Page 17 of Daddy's Little Liar
“Ouch, ow! Wait! Not there, not there!” Her hand lost contact with his knee yet again, but she forgot about not interfering. Slapping back, flailing in a mad effort to catch his arm, she did but only long enough for him to lock her misbehaving hand in the grip of the arm already hugging her hips.
A wisp of cool air swept up the backs of her thighs and over her burning ass as he yanked her skirt up. He tucked it under his arm, baring her naked bottom to the full force and effect of his discipline.
“Not there!” she cried out, but ‘there’ was exactly where he struck her. The entire surface of her ass was hot as the worst sunburn she’d ever had, but instead of helping her get in out of the rays, Daddy had her locked down. His spanking hand kept returning to the sore areas, smacking again and again, harder and harder. Even when he wasn’t hitting the same spot, the swats were overlapping the sides of her bottom, the upper swells, the lower curve, and that excruciatingly sensitive place at the top of her thighs that made her feet kick up in belated defense of a backside that couldn’t possibly bear any more. Surely, he was going to stop now. He had to stop!
“Please!” she shrieked. She couldn’t take anymore!
Except she could, and he was only too willing to show her what she could and would take while she was pinned across his knee.
His palm was relentless. He didn’t care how much she pleaded or cried, and she’d lost the only hope she had of breaking free. She would never lie to another mechanic again for as long as she lived. His grip was without compromise, and now that they were skin to skin, the bare slap of his palm meting out firm discipline to the burning, hurting curves of her bare ass was elevating her pain to whole new levels of torture.
This was not the porno she had been looking for, but it was the one she needed.
Clinging to his knee with the hand he didn’t have pinned down, Georgia fought herself to bear what he gave her with what little dignity she had left, but there was no dignity in getting spanked. At the supper table, no less. Because she’d offered herself like a whore to someone she didn’t know, and he thought she was worth better than that.
Georgia lost control. One minute, she had her teeth gritted against what she hoped was the worst—she couldn’t imagine how anything that hurt this much could hurt any worse. In the next, tears were pouring out of her, along with great gusting sobs that weren’t pretty or ladylike, but they were real. They were heartfelt. They were even freeing.
The smothering weight of guilt was only measured once one was out from underneath it. Georgia felt the break inside her, the massive crack of pressure before it released. The intensity of years’ worth of worries, weight, and struggling to make herself into something and someone worth the ideal she had built up in her mind as what she had to be—broke apart.
It broke under Daddy’s spanking hand, shattering beneath the great, walloping swats he delivered over every inch of her bucking, wriggling backside.
It washed out of her, carried on a flow of tears she hadn’t meant to cry, and now she couldn’t stop.
It fell to the godawful teal of his 1950s kitchen floor, pooling with her tears, then somewhere in the aftermath of all her sobbing, eventually just disappeared, evaporated, stopped.
Like Daddy’s hand stopped.
No longer delivering its painful brand of discipline, it came to rest once more, softly stroking the curves of her burning, throbbing, aching bottom. Soothing the hurt he’d created without stealing an ounce of it away, he let her wallow in the heat and discomfort. As mires went, it was far more pleasant than the guilt had been. After a few gentle passes, he pulled her skirt down, covering her nakedness from view, then helped her sit up.
She groaned, once when her sore foot accidentally bumped the floor, then again when her bottom made contact with his hard thigh. She’d never wanted to rub so badly in all her life, but it was just too mortifying. He’d scolded her. He’d spanked her. He’d rubbed her bottom without leaking so much as the slightest hint he might find her attractive. Now here she sat, balanced on a sore butt in his lap, her head on his shoulder, and her face burrowed into his neck as he held and rocked her.
A girl had to draw the line somewhere. No matter how much it hurt, she would not—absolutely would not—rub her butt.
She sniffled, hiccupping on an indrawn breath that brought with it all the comforting nuances of clean houses, car repairs, leftover lasagna, and him. Above all, him. Daddy’s scent.
She didn’t even know his name.
