Page 15 of Daddy, Take Me Away
“Because you dinnae cause those bad things, yet somehow you're shouldering the blame. I dinnae like that, I've told you nae to do it, and you continued anyway. I really dinnae like that.”
“But can't I be sorry that my bad luck is affecting you?” she wailed.
“And there you go again,” he growled. “Shouldering the blame for things not of your doing. You dinnae flatten my tire. You dinnae cause the rain, and you dinnae break my key in the lock.”
“But I made you break into your hou–eek!”
In one swift motion, his arm slung around her waist, his other hand grabbing her by the thigh. The world suddenly spun topsy-turvy, and down she went across his lap.
His thighs were even stronger, harder, more muscular beneath her belly than they had seemed. Nervous instinct had her flailing to get up again, but his arm to the small of her back kept her pinned down, and the next thing she knew the flat of his broad hand slapped crisp and hard upon the surface of her ass. Her very wet, very naked, and now sharply tingling ass.
Her shriek became a gasp. Flinging back her hand, she scrambled to cover as much of her bottom as she could. “Ow ow ow! Nooo!”
But too late, he caught her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back and pinning that down now as well.
“You dinnae make me do anything,” Hamish scolded, his arm rising and falling, bringing slap after painful slap raining down all over her wet, smarting flesh. She bucked, twisting and flailing and finally kicking when she couldn't break free. That lasted only until he clamped her legs in the vise of his and suddenly she could barely move at all.
“That was a mistake,” he told her, the clink of a metal buckle accentuating his words before it was followed by the hiss of thick leather tugging free of pants loops. “And this, my wee bairn, is why you'll never do that again.”
Worn leather lay a line of pure fire across the entire surface of her buttocks. Though she knew he wasn't striking half as hard as when he’d used his hand, the pain was shocking, like nothing her dreams could have prepared her for. He got her sitspots, the tops of her thighs, and every spankable inch of her “bahootie” no matter how she writhed and cried. And God, did she ever cry. More than she'd done in her night-time fantasies; more than she thought herself capable of. And yet, growing up beneath the hurt and raging bonfire the leather was layering into her flesh, was the mortification of building liquid lust slipping between her pussy lips. No longer was the blazing heat scalding her buttocks only. It was moving inside her, delving so deep that her clit started throbbing along in wounded time.
“Please!” she wailed, and suddenly the secretive Little inside her that had tried all her life to stay safe and hidden, came bursting forth. “Owie! Owie!”
“Please and owie, what?” he demanded, bringing another slash of his belt down sharply across her thighs.
“Daddy! Daddy!” she bawled, and there went the dam of her tears, shattering into a thousand pieces as she drooped helplessly over his lap. She couldn't remember when last she'd cried so hard or for so long. All she knew was agony, hurt, guilt, sorrow, and, weirdly, throbbing arousal that had no business inserting itself into the afterglow of a belt whipping.
When exactly he stopped spanking her, she didn't know. One minute it was happening, and in the next, it was over, leaving her squirming and sobbing. She must have given him one hell of a show, because as the raging of her tears began to cry itself out, suddenly she became aware of a hard prodding under her belly.
Oh God, it was his cock.
Her eyes snapped open and she stared through watery tears at the floor. Sniffling and hiccuping and just trying to catch her breath. The fire in her bottom didn't care that the spanking had ended. It was still building, growing hotter and throbbing harder until it consumed her all over again.
He was supposed to let her up now. Any minute, his legs would release hers and her arm would be unpinned. He would lower her skirt, and she would have to get up and stand alone in front of him, consumed by guilt and sad feelings and confusion and horniness, and he might even scold her again, and she didn't think she could handle any of that. A whole new wave of tears overwhelmed her and she wilted, limp and hopeless, able only to cover her face and cry.
His warm bare hand came to rest on the surface of her bottom, gently stroking, kicking up the flames and throbs, and yet somehow soothing the lingering hurt.
“Come here, me wee one,” Hamish rumbled, soft and gentle. He helped her up, but when she tried to stand all the way, he gathered her into his arms on his lap, tucking her head under his chin as he rocked her through the last of her tears.
“The only time we say we're sorry is when we do another person wrong. Saying it all the time, and when you aren't to blame, makes the words meaningless to those who hear it. Do you ken me, lassie?”
Chloe burrowed into his embrace, her reply distorted by breathy hitches and gasps. “Yes, Daddy,” she said, granting the honorific without any prompting. His strong, steady heartbeat was right under her cheek and ear. The lulling beat eased away the last of her anxiety, though not the confusion, or the horniness which only got worse when he pressed a tender kiss on the top of her head.
Unable to stop herself, she rested a timid hand upon his chest. For a moment, she could have sworn his arms tightened around her, but then he let her go.
He patted her hip. “Up,” he said simply.
Her legs wobbled, but she obeyed.
“It's five minutes of reflection time in the corner for you.” He patted her hip again. “March now. Any corner, just pick one.”
Head bowed, she went to the closest, a nook between the window beside them and a cupboard of antique dishes.
“Bare bottom on display please.”
Wiping at the drying tears on her face, she obeyed that command too, and stood there, head down and backside on full display.
A tickle and tug at the back of her hair made her think he'd just touched her.
