I obeyed with shaking hands, washing between my legs and my bottom cheeks while they observed. Every movement felt like an admission of defeat, like evidence of how completely they controlled me.
“Stand up,” Daddy Bill said when I’d finished. “Go bend over the counter again.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t know what was coming, but I felt absolutely certain it would only get worse. I positioned myself over the counter, my hands gripping the edge, my whipped bottom presented once more. In the mirror I saw Daddy Bill retrieve something from the same cabinet that had held the enema bag—a plug, but larger than any I’d seen before. Easily two inches in diameter, maybe more.
“Spread your cheeks,” my brown-haired daddy commanded.
I tried not to give in, but the fear was just too much. I turned around and clasped my hands in front of me.
“No… no, please? Please, Daddy?”
I looked from Daddy Bill to Daddy Ed, who had folded his arms across his chest.
“Please?” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “I’m… I’m so sorry. Can’t you… can’t you fuck me there instead? My bottom is so sore… and… and that’s the rule, isn’t it?”
Daddy Bill leaned over to growl his response into my ear.
“Oh, we’re going to fuck you, Little Pamela. We’re going to fuck you until you feel like you can’t pull your panties up. But that ass of yours isn’t sore enough for the kind of girl you’ve shown us you are. Don’t make this even worse. Do as Daddy tells you and spread those cheeks.”
With a sob of fear and shame and helpless need I turned around to face my reflection. I reached back with trembling hands and pulled the burning cheeks of my punished bottom apart. Then I felt lubricant being applied, felt Daddy Ed’s fingers working it into my tender opening. The plug pressed against me and I whimpered.
“Please, Daddy… please… It’s… it’s too big, I can’t?—”
The plug pushed harder, stretching me impossibly wide. I screamed as it breached me, the burn intense and terrible. My body tried to reject it, but Daddy Ed was relentless, pushing until suddenly the widest part passed through and my muscles closed around the narrow neck.
The scream that tore from my throat echoed off the tile. I knew every girl in the showers heard it. Knew they understood exactly what was happening to me.
“Up,” Daddy Ed said.
I straightened slowly, feeling the enormous plug lodged inside me. Every movement made it shift, made me acutely aware of how full I was, how thoroughly claimed.
They led me out of the bathroom and down the hallway, past the showers where I heard the water running and knew the other girls were in there, listening. We walked to the cafeteria where the morning light was just beginning to filter through the high windows.
In the center of the room stood a small platform I’d never seen before—maybe a foot high, just large enough for someone to stand on. My daddies guided me to it and positioned me facing the wall.
“Bend forward,” Daddy Bill instructed. “Hands on your ankles.”
I bent slowly, my whipped bottom lifting as I reached down to grasp my ankles. The position made the plug feel like it was pressing even deeper. My punished cheeks felt stretched and burnt. I heard movement above me. I realized they must be hanging something on the wall above where I stood.
“The sign says ‘I was a very, very bad girl,’” Daddy Ed told me, his voice flat. “You’ll stay in this position until breakfast is over. Every girl who comes in will see exactly what happens to bad girls who try to deceive their daddies.”
They left me there, and I heard their footsteps fade as they exited the cafeteria. I stood alone on the platform, bent overwith my hands on my ankles, my whipped bottom on display, the enormous plug visible between my cheeks, the sign hanging above me announcing my shame to anyone who entered.
The cramping in my legs started almost immediately. My back ached from the position. The plug felt impossibly big, terribly present, a depth of punishment I hadn’t even imagined. But worse than all of that was the knowledge that soon the other girls would file in for breakfast, would see me like this, would understand the full extent of my disgrace.
I heard the cafeteria doors open. Heard footsteps entering. Heard the sharp intake of breath as whoever it was took in the sight of me displayed on the platform.
More footsteps. Whispers. I couldn’t see who was there but I felt their eyes on my punished bottom, on the plug stretching me, on my complete humiliation.
“Eyes forward, ladies,” I heard Mr. Jenkins say. “Take your seats.”
The sounds of chairs scraping, trays being set down. The normal routine of breakfast happening around me while I stood on display, a living warning of what happened to girls who stepped out of line.
My legs trembled with the effort of holding the position. My back screamed in protest. The plug felt like it had split me open. But I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because some part of me understood that this was exactly what I deserved.
I had tried to deceive the men I loved. Had tried to sabotage everything they’d built. Had tried to escape the very thing I needed most.
And now I was paying the price.
