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I ripped my hand away from my pussy. A cry of alarm, in which I could hear to my distress a good deal of frustrated arousal, burst from my chest.
“Now, now,” Shelly said, from a distance that could only mean she had also stood up, and was coming over to the living room. “It’s not as bad as all that. Your bottom’s going to hurt tonight, and you’ll be a little sore tomorrow, but that’s just the reminder you need.”
“You earned this, honey,” Jake added, as his weight made the old boards of the farmhouse floor creak. “Sass is something that comes with a price, in this family.”
The crease in my forehead got deeper as his words sank in. This family. Could he really mean that he considered me a member of his family? The sheer complexity of my psychological—and physiological—reaction to what Jake had just said threatened to make me scream out of sheer confusion.
The chairs in front of the hearth, one for Jake and one for Shelly, were turned so that with my face toward the mantelpiece I could see Shelly sitting down in hers. She reached into a basket next to the chair and pulled out a piece of wool and two needles. I blinked, and it seemed so strange that it took me a long moment before I understood that she meant to knit, while her husband whipped my bare butt.
At the same time, just behind her, Jake took the strap back off its hook. I felt my face pucker, and the tears begin to trickle again.
“Please,” I begged. “Sir… you already… I’m…”
Jake shook his head, the look on his face solemn as he walked slowly closer, toward his own chair, where he had me, the offender, bent over with my bare bottom poised for the family strap. Panic crawled in my belly and I found myself putting my hands behind me, to defend my backside. I knew that would only make things worse, but the reflex was irresistible.
“You need a real whipping, Grace,” he said, “and you’re going to get one. Now get those hands away from your rear end. If I have to hold them behind your back, it’ll mean extra licks from the strap.”
“She’s just scared, sir,” Shelly said, her voice gentle, not challenging her husband but explaining. My heart warmed to her in a terribly complicated way; the conflicting ideas that she had come to sit and knit in order to comfort me, and that she was there to enjoy the sight of my just punishment for sassing my foster father, began to have a battle inside my mind.
“Yes,” I sobbed, though part of me didn’t want to admit it, and that made me realize that despite everything I still had some defiance left. The situation had begun to seem less crazy, because Jake and Shelly clearly had a logical notion of what they intended to do with me, but that didn’t make it any less horrible. They meant to treat me like a daughter, but to be their daughter meant, for me, a fate that currently seemed a lot worse than jail.
“Yes, what, honey?” Shelly asked from her chair, her voice sweet but serious.
“Oh, God,” I said. “Yes, ma’am… yes, sir… I’ll… I’ll say whatever you want, if you don’t… don’t… do this.”
“No chance of that, Grace,” Jake said gruffly, stepping out of my field of vision. “Get your hands away from your bottom. Last chance.”
I breathed in and out through my nose, trying to keep myself from bursting out in a storm of sobs and tears. I squeezed my butt cheeks in my fingers, as if saying goodbye to them in their only-slightly-sore state. With a whimper, I took my hands away and put them, balled into little fists, on the cushion beside my face.
“Good girl,” Jake said.
CHAPTER 8
Grace
If I had thought the last time Jake had called me a good girl had roused complicated thoughts and feelings, it didn’t hold a candle to this time. When his hand descended onto my waist, working its way up underneath my t-shirt, my whole body seemed to seethe with an impossible mixture of rebellion and need, fear and arousal and even—because of the good girl—an irresistible glow of… pride? Gratitude?
The question of what the fuck was wrong with me began to seem terribly, terribly important—more important even than the matter of what was wrong with Jake and Shelly. They seemed to know what they were doing, when it came to making me feel like my entire world, my very identity, had to change. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with the part of me that wanted their help—the glow in my chest to have received that tiny bit of praise, good girl, from the man about to whip me with his family strap.
All of it, mixed together, seemed to come out in the way my body responded when I felt his big, strong hand on the bare skin of my back. I started to struggle, writhing over the arm of the chair. Jake increased the pressure on my back, pinioning me in place.
“That’s alright, honey,” he said. “I know you’re scared, just like your foster mama said.”
For a moment, despite the way he had clamped down on my waist, I thought he meant that he had decided not to whip me. Then I heard the strap whistle through the air, and I heard the crack of it across my bottom. A split second later, more quickly than I had felt it through my jeans, I felt a line of fire on my rear end. I felt my body try to rise up, to get up and run away, but Jake kept me precisely where I was, and brought the leather down again.
I screamed, as much out of fear of the pain to come as from the atrocious agony my foster father had already meted out to my poor butt. I kicked out, trying to make it more difficult for him to whip my backside. My jeans, still around my knees, restrained me so that I couldn’t do anything but flail my feet in the air, much too conscious of how the movement of my thighs lewdly exposed my privates to Jake’s eyes.
“No, Grace,” he said, and for the first time I heard what Jake sounded like when he put the full weight of his authority behind it. The no made my tummy flip all by itself, but then he reinforced it by whipping my upper thighs, hard and fast, until I put my feet back on the floor, sobbing.
“Those don’t count, honey,” Shelly commented from her chair.
I had closed my eyes the moment Jake’s hand had come to rest on my back, but I opened them to see, through the film of my tears, that Shelly had her attention on her knitting, a crease in her forehead and her lower lip caught between her teeth. Somehow I had time to wonder, even through the agony in my backside, just how it made Shelly feel to watch me get a whipping: did her expression just mean she was focused on her knitting? Or did she experience the same kind of conflict I’d felt watching Frannie get her spanking from the guard at the gas station?
“There we go,” Jake said in satisfaction, and started to punish me in earnest.
All thoughts about Shelly or Frannie or the trip to Grasskiln or anything at all, except the fiery agony in my ass, flew away. My body bucked with each lash, and suddenly I had only enough control over my limbs to try, as hard as I could, not to struggle; all that mattered was that Jake stop whipping me.
I screamed and screamed. I kept my eyes closed, my fists curled up against my face, my tears flowing onto the leather cushion. My bottom felt like my foster father had applied a sizzling hot iron to it, and each new application of the strap seemed to raise the temperature, its individual pain fading into the terrible inferno.
