Page 45 of His Naughty Girl

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

Devin nodded. “Alright. Go stand in the living room.”

With my hands clasped atop my head, I waited as the rest of the household finished dinner. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to find a comfortable position as I listened to the muffled sounds of conversation and clinking silverware that drifted from the dining room to my ears.

My mind raced, replaying everything I had heard about what was to come. The impending whipping loomed large in my thoughts. To my dismay, my bottom clenched involuntarily at the memory of the spankings I had gotten already, and the dreadful anticipation of the strap’s unknown sting. The knowledge that afterward Dylan would claim my virginity in front of everyone overwhelmed my mind even more thoroughly.

My cheeks burned as I imagined the scene. Would Dylan put me over his knee, as Devin had done for my hand-spanking? Would they make me bend over something? The back of the couch, the way Devin had bent Greta over for fucking the night he had punished me?

Would I have to present myself to Dylan that way, like some kind of animal? Or would Dylan make me lie back on the coffee table, legs spread wide for all to see? The thought made me squirm, my brow furrowing with mingled mortification and helpless, shameful arousal.

I strained my ears, trying to make out individual voices from the dining room. Dylan’s deep tones cut through the general chatter, and I found myself hanging on his every word.

“…just announced a new subsidy program,” Dylan was saying, his voice animated with excitement. “It’s aimed at helping associates diversify their agribusiness holdings. The potential for growth is incredible.”

My heart skipped a beat at the passion in Dylan’s voice. Even discussing business, he exuded a quiet confidence that made me weak in the knees.

“That sounds like a fantastic opportunity,” Devin replied. “Do you think you’ll take advantage of it?”

There was a pause, and I could almost picture Dylan nodding thoughtfully. “I believe so,” he said. “In fact, I think I’ll be ready to apply to run my own farm in about a year.”

My breath caught in my throat. Dylan, with his own farm? The image of him standing tall and proud in a field of waving grain filled my mind. I imagined myself by his side, supporting him, helping to build something together…

I shook my head, trying to dispel the domestic fantasy. How could I be thinking such things when I was about to be whipped and deflowered in front of an audience? And yet, the idea of belonging to Dylan, of being truly his, sent a shiver of excitement through my body.

The conversation in the dining room shifted to other topics, but my mind stayed fixated on Dylan’s words. A year from now, everything could be different. Would I still be here in the Weathers household? Or would I be with Dylan, learning to be the submissive partner he clearly desired?

As the meal drew to a close, my anticipation grew. My body thrummed with nervous energy, every nerve ending seeming to fire at once.

Sooner than I wanted, the sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and the clink of silverware being set down signaled the end of the meal. My heart began to race, knowing what would comenext. I heard Greta’s voice, crisp and authoritative, instructing Lila and Lydia to clear the table.

A small, petty part of me felt a flicker of relief that at least I didn’t have to perform that task while naked. The thought got quickly overshadowed by the crushing weight of what awaited me.

Footsteps approached. I tensed as I sensed people entering the living room. The rustle of clothing and murmur of voices filled the air as the household members settled in. Then came the unmistakable sound of furniture being shifted around.

I desperately wanted to turn and look, to see what they were doing, but I forced myself to remain still, hands clasped tightly atop my head. My imagination ran wild, conjuring images of what might be happening behind me. Were they arranging chairs for optimal viewing? Setting up some kind of makeshift punishment bench?

The scraping and shuffling seemed to go on forever. With each passing moment, the tension in my body ratcheted higher. My legs trembled with the effort of standing still, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out across my skin despite the coolness of the room.

Finally, the noise ceased. An eerie silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. The quiet pressed in on me from all sides, seeming to amplify the pounding of my heart.

I strained my ears, trying to catch any hint of what was happening. I felt certain they were all staring at me, drinking in the sight of my naked form. The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me.

Just when I thought I couldn’t bear the suspense any longer, Dylan’s deep voice cut through the silence.

“Andrea,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind, “turn around.”

I blinked rapidly, steeling myself for what I might see. Slowly, I lowered my hands from my head and began to turn. My eyes widened at the scene before me. The living room had been transformed into what looked to me like a kind of arena. They had pushed back the chairs and couches to create an open space in the center. There, commanding attention like some horrid altar, stood the big leather ottoman.

My stomach clenched as I took in the details. The ottoman’s usual place by the fireplace was empty, making the room feel off-kilter and wrong. Now it sat dead center, its rich brown leather gleaming in the warm lamplight. I had always thought of it as an innocuous piece of furniture, good for propping up tired feet or holding a tray of snacks. Now it loomed ominously, its purpose twisted into something far more embarrassing.

My gaze went to the leather straps the ottoman now sported, which I had never noticed before. I realized they must have been concealed beneath its top, invisible when not in use. Now they hung loose, waiting for employment. The sight of them made my breath catch in my throat. Their obvious purpose impressed itself on my mind—to hold a misbehaving subservient girl in place for her punishment.

On a small side table next to the ottoman lay the family strap. I had seen it hanging on its hook by the fireplace countless times, of course, but I had always shied back from it and never taken a close look. Now I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the awful thing. About two feet long and maybe two inches wide, it was made of thick, supple leather that had darkened with age and use. The handle was worn smooth, a visible sign of how many times it had been wielded against deserving bottoms.

The household members were arranged in a loose semicircle around the ottoman, all eyes fixed on me. Devin and Greta sat in their matching armchairs, looking for all the world like a king and queen about to witness an execution. Ethan and Travis lounged on one of the big couches, a hungry gleam in their eyes as they took in my naked form.

Hank and Bill sat on the other couch, with Lila and Lydia kneeling at their feet. To my mortification, all of the associates already had their cocks out. They stroked their hard shafts as they looked at me. My cheeks flamed as I saw Bill put his hand in Lila’s hair and turn her face so that he could make her begin to pleasure him.

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