Page 21 of A Bad Girl's Lesson

Then I did it without being told, but at the same time, as I bent towards Daddy Jacob, who had moved to assume Daddy Phil’s former position right in front of me, I turned my head back over my left shoulder. I gave my blue-eyed daddy the potentially-award-winning bitch face as I took hold of the far edge of the desk with my right hand. Then I turned back to my brown-eyed daddy and I started to lower myself onto my elbows, making my mouth match my curled nostril in a way that I hoped would silently accuse him of destroying my faith in the goodness of daddies.

“That’s it,” Daddy Jacob said, his voice even and devoid of any sign that he cared what I thought of my daddies’ intentions towards my backside. “Now arch your back and push out your bottom.”

I forced a scornful breath out of my nose, hoping that they wouldn’t notice that I’d done it to keep myself from sobbing with fear and mortification. I kept looking up into Daddy Jacob’s steady gaze even as I felt tears of shame and anxiety prick at the corners of my eyes. I forced my face to keep up the act, keep telling my daddy that if he thought what he and his asshole colleague were doing had anything to do with justice, they both needed to have their heads examined and their “hero” credentials revoked.

Again I waited until I felt sure one of them would reissue the command. Then I turned to look at Daddy Phil and, sluggishly but very theatrically, I obeyed Daddy Jacob’s command. I arched my back and stuck out my ass with a flourish: I wiggled my hips to emphasize just how little I cared about Selecta human resources’ bullshit plans, and my “daddies’” lewd intentions for me.

That meant, to my distress, that I was still looking right at Daddy Phil when he responded by putting his left hand atop my waist and starting to whip me, hard and fast, with the doubled leather of his thick, heavy belt.

My body shuddered. My fingers gripped the edge of the desk so hard and so suddenly that the pain from the sharp corner of the laminated plywood seemed for a moment a more severe problem than the very different pain that had started to emanate from my ass.

That stage lasted only a second or two. Something about the size of the glutes, maybe, meant that Daddy Phil’s belt took a moment to deliver its full effect, just as Daddy Jacob’s hand had seemed to take a moment the day before, when I had gotten paddled for the very first time over the couch. When the whipping did start to hurt, though, I understood immediately that my resolve wouldn’t last.

The defiant part of me, panicking, tried to use the precious seconds before I started to scream for mercy. I needed to make sure my daddies got the message about them being unfair, unjust assholes. I bit my lip, and I swallowed harder than I thought I had ever swallowed in my life, and I let out a grunt instead of a cry of pain. Even though the tears had started to stream down my cheeks and my whole body shook violently each time Daddy Phil’s horrible belt cracked down across my ass, I looked from him to Daddy Jacob with as much disdain as my flaring nose and my narrowed eyes could display.

Wordlessly, I told my brown-eyed daddy the opposite of what I already knew to be true: I beamed into his eyes the rebellious, futile message that this shit would not stand, and only an idiot would think you could whip a girl to turn her on—or, even more insanely, to help her learn how to behave. I gripped the edge of the desk even harder, felt even more pain in my fingers, but by that point it couldn’t compare in the slightest to the agony each lash across my backside brought.

Daddy Phil’s hand held me steady: no more ass-wiggling for me. He brought the doubled leather down in a steady rhythm and with a hard snap in each stroke, as if he meant to tell me he was in the business of making naughty girls regret their decisions, and business was good.

I grunted through gritted teeth, willing myself to keep my helpless noises in my chest, unvoiced. No pitiful cries or whimpers from me this time. Not yet.You can take one more, smart girl,the defiant voice said.You know you can.

Daddy Phil moved his lashes up and down methodically. The ones on my upper thighs made me jerk my hips very hard against his restraining hand, they hurt so much, and with a sharper pain than the strokes across my butt cheeks. I had to grunt louder, and I could hear the tiniest hint of a whine come into my voice.

I looked back over my shoulder again at him to find his blue eyes gazing straight back into my face. His expression had a determination to it that surprised me and reminded me of Daddy Jacob. I heard his belt strike my ass again, and I felt the pain there, in my poor bare bottom, and then I sensed my face changing from its defiant look into a pitiful pout. I heard my brown-eyed daddy speak, and I turned to him, desperate to recover my resistance though I knew it had nearly vanished.

“You’re going to take what we give you, honey,” Daddy Jacob said. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Those words broke me, because my daddy hadn’t said them in a hard, cruel way, but in a gentle one, despite all the degradation they implied. My attempt to rearrange my features back into uncaring scorn failed as I met his eyes again. At the same moment, Daddy Phil whipped me hard right at the place low down on my bottom where he had applied more lashes than any other, it felt like—and where the soreness from the paddling yesterday had seemed to linger longest.

I yelped, and I let go of the edge of the desk and thrust my hands behind me, reflexively and desperately, straightening up and trying to turn around, doing anything my body could come up with to defend my burning backside.

“Down!” Daddy Jacob thundered, as Daddy Phil used his left hand to make sure I didn’t get higher than a foot from my original position. I kept my right hand on my ass, trying to cover both blazing hot cheeks, clutching them to soothe some of the agony away, and I moved the left in front of me, pressing against the desktop to try to keep myself as upright as I could.

“Please,” I cried, turning my head wildly to address both my daddies, and uttering the last word the rebellious part of me wanted to use. “Please… just…”

But Daddy Jacob had taken hold of my left wrist, and then he had my right arm by the elbow so that he could pull my defensive hand away from my ass. Between him and Daddy Phil, without another word, they stretched me across the top of the desk with my arms in front of me, Daddy Jacob holding my wrists securely in his enormous hands.

I kicked out, not caring at all about how it surely showed Daddy Phil every lewd secret of my pussy and my bottom. My blue-eyed daddy kept his hand on my back, pressing very hard to keep my hips where he wanted them, and he methodically whipped my lower thighs until I screamed and lowered my feet to the carpet, sobbing at the excruciating lashes in that new and very painful place. My whole rear end, everything between my waist and my knees, felt like my daddies had taken a hot iron to it and run it up and down without mercy, to teach me obedience.

I looked up into Daddy Jacob’s eyes, and I screamed. My body writhed over the desk, hips trying to twist but restrained by Daddy Phil’s strength. My bottom squirmed, clenching and unclenching in a humiliating rhythm that matched the lashes from the awful belt.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” Daddy Phil commanded, stopping the punishment at last.

I let out a deep, deep sob, and I tried to find just a little more defiance, just a tiny moment of resistance. But my bottom hurt too much. I turned my face awkwardly back over my shoulder, Daddy Jacob letting me bend my arms enough to prop myself up on my elbows again. The defiant part of me was still there, but it had admitted defeat: the expression I showed Daddy Phil was full of tear-stained contrition.

“Do you want to say something, Marianne?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

I didn’t hesitate at all. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I choked out in my little-girl voice.

CHAPTER14

Jacob

“Is your little bottom very sore, honey?” I asked, hearing the patronizing daddy tone in my voice and loving the way the words made Marianne struggle just a little against my hold on her wrists.

She turned her face to me, and my heart leapt in my chest when I saw—so clearly that I wondered whether I could somehow read my little girl’s mind—that Marianne had really started to come to terms with the naughty-but-good girl inside her. Her face must have told me, in a subtle way that I nevertheless thought I could feel certain about: Marianne had exaggerated her pout just a bit further than the whipping Phil had given her truly warranted.

I had absolutely no doubt that my colleague had done a very thorough job with his belt: I could see the fiery red evidence on our gorgeous fuck toy’s pert little bottom and her trim thighs. But I also knew, as if she had told me in so many words, that some very important part of Marianne had decided to dramatize her whipped naughty girl persona.

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