Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
I shook my head. Really, it happened completely instinctively, so it was more like I felt my head shake, my chin move across the worn leather seat of the armchair. The way Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter were discussing the horrible, unimaginable fact that he had a strap in his hand and he would soon start whipping my ass with it… it made the odd sense of detachment that had started to engulf me even more striking, the strange floating feeling even more distancing from my body.
Then my foster father’s arm tightened around my waist, and the shaking of my head turned into a wild flailing of my body. It seemed like an intimate communication from Mr. Carpenter’s body to mine, that my terrible lesson would start momentarily and that he would make certain my backside remained firmly in place to receive it. My nervous system seemed to react on its own, though my floating-away mind told me that it would do me no good at all. I tried desperately to free myself, even as I heard the horrid whistling sound that could only be the strap, traveling fast through the air.
I heard it before I felt it, a crack that resounded from the rafters of the farmhouse living room. That very sound sent a wave of heat to my cheeks. I thought suddenly about the humiliating household ‘tradition’ my foster father had informed me of, of girls putting their faces in the cushion when they got whipped. I wondered if it might have come into use as much to save the girl from having her blushing face seen as to make her bottom the most prominent part of her anatomy.
When I did feel the lash a split second later I thought for a moment that I might have been terrified of nothing. It stung, but not so much that I screamed or even grunted. Then I understood, because the discomfort built into pain, and Mr. Carpenter delivered a second lick across the seat of my jeans, and my first cry, a little grunting sort of whimper, had already escaped from my chest.
“Oh,” I heard myself say, into the chair cushion. “Wait… please…”
Another cut from the strap cracked across my bottom, lower down, and I cried out louder. Despite my jeans, whose denim I had thought pretty thick, it felt like the leather made contact with my bare skin. It came down again, and I felt my backside start to squirm, desperately trying to soothe the smart, my hips bucking over the arm of the chair though Mr. Carpenter’s arm kept me from moving more than an inch or so.
“Please what?” he asked, and lashed me again, even harder and with an even louder gunshot sound of leather against denim.
A sob came from my chest.
“Please, sir,” I whimpered, feeling the tears start to flow freely.
His grip loosened slightly. Hope rose inside me.
“Alright, honey,” he said. The little spark of relief, to my distress, seemed to be accompanied by something else—a strange sense that maybe I’d gotten away with something, despite the lingering soreness in my bottom. It really hadn’t been that bad, I told myself. “Now show me you’re learning. Go ahead and take down your jeans and your panties. You’ll stay here, waiting, while your foster mama and I finish dinner.”
Again I felt grateful that he couldn’t see my face. I felt my jaw go slack against the leather of the cushion. My cheeks blazed with a scalding blush. Much, much worse, down below I felt another kind of warmth—the kind I’d gotten just a bit of experience with, so far, when making out with boys in dark corners of the dorm. I had no idea why, but something about the remaining sting from my foster father’s belt seemed to intensify that private, intimate need to a level I’d never felt before. I suddenly wondered if I’d started to get the gusset of my panties wet.
Then I remembered, with a fiery flare in both places, that I hadn’t had any clean panties to put on that morning. The realization made me frantic for a moment, and without any real intention to I started to struggle again, my body trying just to get up and run away, as if an enormous farmer weren’t pinning me down under his arm, with a strap in his other hand ready to punish my disobedience.
Because Mr. Carpenter had loosened his grip, I managed to twist about six inches, but it didn’t take more than a second for him to tighten his arm and put me right back with my face in the cushion. At the same time he started to whip me again, harder and faster than before.
“Sir… sir…” I screamed. “Please…”
He didn’t stop though. My ass felt like it had caught on fire, and suddenly the idea of having him whip me with my pants down and my bottom bare sent a wave of panic shooting through my body so intensely that I screamed, as much in fright as in pain.