Tough Girl Ch. 05 - FINALE

Kinky Reader -- The players are 18+ in age, certified STD free, and practice birth control. No drugs or alcohol allowed... except for unwinding later, as we'll see. Advisory: implied incest.

Enjoy,

xxox Emm

PS. This is also to announce my retirement from Literotica smut writing. It stopped feeding my attention-and-praise fetish. But I wanted to wrap up this one thing. Cheers.

TOUGH GIRL Ch. 05 - FINALE.

by Emmalee_Strict

© 2025

Full Stop.

* * *

Vic whispered, his voice edged with regret, "This is no joke, Bree."

"And neither am I, Victor!"

Since he didn't seem to be getting the message, she underscored her point by hocking and spitting in his face.

"The fuck?" Wiping away the gob of saliva, his eyes narrowed with glowering menace. Bree laughed in his face. That bridge burned, there was no turning back now. She turned her eyes to Master James, the man of the hour, the real arbiter of her fate.

As he set his bride-to-be aside and rose to his feet, she shot him a look like, Yes you, I'm talking to you!

"I told you, all of you... I. Am. Your. Fucking. Pain-Pig!"

* * *

Behind the couch, naked and kneeling, Bree's eyes fixed on Master James rapidly striding her way, zipping up his fly, making the bend around the end of the couch.

In her peripheral vision, the sharp motion caught her notice, and her eyes flickered that way.

The palm of a fierce hand held aloft, brimming with potential energy as it wound up for the blow. The insult she had done to Master Vic's face -- now crouching and coiled beside her -- she knew it could not go unanswered.

Yes. Oh yes, Bree's mind said, processing everything in slo-mo. Yes pleeeeease...

She didn't even brace herself for impact, because instinctively, she knew she wanted her block knocked off.

Deserved. No resistance. Bring it on.

The next instant, she saw the hand catch Vic's wrist, arresting the imminent bitch-slap, and her eyes rose up to the face connected to the hand.

"No, Vic," Master James said, his expression steely calm. Bree saw his head swivel, taking in the whole room. "Everybody, stop whatever fucking and sucking you're doing -"

Her eyes riveted to his face, Bree heard behind her the chorus of moans and squeals, disappointed sighs, male and female, and of wet, squishy noises.

"Untie the bridesmaids and the slave-whores, get some food and drink into 'em. Everyone... settle down."

He turned his eyes, puzzled and edged with kindness, down on the mutineer kneeling at his feet.

In Master's direct presence for the first time, his body towering over her... broad-chested, older, impeccably dressed... she felt smaller than she was before ... smaller than a microbe, a bug on a glass lab slide... a quark. She felt more naked than already was. She felt in danger. But at the same time, protection. She was too confused to work it out...

"We have ourselves a full stop here"," said Master James.

#_#

Darkness filled the field of Bree's vision. In the void she saw her life lived again, but stripped of all joy, friendship, meaning in her actions, value in her existence... of any pleasure she had ever known. In that blackness, corpuscles of dancing ghost-sparks broke apart, spun and dipped... their orbits slowed to an ungainly waltz. Time passed, the river ebbed...

She opened her eyes.

A small log crackled in the black metal, kiva-style hearth. Lazily, she looked around. The "bridal suite" lay at the end of the long upstairs-upstairs hallway, easily the biggest room on the floor. It boasted a huge attached bathroom and hot tub, mini-kitchen, bedroom with a California King four-poster, and a spacious livingroom-lounge area. In one corner, two velvet-upholstered armchairs angled in to face the cheerful fire in the woodstove.

In one, Bree sat with her legs curled up under one hip, dressed in a short white kimono, slipper-socks, and -- apart from her forever-collar and manacles -- nothing else.

Behind her, Master James was at the wet bar. "Water?"

When she didn't answer, he looked her way. But anticipating him, she looked down first.

"Eyes," Master James instructed. Instantly, the girl obeyed. He frowned and shook his head, "No -- no, my mistake. No commands, be yourself, protocols are off. Understood?"

Doe-eyed, she nodded her head yes.

"Ugh," the man rolled his eyes. "That one too. Voice?"

Shocking herself a little, she laughed. "I understand, Sir."

"You don't need that either. But I suspect..."

"No, you're right..." She cleared her throat. "You are correct, Sir. I can't think to call you any other way."

"That's fine, I'll take it," he smiled, returning his attention back to the wet bar. "Good girl."

Unnhhh, the soft moan escaped her parted lips. Then, Am I though?

She looked away. Tears started up in her eyes. She dipped her face, "I'm sorry, Sir."

"Shush-shush," he admonished her. "I simply asked if you wanted water, silly girl. I mean, let's see -- there's cognac and brandy too, umm, there's --"

"Wine, Sir?" Pressing her luck, "Red?"

"Of course."

She closed her eyes. She saw the cobwebs clearing inside her head, the Master's calm moving her back in the direction of herself... not quite there, but on track.

He came around her chair and handed her the wineglass. "I think you'll like this. It's Clos Pegase Hommage cab, Napa Valley, 2019."

The girl took the glass, stared at the blood-red vintage, but didn't drink.

He went to his own chair and settled down. His necktie unknotted, collar loose, cuffs still turned up, latex gloves gone from his large, manicured hands. From the look of his snifter, Bree guessed he went for the cognac. The Master lazed back comfortably, smiling at her.

Then he manspread.

Bree gasped. It was a bell in her head and a pilot light in her pussy -- like it was the subliminal spy signal, and she was the Manchurian Candidate of suckslut whores. This activated, she set her glass on the table between their chairs, nimbly leapt from the chair and fell to her knees between his legs. One hand settled on his thigh, and the other reached for his zipper --

"Ah-ah-ah." The hard point of one index finger pressed into her forehead, arresting the forward lunge of her mouth. "Didn't I say --?"

Her face tipped up to meet his eyes, smiling eagerly. "To be myself, Sir?"

"Hah, touché." He took his hand away from her face and eyed her appraisingly. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, Sir."

"Ahh, that explains a lot." His face screwed up a little. "Same as my daughter..." His voice and his gaze trailed off. He looked at her again. "What's your name?"

"Breanna, Sir."

"Breanna..." he began.

"People call me Bree, Sir."

"Bree, you're still wound up like a Swiss watch. I want you relaxed. Let's talk."

The waving motion of his hand sent her backpedaling swiftly into her chair. He reached over the table to offer his glass in toast. "À v otre santé."

"Cheers." They clinked glasses. She watched him take a sip of his cognac before she brought her own glass to her lips --

Then paused. "Um, Sir?"

"Ah, yes. I like your instincts," he chuckled. "What do they tell you?"

"Drinking isn't for players. Especially slave-whores."

He nodded. "That's right. While enslaved, your lips would never, under any circumstances, touch a drop. And I don't permit anyone to play under the influence."

He shrugged. "But we are no longer players. And you are no longer a slave."

Bree felt something leaden drop in her belly. Again she felt her eyes dampen, but fought back the tears; her self-blame kicked in next, luckily, and hardened her; inside that shell, she felt very much alone. But she quickly processed the news, and realized it made righteous sense. Her time as a captive slave-whore was over.

"Am I still not allowed to say I'm sorry?"

"Feeling relaxed?" he asked, gesturing to her to drink.

Finally, she did. The wine felt smooth, fine and warm going down. "Sure."

"Then we might as well get it over with."

She took a deep breath. "Sir, I am so, so sorry I lost control and acted out. I spoiled your party, Sir. I ruined it for everybody. I am so fucking mortified, I want to curl up into a ball right here in this chair, shrink into nothing, Sir, and die."

"Uh-huh," James nodded. "Well, you may be mortified, but I am... mollified. I mean, yes, the outburst was wrong of you. And you're right, you ruined it for everybody..."

He rolled his eyes toward the door. "Although by now, I'm sure they've recovered. Anyway, you're still under my, um, jurisprudence, though. Enough so that I'll need to see you pay for that at some point..."

Bree shuddered. Instantly, her pussy slobbered.

"That's just the rules. But they're my rules. That means I get the prerogative of looking at things whatever way I choose."

Bree drank again, blinking her agreement over the rim of her glass. "Thank you, Sir."

"In your case," he went on, "I'm glad you acted out when you did. Otherwise, you were falling deeper and deeper into a scene where you were way out over your skis. I don't know if I would've recognized it before it was too late."

"Too late for --?"

"You may think it was a demand for attention, Bree. And it was." He shook his head, "But I also saw it as a cry for help."

Bree opened her mouth but said nothing. His words sunk into her like an iron grip inside a velvet glove. She felt chastised beyond the pale of what she thought she'd done wrong, and with it, a thrill of admiration for how astutely the older man read her. She felt transparent in his eyes. She pictured herself nude as she had been in the living room, but imagined him seeing through her to something even more naked. At the same time, it warmed her pussy to think that the Master had noticed her on the play floor at all. She felt scrutinized, shame at the scrutiny, and arousal at the shame.

She felt bitch-slapped, bucked up, and embraced. She felt despised and she felt cared for.

She felt safe.

"How?" she asked.

"How what?"

"How did you know?"

"Some of it I noticed without noticing." He placed the snifter on a coaster on the table, set his elbows on the armrests, and folded his hands before him. "You know, at first -- subliminally, I mean, while I was reading the room. When your outburst started, before you even had the gag out of your mouth, I started to put it together. When you fucking raised your voice at me..."

Ugh, she groaned with shame.

He eyed her sharply, "I saw you going off the rails."

"I think..." she sighed, "I think you're not wrong."

"Yeah, I rarely am. You wanted the kind of attention the favorite girls were getting -- not to mention the new-meat asses. You were starting to feel like you were out of your depth. You felt a need to prove yourself, and that started feeling more and more desperate --"

She looked back at him. Check. Check. Check. Check.

"So you fell back on the one thing you know best."

"Taking pain," she said softly.

Master James lifted the snifter and tipped it toward her, as in, Bingo. "Do you get off on pain, Bree?"

"Yes, er, no. I -- I don't, I mean, I," she stammered. "Not yet, I haven't --"

"'Not yet, I haven't'" he repeated with a small lilt of mockery. "Well, that's a lie you tell yourself, Bree. You think you could get off, if only a sure enough hand will push past your insane pain limits -- then you'll see the light. Thinking like that, it makes you feel like you belong. It puts you into a niche in the community, 'heavy bottom,' 'masochist,' et cetera. But you aren't that, not truly."

Bree wilted. Clearly, he read her like the morning newspaper: 'BREAKING: Science exposes self-deluded non-masochist as a fraud.'

"To you, pain is a test of courage, and of will."

"The ultimate test," she added.

"Ehh, maybe -- for you, sure. But don't mistake courage for submission. Or will for... wet."

"Then what am I? Please, Sir?"

"You're a Struggler, never a Yielder. You're the Tough Girl. There's one in every clique --"

"More than one --" Bree started to interrupt.

"No. There's one who thinks she's tougher than rest," he corrected her. "But she is not all that, not really, and she doesn't know it. Inside that tough leather hide, she's a lost, insecure softie."

Fuck! Is that what I am? She didn't want to believe it! But coming from him, she took it not as a suggested diagnosis, but as an ironclad order -- leaving her no choice but to accept it. She tried it on for size. She felt softer, subbier and smaller. "Then... forgive me, Sir, this girl is so fucking stupid... what am I then, Sir?"

"Well, to me?"

"Since that's the only thing in the universe that matters, Sir," Bree said without a trace of irony.

The Master chuckled and winked. "Well done, Bree. To me, you're a little girl who isn't yet ready to play with the big girls. And for not knowing the difference, that's a little girl who needs to be soundly spanked."

Gush, said her pussy.

"Ohh," said her mouth.

"Stand up," he commanded.

She did. She set her wineglass on the table and straightened up. Not knowing at first what to do with her hands -- place them behind her back, or her neck? -- finally she settled them at her sides.

Carefully, he eyed her up and down. "Good. You're steady on your feet. I think you're all straightened out -- ready to reset," he nodded with satisfaction. "I'll ask your consent, one grown-up to another. Would you like to submit to me?"

Bree felt the slickness between her thighs. Like no is an option? But she checked that thought, understanding that the answer had to come from her open heart, not her slavering cunt. It took her a few moments to give it. "Yes, Sir."

"No," he said as he set aside his cognac, scooted forward on the chair seat, and patted the top of his thigh. The tight black leather gloves seemed to have materialized on his hands. "You mean, 'Yes, Daddy.'"

#_#

"Oh Daddy, oooh Daddy -- yes, yes-yes-yessss, pleee-eease, Daddy!" Bree screamed as the two-handed percussion on her bare cheeks mounted in tempo and force. "Please! Daddy! Yes!!"

He laughed. "Good answer, good girl, good attitude.... always please Daddy."

His last question -- Have I found your pain threshold, princess? -- was already fading her ears. She barked, shrieked and panted through the open-palm drumroll that finished off her heat-fired ass. Daddy's hands withdrew and she slumped over his lap, hanging her head upside down, her sweat-soaked black hair matted to her face.

His gloved hands roamed over her scorched ass-cheeks. The soft skid of the leather felt like red-hot pinpoints dragging across her skin. "Yes, my punished princess..."

"Nuhhh-nghh, p-pp-p, guh-guh -- hunnhhh --!" she stammered, speaking in tongues. Her voice rasped as she struggled to catch her breath. Her nose bubbled out snot that oozed up her cheeks, mingling with sweat and tears. She felt the silken folds of the kimono bunched around her upper back and shoulders, the carpeting with the tips of her fingers and toes, and in between, her bare belly nestled across the fine woolen twill of her Daddy's pants.

Strewn across the carpet beneath her, the silver rings of the forever-shackles lay open, undone by a trick lock she had missed before. Freeing her of those had un-enslaved her. He was nothing special anymore, except a naked little girl slung over a big man's lap.

Her upraised buttocks burned like they had backed up into the woodstove and stayed there for a count of ten. Her pussy was sodden as the Everglades, it pulsated with conflicting needs... and the air around her reeked of them.

Finally, settling her bare midriff into Daddy's lap, her breathing ramped down from the wheezing pants that were practically suffocating her, and after a minute, she was almost calm...

SMAK!

... before it started again! It was Daddy's bare right hand this time, palm open, fingers straight and hard -- pinpointing the sweet spot where her left cheek joined her thigh.

Fuck!! Her back straightened out like a board, her head snapped up, and her mouth formed a perfect "O." But nothing came out. The wave of pain welled up in her, slowly crested through her belly, and finally pushed the tortured wind out of her -- "HUHHHH!"

"Very good," Daddy said. "Hold position."

That was all the warning she got. She balled her hands into fists, knuckles planted into the carpet, while on the other end, her legs straightened and tensed, and her toes dug in. She was barely set when the second stroke landed on the same spot. SMAK! Then the third, and the fourth, and the fifth.

Then she lost count.

She bit into her upper lip and grunted her way through the beating, struggling to keep quiet as best she could. But this fucking hurts so bad!! How have I never been spanked this way before?? His left hand grasped her hipbone and tilted of her ass toward him, and without pause, his right hand laid into her other cheek.

SMAK! SMAK! SMAK!

Her locked elbows faltered for a moment, but she recovered. She felt hot pussy-snot splashing her inner thighs, sent flying by the metronome cadence of the ass-pummeling that rocked her hips.

SMAK! SMAK! SMAK!

Struggling to hold posture, she felt the Navajo rug chafing her knuckles. The pain fired off something in her pelvis, the familiar ball of squeezing-in blossomed in her belly, she felt like the Big O was on its way. This shocked her. Daddy's fingers hadn't come anywhere near her engorged cunt-lips, even once. And she wasn't tied up, or gagged, or constrained in any way except by the force of his will. How the Holy-fucking-Moses is he doing this to me with just a spanking?

Then abruptly, it ended.

Daddy's hands withdrew and his voice barked, "Get off me. Down on the floor, all fours -- face down, ass high!"

As gracefully as she could with her mind spinning and the fire in her ass at Defcon One, she obeyed. She bid a tearful goodbye to the mounting orgasm. Daddy's Ferragamo shoe swung past her peripheral vision.

"Follow," he snapped. At heel; he didn't have to finish; she knew. As humbly as she could, she crawled after the shoe. Moments later, she found herself at the foot of the bed.

"Get up, bend over, tuck your elbows under, face in the duvet cover!" The girl obeyed at once. "Spread your legs. Wider."

He punctuated the command with tap to her left thigh. The tap of a hard wooden point.

A cane.

Fuck. The thought blew up in her brain: That spanking was just a warm-up?

#_#

"Set your feet, straighten up those skinny, coltish legs," he went on, pacing behind her. "Ass higher, princess -- on your toes."

Bree grunted as she complied. Her legs were weak from the spanking and she felt one calf quiver as she lifted her heels from the carpet. But she made fists under her chin and found her strength.

"Stay that way," he said softly. "Tiptoe. Hold position. That's your only job. Got it?"

She nodded into the covers.

"Good," he said, acknowledging her voice disciple. "Use your words if, and only if, you want to safe out -- or to beg me to let you cum. Other than that, stay quiet and still as you can."

She heard the cane swish through the air, once, twice. "I'll take care of the rest."

Settling into the rigid posture, she felt a dribble of juice trickle down her thigh, warm and viscous. The room was still. The only sound was her excited breathing. She waited.

"Hmm," was all Daddy said at first. Then he fell silent.

One bare hand rested on her ass, fingers cupped around the curve of her right cheek, and it gently stroked her flesh. The touch was electric at first, exquisitely tender as the cheek was -- Bree pictured the spot as fire-engine red -- but instantly she sensed that the hand was intended to soothe her. And to make contact. A human touch. A protector. The warmth of the hand made her feel safe.

Inside her belly, the biochemistry of her submission changed courses, mixing up a fresh cocktail of sultry calm. Over Daddy's lap before, she'd been overstimmed with adrenaline that spurred her to fight, fly or freeze -- and choosing the last one had put her whole body at war with the other two. That war in turn flooded her with endorphins. So did the torment of the spanking, true, but moreso, it was the weight and thrill of her obedience.

And now, she thought, it's only the obedience...

She felt oddly at home in that state, and the thought of it shot down to her cunt and rested there, pulsating. Around that kernel of pleasure, the stream of endorphins shifted and ebbed. She rested. She dipped her spine and relaxed her upper body, unclenched her hands, and sent all that strength down to her legs. They were going to need it. They were doing all the heavy lifting for the one job she had. Stay on tiptoe. Obey.

As if watching all this from inside her, Daddy seemed to understand her change... or else he read it through palm of the hand on her cheek... and let it linger a while.

Then he said, "Okay. Time for my little princess to pay for mucking up my bachelor party. Do you agree?"

Consent? She thought, haven't I already given Daddy everything he needs? Then she realized, this is a whole different animal. Punishment and pain-wise, it was going to be another reset. But she didn't hesitate. Face buried in the bed covers, her head emphatically nodded, Yes.

"Voice."

"Yes, Daddy."

"All right."

The first cane stroke fell without delay.

Ugghhh, fuck!

Delivered with an upstroke, the cane slashed straight across the down-curve of both cheeks. The whirr-thwack rang in the air like a muffled gunshot. His other hand, the soothing one, stayed put where it was.

Bree grunted, biting her lip, breathless. The wave of pain quickly built, crested, broke. A labored growl rose in her throat... escaping her lips as a thin, resigned whimper. She sucked in air through her nose, held it, breathed out again through her mouth. She braced herself and stood firm. As far as she knew, her legs hadn't budged a centimeter. If they had, Daddy gave no sign.

"You do know that was a very, very selfish thing to do, don't you, princess -- spoiling things for everybody?"

Bree nodded into the linens.

Daddy's cane shaft lingered exactly where it had landed. Then it started to percuss, tick-tick-tick, traveling up the curve of her gym-toned bubble-butt.

Chuckling softly, Daddy' lecture resumed, "What makes a little girl so pouty, she would do something so up-her-own-ass and self-absorbed as that? I have a theory... oh, I read you like an open book, princess, don't you doubt me."

Tick-tick-tick.

"My theory, your father was a shit."

Bree grunted. It was no reply, because there was no question, but a reaction from her gut.

"Am I right? Once he learned what a filthy little slut his precious angel, his golden princess, had become -- and at a very young age, I am guessing -- you were nothing but trash to him. Not the kind of trash you abuse, though -- he never beat you over it, just withdrew his love, withheld his attention -- or, when you had it, it was only so he could let you know what a whore you were in his eyes. In those ways, the passive and the aggressive, he crucified you every day you stayed under his roof. Hmm? Which is why, first chance you found... you got out from under it. Right? Right on both counts?"

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

Whimpering, Bree nodded twice.

Tick-tick... THWACK!

FUCK!! There! The landing spot was a shocker, un-telegraphed, high on the cunt-adjacent real estate of her left inner thigh. Yes! There! Though the blazing pain was diabolical, the spot of it thrilled her because it was one she had fantasized about, feared, begged for, dreaded, took back, dozens of times -- a spot, sadly, where no cane had yet to fall -- before now.

"On both" -- thwack! -- "fucking" -- thwack! -- "counts. Right? Voice -- say, 'Yes, Daddy!'"

"Ohhh! Yes! Daddy! You are so right on both, huh, fucking, huh -- counts, hunhh, Daddy!"

"Yes I am. Now shut up."

The two quick slashes had fallen precisely on the same spot as the first, and the overlapping pain-waves percolated up from her groin to her belly to her brain. Neurons fired back signals to open the endorphin floodgates -- the adrenaline from her fear shifted to her legs, where it was needed for strength -- and her eyes rose from the linens to fix on the wall at the head of the bed, in particular a three-headed light fixture set into a ceramic wall sconce, which would be her North Star of coping-distraction for the coming pain.

"And this is why, as a submissive, you grew up into a needy, whiny attention-whore..." Tick-tick-tick. The percussion resumed, traveling down her inner thigh. "Because you're still searching for Dominants who will give the attention and care your shitty dad withdrew, or else the punishment he withheld. Or both -- yeah, probably both. And how fucked up is that, princess?"

Tick-tick-tick.

"Either way, it's why you lack the patience, self-abnegation and inner sense of abject worthlessness to serve as a slave-whore."

Thwak!

"Mmgh!" Square on the first spot -- maybe harder than before, maybe not, but the verbal barb that came with it made it probably the most excruciating thing she could ever remember enduring.

"Yet."

Still absorbing the shock of the last blow, she sensed Daddy shifting his position behind her, moving to the opposite vantage point -- one palm withdrawing from her ass, switching the cane in his hands, the other one settling on the base of her spine. Yessss... Something inside her flipped a switch at the touch of the second hand. Somehow the hand, though functionally a firm grip that steadied her ass for a beating, felt instead like a comfort. It said to her, discipline, control... safety.

Daddy even said, "There, there."

Then he started tick-tick-tick'ing her right inner thigh. She moaned.

And it was right then... as the gentle percussion pattered up her leg... and feeling his hand on her lower back... that she felt her subspace coming on. It was only the first signal, just the predawn glow of her painslut trance. But she recognized it as she always had, as the moment -- soon after her pain threshold was crossed, but long before her limits were in sight -- when the effort of keeping discipline and taking pain ceased to be effort, and instead, transmuted into a floating, dream-like state of acceptance.

"I had a daughter, you know," he went on. "Second wife, long story. She was a dirty little slut too, my Lilly was, also from a young age. But unlike your father, to me it was no surprise she turned out the way she did. Me and the missus, back in those days, I guess you could say we were a bit on the 'permissive' side. Let's just say you sort of had to be there..."

Tick-tick-tick.

He let out a miffed sigh, "Long story short, at age sixteen, Lilly ran away from home. I won't lie, that hurt."

THWACK!

The upstroke caught the same spot as before, just-so-close to her cunt, but on the right. Half-expecting it this time, Bree had a chance to appreciate the shrill whirr of air that grazed her labia on the cane's way up.

Rise, swell, crash, ebb, the pain told her.

Bring it on, her sub-trance talked back. Air in through the nose, hold, out through the lips. Her legs braced, holding position. She reminded herself to relax everything above her waist. She breathed through it. The wall-sconce with its three unlit light-shades swam unmoored in her vision...

The cane sliced the same spot again, and again.

Ohhhhh... From inside her subspace, where need and fear flipped places, she rode out the two excruciating waves on a tide of acceptance.

She was vaguely aware that he went on talking. "You know, I suppose one moral of our stories -- yours and mine -- is, maybe your own dad was a shit, but I'm not going to be the antidote..."

Hand firm on the small of her back, Daddy laid in three solid stripes on the outer flank of her left hip, then backhand, the same on her right. The third blow did her in, her foot left the floor, involuntarily kicking back. Shit!

Immediately, the hand on her back shifted to the outside of her hip, found the tendons, thumb and fingers digging in sharply.

Bree's eyes popped open and her mouth gasped out, "Ohhh!"

Daddy said in an explanatory tone, "See, the cane is your punishment for what you did downstairs. It's pressure points for disobedience." He squeezed again. "See the difference? Voice, princess."

"Yes, Daaa-ahh!"

Not waiting for her to finish, he struck again, crudely and cruelly across the middle of both ass cheeks.

''Hmmgh!" she grunted through clenched teeth.

Daddy laughed at her predicament. "Now, silence."

He shifted his stance again and began pelting her with light strokes higher on her ass, almost like percussion but a little firmer, and coming at oblique and rotating angles. The strokes were steady as a summer rain, but somehow still, blazing like a California wildfire. Staring at the sconce, she rode it out.

"I was saying," his calm voice continued as he went on peppering her ass with light swipes, "I'm not your Redemption-Daddy. Because this has nothing to do filling any void of yours. It's punishment for being a fuck-up at my party, not for being a disgusting whore and failing your dad..."

Under the new barrage, she began gyrating her hips, the trance-dance of her submission. Even when a sharp thwack fell, she took it calmly without making a sound.

But then, two sharp whirrs in quick succession -- Fuck! Fuck! Brace, hold, breathe... endure.

Again, she calmed, again he struck, again she endured.

Again: Whirr! Fuck! Breathe, calm.

Suddenly: Hard and thuddy. Yelping, Bree felt her right leg buckle and her heel touch the carpet.

Hip-squeeze. Whimper. Hating herself for her disobedience. Acceptance. Reset.

Again. Soft and hard. She endured, breathed, and calmed.

Again. Rinse lather repeat.

"No, this isn't about you. It's about me. It's what I want to do to Lilly for the way she hurt me --"

Thwack-thwack-THUD!

"-- but I can't, because she's gone, so I'm doing it to you."

The soft-hard-soft beating went on that way, until Bree was bathed in sweat, quivering at the calves, dancing at the hips. Tears sprang from the depths of her subspace, trickled down her cheeks and plopped into the palms of her nerveless hands. The wall-sconce wavered in her sight... She was all the way lost in a swamp of sloshing need and a miasma of blessed confusion.

"Another thing I can't do to her, well..." He laughed, "I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice that my daughter was a fucking hottie. Saucy little tart -- a gym rat, petite, small-chested, brunette. Like you, come to think of it..."

The caning ceased.

His cock filled her cunt.

Bree's mouth and eyes popped open. She shuddered violently, and with no other choice, she bawled, "Daddy may I cum?!"

"No."

She shrieked, struggled and balled herself up inside, almost choking on her own frantic breath as she wrestled the orgasm into surrender. Daddy's cock was thick and meaty, and he stroked it inside firmly, not pumping, in control. She screamed unabashedly and skittered her feet. Daddy let her, she knew, because the only thing that mattered to him now was the obedience he demanded from her cunt, nothing else. It was torture for her to give him that, but somehow she did. She had the semi-lucid thought that the only thing that saved her was that she was so fucking wet, there was barely any friction in their coitus. But the rest of it was her inner strength, which came from her subspace... which lived apart from her somehow, in the wall-sconce.

Flat-footed now, her fingers clutching up the linens, teeth clenched and body coiled like bridge cables, she held still as Daddy fucked her. She settled into it, a different kind of acceptance, but just as subspace-enthralled as the way she had taken the pain. And she knew was doing well.

She was proving herself to Daddy.

So, when she opened her mouth again to speak, her voice was composed, and the question came not from need, but from want. "Daddy, please please plee-eease, may I cum?"

"Still no."

"Ohhh!"

Next, he withdrew his cock and stepped back. His left hand reached around her hip, where her upper body bent into her lower, found her ilium and started to squeeze.

At the same time, lazy, measured cane strokes sliced into her mid-ass.

Then at once, the hand in her hip joint dug in cruelly --

"Now," he said calmly.

-- and the blistering, vicious cane stroke fell.

"You have my permission."

Her world imploded.

Epilogue.

Breanna Barber lay on her side in the trunk of the speeding sedan -- hogtied, stuff-gagged and half-stripped. "Mmff!" Cloth packed her cheeks, her lips sealed around it by packing tape. "Mmmff!" she repeated, even louder. Useless. Helpless. She was expertly roped at the wrists and waist, knees and ankles, elbows and chest. Her jeans and panties were down at her knees. Crotch-rope jammed fat rubber plugs into her pussy and ass. Her denim jacket was back off her shoulders, shirt ripped open, bra askew, barefoot.

She flopped onto her belly and went on grunting and struggling.

And reminiscing...

Earlier, she awoke in the early afternoon, lying on her front in the guest bed of a small room on the second floor, naked except for a sort of diaper. She realized quickly, it was more of a dressing, soaked with medicinal unguents and hydrating lotions. Her ass, she knew, was as a disaster, torn up like a battlefield used for tank warfare.

She had lain awake for a while, not really thinking, not happy, not sad, not moving. She had no sense of time, or anything else, moving. Therefore, she had no idea who long it was before the door opened and Emma entered.

The buxom blonde was naked, her rosy pink skin crisscrossed with stripes, bruises and welts. She carried a tray with covered dishes, a glass of water and a cup of herbal tea. Somehow, Bree discerned that her forever-shackles were gone -- like Bree's -- but instead, she wore an ornately leather-worked black and red collar. The girl set the tray down on the bed and basically fed her like a baby. The meal was cold meats and vegetables, and for dessert, a sweet potato puree. They spoke, but Bree couldn't make much sense of what they discussed. Until...

"Guess what happened?" the blonde chirped.

"What"

"I've been sold!" She burst out laughing, brimming with joy and tears. Bree cried too, sharing in her elation. The buyer, of course, was Master Vic. After purchasing her, she explained, he cut off her shackles and put on the leather collar that marked her as his own. He'd told her that after he returned from the wedding in Las Vegas, he'd take her home with him to Vancouver; until then, she would stay here, in the basement, in her cage.

They hugged and sobbed and told each other how great it was that they'd met, how desperately they would miss each other, they made out, groped and sucked each other's titties, and scissored each other into orgasmic bliss.

Later, after she'd gained enough strength, she got out of bed and came downstairs to find Vic waiting for her. He took off her diaper and put her back in the street clothes she'd arrived in, or what was left of them, then led her out front to the driveway. On the way, she saw Groundskeeper Jake working on a large camellia bush, shirtless, pruning branches. "See ya, meat," was all he said before he turned back to his work. At the rear of the car, Vic tied her up and gagged her, double-plugged and crotch-roped her, tossed her in the trunk and hogtied her. She was to travel home the same way she'd come.

And that was how she said goodbye to the Voluntary Sex-Slave Bed & Breakfast.

There was one difference in her bondage, though. As a finishing touch before he slammed the trunk closed, Vic put headphones over her ears. He taped them around her head; evidently, he had an idea how furiously she was going to thrash around back there.

Eventually, the audio began. The voice belonged to Master James. To Daddy.

Thank you, princess, for the gift of your submission and your brave efforts in the short time you were with us. I'm sorry you weren't a suitable fit at this time, but I have every confidence that eventually you will be. So I'm sending you off the same way you arrived.

And when you're untied on the other end, you'll have a choice to make. One choice is a turn in the road that takes you back to the life you led and whatever you wish to do with it.

The other will lead you back here. But if you take it, understand that before you return to this house, I will need you to be a very different girl.

Bree mewled into her gag, thinking brightly, Oh! Oh yes, Daddy! I will be, Daddy!"

I know what you're thinking, princess. And I don't need your promises. I'll make sure. I'm sendinginstructions to your people back home. Victor knows who they are..."

He meant Kenny, her mentor, top and trainer at the Spitfire Club... and come to think of it, maybe some of his hardcore buddies too?

... And I'll get reports on it. That's right, I'll be tracking your progress. Your trainers will have no other brief but to humble you, to get all the 'tough' broken out of you. When I hear that it is, I'll take you back.

Bree wanted that! Not just the taking-back, but the humbling and the breaking and the farewell to toughness. She wanted to be Daddy's punished little princess. Forever.

When I say you're ready, princess, you'll sign a new contract. We'll abduct you all over again, and you'll return here a captive, collared slave. But not as a caged, downstairs slave-whore -- not til after my personal inspection and fine-tuning of your training have satisfied me that you're ready. No, your path back to the basement will run through the room where you submitted to me. That's right, princess, and I'll be your finishing school.... and you'll graduate in that bed.

Her pussy gushed at the words. She flopped onto her side and started grinding her hip into the rough, synthetic carpeting, and despite the strict hogtie, she was able to twist her ass into the friction as well. Glorious agonizing fire! Struggling with the hogtie, she felt the knotted ropes chafing her ass-cleft and cunt and working the plugs deeper inside her. She remembered, coming up here she had toyed with getting herself off on the crotch-ropes but decided, Anything my body gives up, they're gonna have to take it from me.

Not this time. This time, she was a free girl -- free in my bondage, she giggled -- and she thrashed with all her whorish abandon, gnashing her ass into the rug and getting herself off on the ropes.

Her first orgasm came at Daddy's words...

And once I've made a woman out of the little girl you are, in that bed, then I'll put you back in your cage.

... The first of many, many more she was going to have before she got back home. She wanted to se if she could make it to a hundred. But in no time at all, she lost count.

* T H E END *