Chapter Seventeen

Taylor was completely bare before the king, grabbing her ankles to reveal the tender, pink flesh of her trembling backside.

Behind her, Ireneo swung the paddle lightly—just enough to barely bump the Little's awaiting bottom. He tapped it several times. "Count out each swat, my dear."

"How many will I get, sir?"

"You will find out when the last swat hits," he said with a chuckle. He stopped tapping her bottom and admired the glossy sheen on the smooth paddle. He liked how precisely spaced the six holes that were drilled into the wide, flat end were. Those holes enabled the implement to move faster and deliver an even more impactful sting. Such was quite useful when correcting errant Littles.

And an errant Little was about to discover that.

Whack!

Taylor squealed in agony as the paddle kissed her cheeks for the first time. It didn't feel much like a kiss, though. It was more of a searing burn.

"Ouch!"

"Spankings are supposed to hurt, little one. You'll find no sympathy here. But did I tell you to say ouch or to call out the number?"

"I'm sorry, sir! One, sir!"

"Good. Just like that, little one."

The paddle connected a second time, making her jump up and cry out. But she managed to say, "Two, sir," through gritted teeth.

"Good girl," he praised. "Now do not break position. I'm afraid you have a long way to go yet."

He brought the paddle down hard again, the slapping sound loud as it flattened her already red cheeks, the noise exaggerated and almost deafening to Taylor.

"Three, sir," she said through her sniffling.

"That's a good girl," he said as he rubbed her bottom gently. She cooed in appreciation of the slight relief.

That was cut short, however, by the paddle falling heavily on her rear again. This time, the implement didn't fall flat but rather slanted to make contact right where her bottom met her upper thighs.

"Four, sir," she moaned. She began sobbing as the inferno spread.

The king didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. He whipped the paddle back and swung again, once more landing the implement across both sides of her lower butt.

"Five, sir," she said, though the words were quite muffled, being filtered through her agonizing cries.

"You'll receive a few more," Ireneo said.

"Yes, sir."

The sixth strike was the hardest.

"Six, sir!" she wailed, her body jolting forward and her eyes squeezing shut.

The seventh wasn't any better.

"Let's make it an even ten, shall we?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

The last three came one right after the other. They were positively dreadful. And they were all angled, aimed perfectly at catching her upper thigh.

"Eight, nine, ten sir," she sobbed. "Ouchie! Daddy, it hurts so bad!"

"I hope so," he said. He sat the paddle down and helped her stand upright. "Good girl. I think we'll leave it at that."

He scooped her into his arms. She clung to him and cried on his shoulder. "It's over, little one," he said. "The pain will fade. But I hope the lesson does not."

"Thank you, sir," she muttered through her sobs. She realized it was strange to actually thank him for the pain he'd just delivered. But she understood why this had happened. He cared for her in a way no one ever had before. He was willing to invest in her—to make her uncomfortable for her own good.

Did he love her? Could he already?

She thought she knew the answer. Because she felt as if she already loved him. There'd be time to discuss all that eventually. Right now, he held her tight, rocking her gently, letting her get the emotion out. He could feel the moisture on his shirt, and it made him proud that he was able to help her release the anxiety.

After several minutes, her sniffles became less frequent. Finally, the only sounds in the room were her heavy breathing and the steady tick-tock of the nearby wall clock.

He sat down and held her on his lap for another twenty minutes, giving the top of her head tender kisses.

It felt wonderful. For both of them.