Chapter 23 Bitsy #2
She was so busy trying to fix the mess, so focused on the sheer panic of being caught in the middle of such a chaotic, glittering disaster, that she didn't hear the heavy, measured footsteps of Silas as he approached.
"Lennon!"
The voice was like a thunderclap. Bitsy froze as Silas stormed up to them, his face a mask of disappointment.
He grabbed Lennon by the arm, and before Bitsy could even process the movement, he had marched her to a nearby chair, flipped her over his knee, and hiked her tutu up.
He firmly pulled down her leggings and panties, baring her bottom to the cool air, before the sound of the first sharp, stinging pop echoed in the room, followed by Lennon’s surprised yelp.
Jackson was right behind him, snatching Penny by the arm and repeating the process with efficient, practiced authority.
Bitsy stood frozen, her eyes wide, gaping in pure horror. She watched her friends’ bottoms being bared, the flush of redness appearing under the rhythmic, unrelenting pace of their Daddies’ palms. Her throat constricted.
Suddenly, a hand clamped onto her arm, fingers firm and unyielding.
"You're done for the night," Wyatt’s voice was dangerously low.
She didn't even realize he was dragging her toward the exit. She was mesmerized by the scene behind her, her brain unable to compute the speed at which the fun had turned into discipline. When the exit was behind them, the sudden silence felt like a blow.
"Daddy, I—"
"Quiet," he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, warning hum as he pulled her toward the executive suite.
She tried to dig her heels in, but he didn't falter. "Let me go! It wasn't my idea, I was just—"
"I don't care whose idea it was," he said, his grip tightening just enough to let her know he was serious.
He stopped in the hallway and leaned in, his face inches from hers, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and protectiveness.
"Listen to me, little girl. You need to stop fighting right now.
If you don't, I will walk you straight back into that room, put you over my knee, and let everyone see exactly how I handle a little girl who thinks she can get into trouble. Do you really want that?"
The color drained from her face. The thought of being spanked in front of everyone was so mortifying, so utterly terrifying, that her knees practically gave out.
"No sir," she whispered.
"Then move."
He lead her into the executive suite and kicked the door shut. Without a word, he marched her to the leather sofa, sat down, and pulled her firmly to stand between his legs, his hands coming to rest on her waist.
"What were you thinking?" he asked, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and something else—fear for her. "I told you to be yourself. I told you that you were safe. And you decided the best way to fit in was to start making messes and breaking rules?"
"I just wanted them to like me," she sobbed, the tears finally breaking through. "I didn't want to seem boring. I just wanted to play."
"You don't have to be naughty to be part of the group, Itsy-Bitsy," he said, his tone softening just a fraction, though it remained firm. "I love that you're playing and finding your place, but that doesn't give you permission to break the rules. That behavior ends tonight."
He reached out, his hands moving with efficient, practiced movements. He pulled her leggings down, then her panties, letting them pool around her ankles until she was fully exposed. She whimpered, cringing as the cool air hit her skin, her hands flying back to cover herself.
"Take your hands down," he ordered.
She obeyed, trembling as he guided her over his lap. He reached up, firmly gripping the hem of her sweater and pulling it up just far enough to expose her bottom to the cool air. She felt the heavy, warmth of his palm press against her bare skin, grounding her in the most humiliating way possible.
"This is the consequence for not listening, and for choosing to follow instead of leading," he said, his voice low.
He didn't hesitate. He brought his hand down, a sharp, stinging slap that made her gasp.
She cried out, a thin, sharp sound that hitched in her throat with each initial impact, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps.
She braced herself, teeth clenched, her forehead pressed hard against the cool leather of the sofa as she tried to endure the rhythm.
But with each firm, deliberate connection, the physical sting began to layer over the mounting, overwhelming shame of what she had allowed to happen in the other room.
It wasn't long before the pressure became too much to hold back; a ragged sob tore from her throat, and she began to cry in earnest, unable to stop the waves of humiliation as they built with every stinging strike.
Just as the intensity of the spanking reached its peak, the office door clicked open.
Zane walked in, his expression completely impassive as he adjusted his cuffs.
He glanced over at the scene—Bitsy bent over Wyatt’s knees, her bottom bared and flushed red—and didn't offer a word of apology or even a flicker of surprise.
To him, this was merely a routine part of the evening.
He didn't even pause his stride; he simply walked straight past the sofa toward his own office, the sharp click of the door latching shut behind him cutting off any lingering hope Bitsy had that the moment would remain private.
Bitsy wanted to die. She wanted to vanish. But Wyatt didn't stop. He delivered several more firm, deliberate swats that left her sobbing in earnest, his point hammered home with every stinging connection.
When he finally stopped, he didn't let her go. He pulled her up, cradling her against his chest as he leaned back into the cushions. She collapsed into his shirt, her sobs turning into ragged, hiccupping breaths.
"Shhh," he murmured, his thumb tracing soothing, repetitive circles against her spine. His voice had lost its sharp edge, replaced by a deep, velvet calm that vibrated against her ear. "I’ve got you, baby. It's all over, and you’re still my good girl. I’m going to keep you safe—even from your own mischief. You’re all done now, Itsy-Bitsy.
Just breathe for me. That’s it. Just breathe. "
He held her tightly, rocking her in a slow, steady cadence as her weeping subsided into the quiet, shuddering tremors of someone who had been thoroughly taken care of.
As the stinging heat on her bottom began to mellow, the overwhelming humiliation of the last hour drifted away, anchored by the heavy, grounding presence of his protection.
She was his, and as she pressed her cheek against the steady, reassuring thrum of his heart, the rest of the world dissolved.
There was no more pressure to fit in or perform; there was only the promise that he would keep her close, exactly where she belonged.