Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

His grip was gentle, his palm warm as he clasped her hand in his. Walking her to the kitchen table, she watched as he pulled out the sturdy wooden chair set at the head of it. How was it possible that he should seem even bigger when he sat instead of while standing? His biceps bulged beneath the wet fabric of his cotton shirt. God, his lap was just as broad as his shoulders, his hard thighs seeming every bit as capable of holding her as the rest of him. And his hands…

She trembled, her thighs quivering out of control as she stood between his knees.

Call me Daddy , he'd said.

Oh what funny things saying that word had done to her. Her tummy kept quivering, the fluttering of a thousand butterflies driving her crazy, heightening her already peaked awareness of him, his size, his closeness. His Daddy-ness, lurching out of the blue so unexpectedly. Just like in her dreams.

Except this wasn't a dream. For the first time in her life, it was all too real, and she had no idea how she was going to handle it. She was scared, but also excited, but also anxious and titillated and euphoric all at once. And it was crazy, because she'd already felt what his hard hand was capable of. The last spanking really had hurt. Truth be told, she still had tender spots on her bottom, and she didn't think for a second he was going to go any gentler with her now.

"Look at me," Daddy– no –Hamish ordered, waiting until she dragged her gaze up from his hands and his lap. Her timid eyes met his determined green ones. She bit her bottom lip, needing the pain to help ground her before her wayward imagination took flight, turning this crazy moment into something far sexier than it actually was.

What was wrong with her?

So far, literally everything had gone wrong on this trip, so why should this be any different? her subconscious whispered.

Oh god, oh god, the rest of her wailed as he gave her hand a tug, encouraging her to come a half-step closer. His eyes remained locked on hers as he lowered his hands to gather the hem of her skirt.

Was this really happening? Her hands clenched into nervous fists as he raised the wet fabric all the way up to her hips.

"Hold," he softly directed, and she did. He paused, waiting. For what, she had no idea, not until he finally said, "What do you say, my wee lass?"

Oh. Of course.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. "Thank you, Daddy."

For a moment, she thought she saw amusement tug at the corners of his mouth.

"I was looking for ‘yes, Daddy'," he said, "but thank you works."

Oh. She quickly dropped her gaze, heated embarrassment flooding up her chest to burn her cheeks. Only now she was watching as his hands released her bunched skirt hems into her grip before dropping once more, fingers hooking into the elastic of her underwear.

"Look at me, Chloe."

God, her name in his thick Scottish brogue made her tremble harder. She couldn't handle this, and It only got worse when she crumpled to his will and locked her gaze with his once more.

Down her panties went, straight past her knees to her ankles, and she didn't know what was worse. Having to stare so deeply into his soul while he bared her most intimate parts, or the fact that he never once lowered his eyes to look at her… down there. No, he was a gentleman of a Daddy, giving her all the modesty he could while sparing her nothing in the disciplinary aspect. She was humbled, embarrassed, fascinated, even as he puddled her underwear around her feet.

"What's brought you to this, lassie?"

She couldn't remember anything prior to his fingers slipping into the waistband of her panties.

Oh. Oh yeah…

"I say wrong things."

He tsked, the faint smile vanishing behind renewed sternness. "You kept apologizing when I told you no, dinnae you?"

She twisted her skirt hems, sprinkling water down her shaky legs. "Why can't I just be sorry when bad things happen?"

"Because you dinnae cause those bad things, yet somehow you're shouldering the blame. I dinnae like that, I've told you nae to do it, and you continued anyway. I really dinnae like that."

"But can't I be sorry that my bad luck is affecting you?" she wailed.

"And there you go again," he growled. "Shouldering the blame for things not of your doing. You dinnae flatten my tire. You dinnae cause the rain, and you dinnae break my key in the lock."

"But I made you break into your hou–eek!"

In one swift motion, his arm slung around her waist, his other hand grabbing her by the thigh. The world suddenly spun topsy-turvy, and down she went across his lap.

His thighs were even stronger, harder, more muscular beneath her belly than they had seemed. Nervous instinct had her flailing to get up again, but his arm to the small of her back kept her pinned down, and the next thing she knew the flat of his broad hand slapped crisp and hard upon the surface of her ass. Her very wet, very naked, and now sharply tingling ass.

Her shriek became a gasp. Flinging back her hand, she scrambled to cover as much of her bottom as she could. "Ow ow ow! Nooo!"

But too late, he caught her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back and pinning that down now as well.

"You dinnae make me do anything," Hamish scolded, his arm rising and falling, bringing slap after painful slap raining down all over her wet, smarting flesh. She bucked, twisting and flailing and finally kicking when she couldn't break free. That lasted only until he clamped her legs in the vise of his and suddenly she could barely move at all.

"That was a mistake," he told her, the clink of a metal buckle accentuating his words before it was followed by the hiss of thick leather tugging free of pants loops. "And this , my wee bairn, is why you'll never do that again."

Worn leather lay a line of pure fire across the entire surface of her buttocks. Though she knew he wasn't striking half as hard as when he'd used his hand, the pain was shocking, like nothing her dreams could have prepared her for. He got her sitspots, the tops of her thighs, and every spankable inch of her "bahootie" no matter how she writhed and cried. And God, did she ever cry. More than she'd done in her night-time fantasies; more than she thought herself capable of. And yet, growing up beneath the hurt and raging bonfire the leather was layering into her flesh, was the mortification of building liquid lust slipping between her pussy lips. No longer was the blazing heat scalding her buttocks only. It was moving inside her, delving so deep that her clit started throbbing along in wounded time.

"Please!" she wailed, and suddenly the secretive Little inside her that had tried all her life to stay safe and hidden, came bursting forth. "Owie! Owie!"

"Please and owie, what?" he demanded, bringing another slash of his belt down sharply across her thighs.

"Daddy! Daddy !" she bawled, and there went the dam of her tears, shattering into a thousand pieces as she drooped helplessly over his lap. She couldn't remember when last she'd cried so hard or for so long. All she knew was agony, hurt, guilt, sorrow, and, weirdly, throbbing arousal that had no business inserting itself into the afterglow of a belt whipping.

When exactly he stopped spanking her, she didn't know. One minute it was happening, and in the next, it was over, leaving her squirming and sobbing. She must have given him one hell of a show, because as the raging of her tears began to cry itself out, suddenly she became aware of a hard prodding under her belly.

Oh God, it was his cock.

Her eyes snapped open and she stared through watery tears at the floor. Sniffling and hiccuping and just trying to catch her breath. The fire in her bottom didn't care that the spanking had ended. It was still building, growing hotter and throbbing harder until it consumed her all over again.

He was supposed to let her up now. Any minute, his legs would release hers and her arm would be unpinned. He would lower her skirt, and she would have to get up and stand alone in front of him, consumed by guilt and sad feelings and confusion and horniness, and he might even scold her again, and she didn't think she could handle any of that. A whole new wave of tears overwhelmed her and she wilted, limp and hopeless, able only to cover her face and cry.

His warm bare hand came to rest on the surface of her bottom, gently stroking, kicking up the flames and throbs, and yet somehow soothing the lingering hurt.

"Come here, me wee one," Hamish rumbled, soft and gentle. He helped her up, but when she tried to stand all the way, he gathered her into his arms on his lap, tucking her head under his chin as he rocked her through the last of her tears.

"The only time we say we're sorry is when we do another person wrong. Saying it all the time, and when you aren't to blame, makes the words meaningless to those who hear it. Do you ken me, lassie?"

Chloe burrowed into his embrace, her reply distorted by breathy hitches and gasps. "Yes, Daddy," she said, granting the honorific without any prompting. His strong, steady heartbeat was right under her cheek and ear. The lulling beat eased away the last of her anxiety, though not the confusion, or the horniness which only got worse when he pressed a tender kiss on the top of her head.

Unable to stop herself, she rested a timid hand upon his chest. For a moment, she could have sworn his arms tightened around her, but then he let her go.

He patted her hip. "Up," he said simply.

Her legs wobbled, but she obeyed.

"It's five minutes of reflection time in the corner for you." He patted her hip again. "March now. Any corner, just pick one."

Head bowed, she went to the closest, a nook between the window beside them and a cupboard of antique dishes.

"Bare bottom on display please."

Wiping at the drying tears on her face, she obeyed that command too, and stood there, head down and backside on full display.

A tickle and tug at the back of her hair made her think he'd just touched her.

"I'll be back in less than a minute."

She snapped around to look at him, and her expression must have told him everything she was trying so hard not to say. Don't go. Don't leave me.

He caught her chin, refusing to let her look away.

"I'm not leaving you, darling," he told her firmly. "I'm going to bring you a good hearty supper, then you'll hie yourself straight off to bed. You're jet-lagged and tired, whether you know it now or not. I dinnae want you to be either tomorrow morning, on your first real day of vacation. Right?"

She nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

He gave the tip of her chin a little squeeze. For a moment, she thought he was looking at her lips, but when he leaned in toward her, it was her forehead that received his extremely platonic kiss. Her nipples tingled even as her heart sank, but only just a little. Because despite what had just happened, he wasn't really her Daddy and she wasn't really his "wee bairn" or "lassie" or even his darling.

She was just the girl renting his cabin, and she'd been telling herself this practically from the moment they'd met.

So, why did that make her so sad?