Chapter 15 #2
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 of my 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.
“Tell me something, little girl,” he said, continuing at that maddening pace. “Do you think your pride is worth more than your word?”
“No,” I said, my hips rolling back against his hand entirely without my permission.
“And what happens when you lose your temper and break a promise to me?”
“You spank my bare bottom.” My voice had dropped so low I barely recognized it. “Hard.”
“That’s right.” His fingers pressed more firmly, and my thighs began to shake. “And are you going to give me your word again knowing that?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
There was no hesitation this time. None.
“Good girl,” he said, and the words surged through me like an electric current. “Now come for me.”
I did. Hard and helplessly and with my punished bottom still burning and his fingers working me through every shuddering wave until I went limp and boneless across his knee, wrung out and warm and completely emptied of every bit of fury and pride I had walked into this room carrying.
When my orgasm finally crested, he gathered me up and pulled me into his lap, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around me. I could feel how hard he was. He made no move to do anything about it, just held me while I caught my breath.
“I’m sorry,” I said, after a while. And this time I meant it completely.
“I know,” he said against the top of my head.
I turned my face into his neck. My bottom throbbed and my heart was very full.
“I still think she had it coming,” I muttered.
His chest shook once with quiet laughter.
“I know that too, little girl,” he said. “Now hush.”
I hushed.
“You know your punishment isn’t over, don’t you?”
I hid my face in his chest and nodded.
“Now, little girl. We’re going to finish this in our bedroom.”
He carried me up the stairs the way he always did, with one arm under my knees and one at my back, as if I weighed nothing, as if carrying me was simply a thing he did and would always do. I looped my arms around his neck, pressed my face into his jaw, and let myself be carried.
I loved when he did this. I would never say that out loud though.
He knew anyway.
The bedroom was dark except for the lamp on his side of the bed, which cast everything in amber. He set me down on my feet at the foot of the mattress and stood back, and I felt his eyes move over me the way they always did, unhurried, thorough, like I was someone worth taking time over.
My bottom was still burning. The heat had settled deep into the muscle, a persistent warm ache that pulsed with every small movement. I was still wet. Embarrassingly, helplessly wet, and the cool air in the bedroom only made me more aware of it.
“Turn around,” he said quietly.
I turned. I heard the soft sounds of him undressing behind me, the slide of his shirt off his shoulders, his belt buckle, and then the light rasp of his zipper. I stood very still with my hands at my sides and my heart going at a pace I wasn’t going to examine too carefully.
His hands settled on my hips from behind.
“Bend over the bed, little girl.”
I breathed in. Breathed out.
There was nothing in me that wanted to argue. Not tonight, not after the spanking, not with my body still singing from what he’d done to me over his knee. I was pliant in a way I only was with him, all my sharp edges worn smooth, the armor down. He did that to me. He was the only one who ever had.
I leaned forward and placed my hands flat on the duvet.
His palm smoothed over the curve of my punished bottom, light and exploratory, and I shivered.
“Still sore?” he asked.
“Yes, Daddy,” I said, and I wasn’t complaining. He knew the difference.
“Good.” He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, and I felt his smile against my skin. “I want you thinking about that spanking the whole time I’m fucking this naughty little bottom.”
“My bottom?”
“Yes, little girl. Daddy is going to fuck your naughty bottom and make sure you’ve learned your lesson.”
I shivered in anticipation.
He took his time. That was the thing about Jaxon.
He never rushed, not with this, not with anything that mattered.
His fingers moved between my thighs first, sliding easily through the slickness he found there, and I pressed back against his hand and made a sound that I would have been mortified by anyone else hearing.
He worked me until my legs were shaking and my fingers had curled into fists in the duvet, and I was begging in a voice I didn’t recognize.
“Please what?” he murmured.
“Please, Daddy. Please.”
“Please what, little girl. Use your words.”
I turned my face into the bedspread. “Please fuck me.”
He retrieved the small bottle from the nightstand. I heard the soft sound of it and felt him behind me, warm and close, and I arched my back the way he had taught me because I wanted this. I wanted all of it. I had stopped pretending otherwise a long time ago.
“Relax for me,” he said, low and even.
“I am,” I breathed.
“You’re not.”
He was right. I made a conscious effort to release the tension in my lower back, in my thighs, in every place I was holding myself braced against what was coming. His thumb traced slow, patient circles at my lower back and I let myself soften under his hands.
“There,” he said. “Good girl.”
When he spread my bottom cheeks and pressed the tip of his cock forward, I exhaled with the stretch of it, steady and slow, and kept breathing the way he had taught me.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, slow enough to stay ahead of the ache.
He was careful in the way that was also completely merciless, moving forward in increments, giving me time to take him, and I accepted every inch because I wanted every inch, because this was mine and he was mine and I had stopped running from that a long time ago too.
That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
It did.
But I took it anyway because I needed it to hurt in the way only he could deliver.
When he was fully seated inside my tight hole, I made a sound that was half shock and half satisfaction and dropped my forehead to the bed.
“Alright?” he asked.
“Yes,” I managed. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop.
He held my hips and moved, and the world reduced itself to sensation from the fullness to the deep rolling burn, to the echo of my spanking still stinging along every nerve each time his hips met the curve of my punished bottom.
The two pains twisted together into a sensation that somehow obliterated the distinction between them.
It didn’t hurt the way the spanking hurt.
It hurt differently, more deeply, in a way that made my thighs tremble, my breath ragged, and my whole body reach back toward him instead of away.
His hand slid around my hip and found my clit.
“Oh—” The word dissolved.
“You’re going to come for me,” he said, not a request. His fingers circled slowly and purposefully, exactly the way that made my knees buckle, and exactly the pace that meant he intended to take his time.
“Daddy,” I said, which was not a coherent sentence, but was apparently sufficient because he understood it completely.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let go.”
I let go.
The orgasm rolled through me in long, deep waves, the kind that started somewhere in the base of my spine and radiated outward until I couldn’t feel where it ended and the rest of me began.
I cried out into the duvet, and he held me through it, steady and immovable, his movements slowing but not stopping.
“Again,” he said against my shoulder.
“I can’t—”
“You can.”
I could.