“I don’t want it to hurt,” I whined.
“I know you don’t.”
“Can’t you just?—”
“No.”
I exhaled. The sound was more defeated than I intended.
Slowly, I reached for his hand. His fingers closed around mine and he guided me gently but without any negotiation, pulling me forward until my knees bumped the edge of the couch cushion. He reached for the zipper at the back of my dress, sliding it down with an unhurried ease that made my breath catch, and then he drew the fabric carefully off my shoulders.
“Hands on your head,” he said.
I laced my fingers together at the back of my skull and stared at the wall as he reached behind me and unclasped my bra. He drew the straps down my arms without ceremony, his touch entirely matter of fact even as my face burned. When his thumbs hooked into the waistband of my panties, I made a small and very undignified sound.
“Daddy—”
“You know the rules,” he said simply.
He drew them down slowly, stopping to study them, and I knew before he said anything what observation was coming.
“Look at the wet spot you’ve left for me, naughty girl,” he murmured, and his tone was so precisely measured between scolding and satisfaction that I wanted to disappear through the floor. He folded my underwear and set it deliberately on the arm of the couch where I would have to look at it. My inner thighs were slick. The air in the room was warm and still and I was completely bare, trembling slightly, and furious at myself for getting myself into this situation in the first place.
“Place your hand in mine,” he said.
This was always the moment. The one where my feet wanted to carry me in the opposite direction and my hand moved toward him anyway. I always wanted to run, but I always ended up bare and over his knee anyway.
His grip was firm and steady as he drew me over his lap. He arranged me with my hips high, my bottom positioned exactly where he wanted it, one arm caught lightly behind my back and held there. I pressed my free hand against the couch cushion and stared at the fabric.
For a long moment, he simply rested his palm on the curve of my bare bottom. It was warm. Heavy. Patient. Far too big for my little bottom.
“You gave me your word tonight,” he scolded me.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, finally starting to feel guilty for the first time.
“When you give me your word, what does that mean?”
I swallowed. “It means I keep it.”
“And when you don’t?”
My pussy clenched hard and I hated myself for it. “It means I’ve been naughty and… and you spank me very hard.”
My voice got a little smaller with every word.
“That’s right, little girl.” His palm lifted. “Daddy’s going to make sure you remember what your word is worth.”
The first spank cracked across my left cheek, and I gasped at the sound of it even before the sting fully registered. It was sharp and loud and shocking in the quiet room. The second landed on the right side. He built a rhythm quickly, his hand finding thesame spots again and again with a methodical precision, leaving no part of my bottom untouched. I breathed through the first dozen spanks with my teeth clenched and my pride wrapped firmly around me like armor.
Then he moved to the lower curve of my bottom.
“Oh—” I bit back the rest of the sound.
“You’re going to stay still for me,” he said, continuing steadily.
“I’m trying,” I gritted out.
“Try harder, little girl.”
