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“You have twenty-two lines left. Go on.”
Even though she knew the answer, she felt compelled to ask, “If I finish them, does that mean I don’t get another spanking?”
“You’re getting the twenty-two licks either way, because you didn’t listen to your daddy the first time. Go on, before I decide to double it.”
Eyes wide, she shook her head. “That’s okay, Daddy. I’ll go do my lines.”
The corner of his lip tilted up in a satisfied smirk. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be up in half an hour. You have plenty of time to finish.”
Olivia rolled off the couch with a heavy sigh and trudged up the stairs. But as much as she hated writing lines, and as much as she’d argued, knowing her daddy cared enough to punish her again filled her with warmth. God, she’d missed this.
Back in her room, she sat at the slightly oversized desk and picked up where she’d left off.I will not act like a brat at work.Olivia nibbled her bottom lip while she wrote. She worried that these lines contradicted the first set. Was it really being honest if she promised not to be a brat at work? She couldn’t seem to help herself, especially when things got a little crazy and she started to feel neglected.
Despite her reservations, she finished the lines well before her half hour was up. It took all of thirty seconds for her to get bored with just sitting in the chair at her desk. Daddy hadn’t told her she couldn’t leave her room if she finished early, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t be happy if she wasn’t here when he came upstairs.
She settled for wandering the room, studying all the pretty little trinkets she’d picked up over the years. Her taste trended toward more of a modern farmhouse style in the rest of the house, with several distressed pieces scattered through the rooms. But she’d had a different vision for this room. Here, she’d gone for the more classical pieces. White porcelain figurines were lined up on a shelf of smooth mahogany. She loved the dark, rich wood against the pastel walls.
As she admired her favorite pieces, some deep, primal instinct welled up in her, and she turned to face the bedroom door. James was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest, a small smile on his face.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Did you finish your lines, little one?”
“Uh huh.”
He crossed the room to the desk and picked up her paper. “Good job. Thank you for finishing.” After he’d examined her work, he dropped the paper back onto the desk and looked over at her. “How do you feel about what you wrote?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to just say everything was fine. But that would fly in the face of her first set of lines. “Honestly?”
He tapped the papers, mirroring her own thoughts with his actions. “Of course.”
“Then, honestly, I don’t think I can do both. Saying I won’t be a brat feels like a lie.”
The knots in her stomach loosened when he laughed. “I don’t expect you to be perfect, Livvy. But I do expect you to try harder not to use our workplace to get my attention and to come to me sooner when you feel neglected. Fair enough?”
“I think I can do that.”
“That’s my girl. Come on, let’s get your spanking over with so we can get to bed.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then clamped her lips together. It wouldn’t get her anywhere with him. And if she was being truthful, she craved the feel of his leather on her bare bottom. Craved the release a long, hard whipping would bring.
Resigned to her fate, she walked to the bed and stood on her tiptoes to bend over the side. At five-eight, she wasn’t ‘little’ by any physical definition. But James had set the bed up in such a way that she had to hop up to climb in. She loved the thrill of feeling so small and helpless when she bent over the side to accept a punishment.
James stepped up behind her, interrupting her wayward thoughts, and tugged her PJs and panties to her knees. “Feet on the floor or the stroke doesn’t count.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He stepped away, and the clinking of his belt buckle sent her heart racing. Nearly a dozen years together and the sound still made her tremble.
The first stroke caught her by surprise, as it always did. Olivia squealed at the deep burn, but before she could voice her discomfort, the second fell.
She grabbed at the duvet, clutching it in her hands to keep herself in place. He was going for the fast, hard whipping tonight. The kind that layered pain over pain until all she knew was agony.
It was somewhere around the twelfth stroke when she found her voice. “Daddy! It hurts!”
“It’s supposed to hurt.” The belt connected twice more, her cries for mercy melding with the crack of the leather. “This is what happens to little girls who disobey their daddies.”
“I’m sorry!” It was more plea than apology, a long, drawn-out wail begging for mercy.
