“Over the pillow,” Daddy Ed said finally, his analytical voice devoid of warmth. “Face down. Hands under your face to keep yourself from interfering.”
I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself over the pillow so my hips were elevated, my bottom presented, I imagined, at the perfect angle for a butt-whipping. I tucked my hands beneath my face, pressing my cheek against my knuckles. The position made me feel small, helpless, utterly at their mercy.
I heard the sound of a belt sliding through fabric loops. Then another. The leather whispered; they must have doubled the belts over, as Emily’s daddies had done when they whipped her. My whole body tensed in anticipation.
The first strike came without warning, the leather connecting with my right cheek with a crack that echoed off the walls. The pain was immediate and searing, and somehow cold, too. They always spanked me hard during my sessions. They always made me understand I was being punished. Something about my daddies’ belts though, made me feel strangely like I had gotten into real trouble for the first time.
Before I could process the first blow, the second landed on my left cheek. Then another on the right. They alternated, working in a rhythm that gave me no time to prepare, no time to brace myself. The belts fell again and again, covering every inch of my bottom, wrapping around to catch the tender flesh where my ass met my thighs.
I bit my lip, trying to hold back the sounds that wanted to escape. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wouldn’t?—
The belt caught me low on my thigh and I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat before I could stop it.
“That’s it,” Daddy Bill said, his voice still cold. “Let us hear you, bad girl.”
The whipping continued, relentless and thorough. My bottom felt like it was on fire, the pain building with each strike until it consumed everything else. Tears streamed down my face, soaking into my hands.
“Do you have something to tell us, Little Pamela?” Daddy Ed asked, his belt still landing in steady rhythm.
I sobbed into my hands, my body shaking. They knew. They had to know. But admitting it felt like admitting defeat, like surrendering the last piece of myself I’d been trying to hold onto.
“I… I…” The words stuck in my throat.
Another lash landed, even harder than the others. I screamed again.
“Tell us,” Daddy Bill commanded.
“I sabotaged the code!” The confession burst out of me in a wail. “I embedded messages in the remarks. A backdoor to the facility. I encrypted it so someone could find it and?—”
My words dissolved into sobs. But even as I admitted what I’d done, even as my bottom burned with the consequences, a small voice in my head whispered:It’s not over. You’ll find another way. A better way. They can’t watch you every second.
The whipping stopped. Strong hands lifted me from the bed, and I felt Daddy Ed’s arm around my waist as he carried me toward the bathroom. My legs wouldn’t have supported me anyway.
They positioned me in the bathroom, bending me over the counter. I saw my reflection in the mirror—face streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, hair disheveled. I looked broken.
I heard water running in a sink behind me. I turned my face over my shoulder to see.
“Eyes front, Little Seventy-One,” Daddy Ed commanded. “You know that.”
He put his hand on my hip to hold me steady and spanked me three times. I yelped, the sound echoing off the tile. I realized with a hot blush that my fellow bad girls must all be awake after how much noise I’d made—all of them listening.
When I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror in front of me I could see what Daddy Bill was doing, beyond the humiliatingsight of my red, tearstained face. He had an enema bag. He was filling it.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please don’t?—”
“Reach back and spread those cheeks, bad girl,” Daddy Ed told me. “Don’t make us whip you anymore.”
I sobbed as I took the little halves of my thoroughly whipped bottom into my hands. I pulled them apart, weeping at the pain.
Then I cried out as the lubed nozzle pressed against my anus and slid inside. The water began to flow, warm and invasive, filling me in a way that made me feel utterly degraded. The cramping started almost immediately, my body trying to reject the intrusion.
“Hold it,” Daddy Ed said firmly. “You’ll hold it until we say otherwise.”
The water kept coming, more and more, until I felt like I would burst. The cramping intensified, waves of discomfort rolling through my abdomen. I sobbed openly, my hands gripping my punished cheeks, my hips moving back and forth in a futile attempt to make it feel better.
“Please,” I gasped. “Please, I can’t?—”
“You can,” Daddy Bill told me. “And you will.”
