by Frost, E J
One grumpy bastard who is reading the Financial Times, takes his paper and moves, presumably seeking a quieter place to digest the stock report. The others set aside their reading materials. Master Javier, one of the club’s silverbacks and a top almost as fearsome as Maude, taps the head of the woman in an elaborate red evening gown kneeling in front of his chair. She lifts her head from his crotch with a rattling gasp, so he must have been down her throat. “Put me away, Celina. Watch and learn.”
The woman fumbles with his tux, then turns and sits between his feet, surreptitiously wiping tears and saliva from her face with the back of a diamond-ringed hand.
“Master Logan,” Javier acknowledges me.
“Master Javier, good to see you.”
“And you. What has this bad girl done?”
“Tell Master Javier, Emily,” I instruct, while I sit down on the couch.
Emily puts her head down and twists her hands together in front of her. “I didn’t hand in my homework,” she says.
I blink at her, surprised. Not by her words. I told her the broad brush of the scene and she’s just elaborating. What surprises me is how completely she goes into role. Her whole body-language changes. She looks smaller. Younger. Her voice changes, not a childish lisp, but higher-pitched. The voice of a young teen, who has done wrong and is more resentful than contrite at being caught.
“When was your homework due, Emily?” Javier asks sternly.
“Today.”
No “master,” no “sir.” Javier notices just as I do. He sits forward in his chair and wraps his hand around his slave’s throat. She gasps and slumps against his thigh, submitting instantly to his hold.
“Did you do the homework?” His voice drops to a growl.
Emily shakes her head, looking at her feet. She starts digging a hole in the carpet with the toe of one Mary Jane.
“Stop fidgeting, Emily,” I tell her. “Answer Master Javier.”
“I didn’t do my homework,” she admits.
Javier’s mouth thins to a white line. “Do you understand the importance of doing well in school, girl? Do you understand that it’s disrespectful to your teachers and your master when you don’t give everything your best effort?”
Emily nods without looking up at either of us. The hands she’s twisting in front of her have gone white-knuckled and I wonder if this is becoming too real for her. I have no idea how she did in school. Maybe the truth of why she became a writer is that her grades weren’t good enough to get a job in journalism. Now’s not the time to find out if this is a trigger for her.
“Emily, come lie across my knees,” I say gruffly. “Time for you to face the consequences of not doing what you’re told.” That’s suitably vague.
Javier shoots me a look that tells me he wasn’t done interrogating her. I nod at him. While I enjoy it when my brothers participate in scenes, he has no idea how little I know about Emily. Or how very vulnerable she is. Seeing her perhaps all-too-real response to criticism just reinforces my conviction that Emily isn’t to be shared, not in any sense.
Emily follows my command, but it’s a slow, grudging compliance. She literally drags her feet. The motions of a resentful schoolgirl. Nothing like the immediate, precise way she usually follows direction. Again, her immersion in the role surprises me. Even the way she holds herself is different. Her shoulders are slumped, hips canted forward. Emily’s posture is usually as straight as a ruler: shoulders back, spine straight, hips aligned, like a dancer.
Either Emily missed her calling and should have been on Broadway, or this is something else. Something I haven’t seen in all the years I’ve role-played with my bottoms.
This is a little.
She kneels beside the couch, then awkwardly crawls across my lap, as though she’d never assumed a spanking position before. She hangs over my thighs like a sack of grain, her ass slightly elevated.
“Put your hands on the floor, your arms straight and walk forward until I tell you to stop.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she grumbles.
I grab her hair, wrap it around my fist and give it a firm tug. She gasps.
“Hands on the floor.” She arches forward until she can touch the floor with her fingertips. “Palms down.” She does, inching forward over my right thigh. “Arms straight.” She pushes up, locking her elbows. “Walk forward on your hands.”
She pulls herself forward, her belly and thighs moving across my lap. When her entire torso is off me and just her legs are supported by the platform of my thighs, I stop her. “You’ll hold yourself up until I tell you that you’re done, and then you will thank me for your punishment.”
She mutters something.
“What was that?”
“Okay,” she says more clearly.
“That’s not what you said. What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Bullshit. I flip up her skirt, yank down her panties and slap her full strength across her striped left cheek.
She yelps and scrambles backwards, yanking against my hold on her hair. She stops with a whimper, probably when the pain in her scalp becomes unbearable, grinding her face into her shoulder.
I bend over her and speak close to her ear. “You do not lie to me. Not under any circumstances. Ever. That was a lie. What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, sir!” I can hear the tears in her voice. “I said, ‘fat chance.’ I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”
I bet she is. Her ass will really be smarting. But I’m not playing now. She doesn’t lie to me. Not while we’re doing a scene. Not while we’re arguing. Not while I’m fucking her brains out. Not ever.
“That’s better. We’ll try this again. Walk forward on your hands.”
She trembles, but she does it, much less reluctantly than a minute ago. When she’s back in position, I release her hair, pull up her panties and smooth down her skirt. I told her the scene would be above her panties and it will be. I didn’t intend to punish her ass tonight. I have something else in mind.
I hook my finger under the edge of her left knee sock, and draw it down her leg. Then the right one. When her socks are draped around her ankles, I take out the leather, two-tongued tawse I’ve been carrying in my pocket and lay it across her calves.
“Have you ever been punished with a tawse before?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, dark hair hanging so I can’t see her face. That’s no good. I gather up her hair, twist it into a long coil, and tuck the coil down the back of her shirt, so her face is visible to both me and our small audience. “Try that again, using your words.”
She swallows. “No,” she says.
That gets her skirt back up, panties down and my hand hard across her ass again. She doesn’t get to be disrespectful just because she’s in bratty teen headspace.
“No, what?” I growl at her.
She sniffles and squirms and takes such a long time to answer that I raise my hand to spank her again.
“No, sir,” she says finally.
“That’s right. I can follow this lesson in doing what you’re told with a lesson in politeness. Is that what you want?”
“No, sir,” she says, her tone wholly petulant. She has her face angled away from me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s pouting.
“Do you get to decide how many lessons you get tonight?” I ask, running my palm up and down her calf, warming her skin.
“No, sir.”
So fucking petulant.
“Who decides that, Emily?”
“You do.” Her words are right, but her tone is so very wrong, and she’s left off my title again.
I tap her on the calf with my palm. “Who decides?”
“You do, sir.”
“It doesn’t sound like you believe that.” I pick up the tawse and slap it down without much force across her calves. The two leather strips make a spectacular pop against her firm skin.
Although the impact couldn’t have hurt anything like either the belting b
ack at my house, or the spanks I just gave her, she jolts. A shiver runs all the way through her and she squeezes her thighs together. “I do, sir.”
“Do you? We’ll see. Start with ten. Count, Emily.”
“One,” she says, resentfully, before I even bring down the tawse again.
Little brat.
I pull my arm back, snap my wrist and bring the tawse whipping down across her calves hard enough to leave a mark.
She shrieks.
I hit her again, not as hard, but with an incredibly satisfying pop. Her pale skin marks immediately: a lighter pink stripe rising next to the dark purple-pink stripe of the first stroke.
I wait for her to give me the count, and when she doesn’t, I prompt, “Emily?”
Her back heaves and she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Two, sir,” she gasps on the exhale.
“No, the first one doesn’t count because you were bratting. Try again.”
“One, sir,” she says, and has there ever been a more resentful count?
I pepper her calves, alternating one heavy stroke with two lighter ones. She’s shuddering by eight, squeezing her legs together. At ten, she whimpers, “Ten. Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, Emily, you’re not done. That’s just the start. Ten more. Count.”
I give her another hard blow. She shrieks again. Her arms buckle and she has to struggle back into position. I hold her across the ass, which I’ve left bare and vulnerable, in case she needs punishing there again, too.
She’s panting by the time she gets back in position, arms straight, elbows locked. “Wa-wuh-one, sir.”
“Very good.” Knowing she’ll be expecting two softer strokes, I give her another heavy hit. Her back arches and she shudders, but she forces out the count.
Eight more heavy strokes and she’s sobbing with each hit, shivering constantly, her legs locked together. Her calves are brilliant pink. There’s no more defiance, no more resentment. She gasps out each number after the stroke, without prompting, never forgetting the “sir.”
“Excellent, Emily. Ten more.”
She wails but braces herself, digging one hand into the carpet and gripping the edge of the couch with the other.
I start with a soft blow, so she doesn’t know what to expect from this set, then follow with nine, hard and heavy. Her body arches and rises with each strike. Her legs work, squeezing, the tendons standing out behind her knees, thigh muscles jumping. Her satin skin’s sheened with sweat.
After ten, she sobs, “Puh-please, sir. I need to stop.”
The tawse creates a nasty sting, particularly across her less-padded calves, and her skin is glowing, but I’ve been careful, her skin’s not broken, there aren’t any deep red spots that will bruise, and we’re nowhere close to the “heavy play” of her sign. Maybe she needs the bathroom.
“Diaper, Emily?” I ask.
“Nuh-no, da-dah-sir.” She shudders and scrabbles at the couch. “I’m really close.”
Close? Fuck, is she about to come? I lay the tawse across her calves and slide my hand between her clenched thighs. My fingers slip right in, because her thighs are slicker than a water slide. I shift aside the soaked gusset of her knickers and stroke her outer lips before pushing two fingers into her. As I work my hand in, her scent rises to me. Hot and sticky-sweet with a faint spicy musk. Like gingerbread. Delicious. I tunnel my fingers deeper into her. Her cunt clenches around my fingers and she humps against my leg. Brokenly, she gasps, “Puh-please, no. I’m going to come. Please, I don’t want to. I want to be a guh-good girl for you.”
I lean over her. “You’re going to come right here, in front of all these people.” There are only a half-dozen, but it’s their presence, not the number, that matters. “Is that right, little girl?”
“Nuh-no, Daddy, please no. I’m trying not to.”
I reach under her and bring her body up onto the couch beside me while I shift to get a better angle to finger-fuck her. She buries her face in the corner of the couch, covering her head with shaking arms.
“No hiding, little girl.” I take a grip on her hair and pull her head back. She whimpers and arches against the pressure on her scalp. I pull her body into a curve, then press her cheek to the leather seat. “Stay just like that. Let everyone see you. Now.” I begin working my fingers in her, twisting my wrist and curling my fingers inside her. “What about this orgasm?”
She shudders in my hold. “No-no-no, Daddy, please! You told me not to.”
“I did, you naughty baby. I also told you that you had to earn my forgiveness. Do you think you’ve done that?”
“Nuh-no, Daddy,” she says brokenly, beginning to cry again, tears slipping across her nose to drip onto the leather seat.
I lean fully over her, pressing my chest against her back, so I can speak right into her ear while I plunge my fingers in and out of her with the most delicious, wet, smacking sound. “You have, Emily. Daddy forgives you for lying, and for being disrespectful, and for being a wonderful, rotten little brat. You have my permission to come and then we’re going to do a final ten with the tawse and you’re going to thank me.”
“Yes, Daddy, yes.” She sobs even harder.
“Good girl.”
I remain leaning over her, pressing her into the couch, while I pull my hand back, then shove three fingers in and piston them until Emily goes wild, bucking, legs kicking out, hands flailing, shaking all over as she spasms around my fingers. She soaks my hand, fills the air with the sweet smell of gingerbread. I hold her down by her hair while she convulses, then brush the tangles off her very red face while her wails trail off into short, guttural moans. She puts her little hand over her mouth as though to cut off the final sounds of her orgasm. So cute. I slide my fingers out of her when all I can feel are faint pulses and cup my sticky hand over her mons. I really like that gesture.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispers.
I kiss the shell of her ear, the skin hot against my lips. “Such a good baby. Last ten. Count them for me, Emily.”
“Yes, sir,” she pants.
I wipe my hand on the inside of her skirt before taking up the tawse again and alternating strokes, one hard, two softer. She counts quietly. I can tell she’s spent. Not broken; I don’t think Emily’s brittle. She’ll bend and bend and bend some more to please her Daddy. I’m not worried about breaking her the way I have been with less resilient bottoms. But, for the moment at least, there’s no defiance left in my little girl.
When I finish the last stroke, she thanks me and reaches back to caress my knee, which is a sweet gesture. I praise her for it while I put her clothes back in order, help her sit up and then pull her across my lap and tuck her into my chest. She curls into me, head on my shoulder, knees up against my side. When I murmur to her what a good girl she is, she blinks huge, tear-stained eyes at me, and rubs her hand across her mouth.
“Please, Daddy,” she says in a tiny whisper. “May I suck my thumb?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Good girl for asking.”
She takes just the tip of her thumb in her mouth, watching me. When I smile down at her, she takes the rest, and sucks a little, her heavy eyelids drooping.
I cuddle her close and think about what I’m going to give her to suck in future.
Emily hums to herself. Self-soothing, I think it’s called. I rock her gently and listen to her breathing as it goes soft and shallow. When I’m sure she’s down, I shift so I can prop my elbow on the arm of the couch and cradle her in the crook of my arm while she dozes with her soft cheek against my heart.
Looking up from her peaceful face, I find most of my brothers have gone back to their reading, but Javier is still watching me, although he’s drawn his bottom’s head back into his lap and is holding her with her nose pressed to his groin while her hands twitch and flex on his thighs.
“That was nicely done,” he says.
“Thank you. I learned from the best.” I tip my chin to him. I was trained as a top before I joined Blunts, but I
’ve learned a great deal from watching Javier and some of the other senior members work with their own subs and the house bottoms.
“I don’t think we’ve had a little girl grace us since Elaine and Gill moved away,” he observes.
I don’t remember them and tell him so.
He pulls his slave off his cock, lets her gasp for a few seconds, then shoves her back down. “They may have left the year you joined us.” He waves his free hand. “The years go so fast now.”
I nod. I’ve felt the acceleration.
“If you’re going to top her as her daddy, I hope you’ll demonstrate. It’s never too late to learn something new, particularly that transition into aftercare. Elegant.”
And totally unplanned. It just felt right. “Thank you. I hope to. This is actually our first real date.”
Javier chuckles. “What a brave little girl.”
She is. I appreciate her bravery even more now that I’ve gotten a peek at what lies behind her white silk bows and French poetry. That’s part of the reason I rewarded her with the orgasm. The other part is that I’ve actually forgiven her. She’s incredibly easy to forgive. Much easier than Rachel, who could have damaged what’s developing between me and Emily with her little scene, and appears to have pissed all my training in self-control down the gutter.
Thinking of Rachel, I ease my phone out of my pocket, thumb it on and navigate to my contacts list. I have all the club members in a sub-group. I find Sante and send him a text to let him know that his bottom was way the fuck out of line and that I’m turning her over to Maude for correction. Then thumb over to Maude and text her the same thing.
I lay the phone on the couch beside me once I’ve sent the texts. Before I’ve even wrapped my arm back around Emily, my phone pings.
Where are you? Rachel says you’re here. I’d like to speak with you.
Sante. Things I do not need tonight. I tried not to hate Sante for taking Rachel away from me, and he tried not to hate me for being her first Master. I don’t think either of us succeeded very well.
