Page 46 of Daddy's Lesson
“Four, Sir!”
Another red line, and she squirmed and danced in place while still managing to mostly stay in position. Her cheeks were flushed, and I could see a telltale dampness on the silk of her pajama bottoms.
Unable to stop myself, I grabbed her hips, and a handful of the fabric from the center of her bottom, bunching it up in my fist, exposing her luscious bottom. With my free hand holding the fabric in place, I moved my aim, and brought the cane down with a loud thwack across the center of her globes.
“Oooh,” she moaned, then quickly remembered to add, “Five, Sir!”
“Last one, babygirl.”
I watched as her back stiffened, and her legs spread further apart as she readied herself for what was coming.
Funishment or not, I made the last one count.
Her scream rent the air, and she fell to her knees in front of me panting. “Holy…. I was not expecting that… I mean… six! Six, Sir! Six!” She looked up at me with wide eyes, her expression horrified. “Please don’t make me start over.”
I chuckled. It was not at all my intention. “You look so pretty when you beg,” I teased, moving around so that I was no longer behind her, but in front of her, putting her face level with my very hard cock. The temptation to pull it out and start fucking her pretty little face was great, but this was not just about sex for me, and as difficult as it was, I needed to do my best to remember that at all times, no matter how hard it was. Literally. Pun intended.
Instead, I held out my hand and waited for her to take it, helping her to her feet. When she was standing, I pulled her into my arms and whispered in her ear.
“So, how do you feel about the ‘student becoming the teacher’ thing?”
She looked at me in surprise then tossed her head back. Her soft melodic laugh filled the room. When she stopped laughing, she looked at me, her eyes twinkling with mirth and mischief. “I have to admit, I don’t hate it. Although, I do have one complaint.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“It’s not really fair or true to life. I mean, when did I ever get to pull out a cane and start whipping bottoms when people didn’t do what they were told or failed to address me as Professor Kramer?” She looked at me pointedly. “I seem to remember you were one of my very worst offenders when it came to that.”
This time it was my turn to laugh. “Touché. And you’re right, it probably isn’t fair.”
Her eyebrows wiggled. “Does that mean you’re going to make it up to me?”
God, I wanted to. She had no idea how badly I wanted to. “No, it means it’s time for another lesson.”
I let go of her waist and crossed the room to the blackboard. Underneath Lesson 1, I wrote ‘Lesson 2: Follow Through’.
Zoe’s brow furrowed the corners of her mouth, turning into a frown as she tilted her head and regarded me with a quizzical expression. “I don’t know what that means. I mean… I do, just… not in this context.”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
No doubt leaving her even more confused, I stalked through the living room and kitchen, into the dining area we’d destroyed a few days ago. Now, thanks to the cleaning crew I’d had Nyla send over at the buttcrack of dawn, the table and floors were sparkling, and the only clue that anything out of the ordinary had happened in there were the paint-splattered walls. On the table there were two items: a wooden paddle, and a new bag of paints from the craft store.
Zoe looked at both of them and turned to me with a frown. “I still don’t understand.”
“You will, though.” I picked up the wooden paddle. “We got a bit distracted on Thursday, but before our fun we were talking about rules. Specifically, the one you haven’t been following.”
She may have had more than a decade on me, but when her eyes went wide as saucers and her hands flew back to cover her bottom, she looked just like a naughty little girl trying to avoid a spanking.
I had to hide a grin. “What rule have you not been following?” I prompted, giving the paddle a swing to test it.
Her sigh was heavy, and her face fell as she answered. “I’m supposed to create every day. For at least thirty minutes.” There was a moment of thick silence, then she looked up at me, her eyes blazing. “It’s not fair! I didn’t ask for help with that, and I didn’t technically agree to that rule!”
As if I was considering her argument, I nodded slowly, my expression pensive. “Question: You said you haven’t painted in years.”
“Right. That’s why?—”
I held up my hand to silence her protests. “Next question. How often do you think about painting? How often do you think you will, or you want to, or you’ll get back into it tomorrow, or next week, or, or, or?”
Her mouth dropped into a little ‘o’ of understanding. “Every single day,” she admitted with a soft sigh.