much harder than any punishment my daddies had given me before. My body bucked as the first tendrils of pain radiated out, and then Daddy Jacob struck again, and again, and again.
I started to scream, and my limbs writhed against the webbing straps. I tried for a moment, as I looked wildly into Ashley’s face, to keep myself still so I could show my daddies that I knew I had done a stupid, dangerous, bad thing, and I knew I needed to be whipped for it.
I couldn’t do it. My body tried all on its own, and utterly in vain, to twist out of the restraints, and I felt Daddy Jacob’s hand on my back press harder to make sure I couldn’t interfere with the belt’s fiery lesson.
I didn’t have any idea how long it took for the struggle to go out of my body, but Daddy Jacob kept whipping me even after that, which he had never done before. I had closed my eyes, but I felt like Ashley’s grip on my hands told me she was still gazing into my face, offering comfort. I could somehow feel that consolation even in the terrible, painful darkness.
Daddy Jacob whipped my bottom, and he whipped my thighs. My screams rang out in the break room, and despite my eyes being shut, I could see, in my mind’s eye, from off in a distant place, my bear daddy delivering his justice, teaching me to be a good girl, and Ashley holding my hands, and the other daddies looking on in grim satisfaction at the comeuppance I had earned.
My backside had become a single mass of burning pain. I felt like I would never be able to walk again, let alone sit down. I lost track of time, of the number of lashes my daddy gave me, of everything.
When Daddy Jacob finally stopped and laid the coiled belt atop my back and said, “We’re done, honey. You’ll stay here for half an hour to think about your lesson,” I just closed my eyes even more tightly. I felt the tears well out of them and join the pool I had made on the table, and I pressed my face into them as if to rub my own nose in my misdeed.
They all left. Ashley kissed me on the cheek before she went.
It took a long time for the pain in my bottom and thighs to let me do anything but cry, and I didn’t regain any sense of time, so when my thoughts receded from the agony a bit and turned to the terrible shame of my punishment, the observing part of my mind took a while to notice.
My daddy whipped me in front of my friend… in front of his friends and colleagues. He whipped me and whipped me and whipped me, because I was a bad girl.
The watching part of me finally started to pay attention. As it did, and something like regular thinking began to return to my head, I also realized that these new thoughts, together with the slight lessening of the agony into a terrible, deep soreness, had bit by bit started to affect me further forward. A different heat, a needy warmth, had sprung up contrary to every expectation, where I had thought a few minutes before I would never feel arousal again—and above all not the kind of arousal that made me long for my daddies’ rigorous sexual use of me.