His palm cracked down on the same spot twice in quick succession and my hips lurched forward despite every effort to hold still. He held me more firmly, his other arm bracing across my lower back, and I felt the futility of resistance settle over me like a weight. I wasn’t going anywhere. I never did.
“Do you understand why we’re here, little girl?”
“Because I lost my temper,” I managed.
“Because you made a promise and broke it.” He spanked me even harder. It wasn’t vicious, but impossibly firm, and my breath left me in a rush. “Because you decided in the moment that your pride mattered more than your word.”
“It wasn’t—I was defending?—”
Two very hard spanks, low enough to make my toes curl.
“You will not argue with me while I’m punishing you,” he said, his voice perfectly level.
“Yes, Daddy,” I gasped.
The spanking continued and the pretense of stoicism dissolved faster than I wanted it to. My bottom was burning already. With every spank, a deep, pervasive heat built and refused to plateau. I squirmed against his knee, less from any hope of escape and more because my body simply could not stay still, and when his hand moved to the backs of my thighs, I finally stopped trying to keep quiet.
“Please, Daddy,” I said, my voice cracking on the word. “I understand. I do.”
“I know you do,” he replied, and kept going anyway.
He spanked my thighs with the same relentless patience he brought to everything in his life, and a noise escaped me that was embarrassingly close to a sob, but wasn’t quite a sob. My fingers dug into the couch cushion. My legs kicked once, reflexively, before I wrestled them back under control.
“What are you going to do the next time someone provokes you at a public event?” he asked.
“Excuse myself,” I said tightly.
“And if you can’t manage that?”
“Find you.”
“Good girl.” He paused, his palm resting warm against my blazing skin, and I breathed.
Then: “We’re almost done.”
I whimpered.
He finished the spanking with as many hard strikes as necessary to take the fire across my bottom from bearable to blazing, and by the time his hand stilled I had given up the last ofmy composure and tears started streaming down my cheeks. As I was sobbing, I was gripping his ankle with both hands, my forehead pressed against the couch, breathing in shallow, shaky pulls.
For a long moment neither of us moved.
Then his hand, the same one that had been punishing me for the last ten minutes, settled gently against the curve of my bottom and simply rested there. The warmth of his palm against my punished skin was almost unbearable in a completely different way.
“There,” he said quietly. “All done.”
I was wet. Catastrophically, humiliatingly wet, and I knew he knew it because his fingers had already drifted down to the backs of my thighs and come away very slick. He made a low sound in his chest that was not quite a laugh.
“Such a naughty girl,” he murmured. “You’re dripping wet for me.”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice muffled by the cushion.
“Don’t what?”
“Say anything else.”
He said nothing. Instead, two of his fingers slid through my folds with an ease that made me gasp out loud and when he found my clit and pressed there with slow, intentional circles, my whole body arched against his knee.
“Daddy,” I breathed.
