His growl makes me shiver.
He’s not asking. He’s telling.
She waits calmly, face down on the bed, naked except for black knee socks. I just want to hold her.
I look at the paddle in my hand. It’s white plastic, rough in texture and unforgiving. A solid lump of hurt, home-made, designed for that very purpose.
I practice against my hand, feeling for myself the sting that I’m about to deliver.
I look back at him from my position kneeling on her bed; pleading with my eyes, please don’t make me do this. Please Daddy.
“Hit your little sister… Hit. Her.”
He’d asked me before. Instructed me to scrape my nails down her back. Demanded that I hurt her. I couldn’t do it. I’d failed. “Well, if you won’t, I will” he’d told me, clawing at her skin, leaving long red welts that made her buck and moan. I didn’t want to disappoint him this time.
“She likes it” I reminded myself “She loves it. She loves you” My inner reassurance working in collaboration with Daddy’s insistence; battling against my natural instinct to protect.
I can feel his eyes on me.
I tap to find my aim. Gentle markers.
Thwack I land solidly on one cheek.
Thwack Slightly off centre, I square back up again.
He moves himself behind me as I try to find my rhythm. He’s warm, breathing in my ear, gently whispering encouragement. He moves his hand over mine, guiding where I land. Wrapping his fingers firmly around mine and moving with precision.
I focus on the sensation, trying to memorise the speed, how far back to pull, how hard to make impact. Trying to match myself to his movements. Being a good girl, a good student for Daddy’s lesson.
I start to get swept up in satisfaction of landing firmly against her. The addictive thrill of prompting a reaction, enjoying her pained squeals.
My hits are hard but she doesn’t cover up or move away. She moans but she doesn’t object. She’s being a good girl for Daddy. She’s a good girl so I can be good too.
He praises me for doing well. Daddy’s kisses as reward. I bask in his pride, pleased with myself. My gleeful sadism starting to seep through the tough walls of big sister protectiveness.
He’s enjoying it too, I can tell from the rock hard erection pushed up against my wagging behind.
He pushes himself inside me in a fluid movement, telling me to keep concentrating, “Don’t stop” he instructs, moving his hands to hold my hips and thrust inside. Each impact is now my responsibility, my opportunity to show how quickly I learned.
The paddle is a comfortable fit; I can land solidly with accurate aim. Her behind is glowing, neat red circles on each cheek, warmed up from his earlier caning, I strike each cheek in turn thwack, squeak, thwack, squeak. My little sister, my little mouse.
His order to “Stay” is illustrated by a firm hand on the back of my neck. I keep my position even as he leaves me, whimpering at the withdrawal of pleasure, bereft of his thickness filling me up.
He uses one hand to hold her in place, face down. With the other he strokes her hair, generous with his kisses and praise. He makes her stay down, tells her to wait, then disappears out of my eye line.
I admire the glow of her abused bottom, thrust high in the air. Awaiting whatever Daddy has planned for her, whatever he has planned for us.
I feel the cane in my hand before I see him. He grips my hand around the handle and moves close behind me.
A second’s delay as I process what he’s asking and then I begin to sob. I try to stop myself but I can’t, I just can’t. The cane hurts so much, I know, I remember the unbearable pain the times I’d suffered it. The intense sting of each stroke, how it lingers, deep in the tissue, exploding outwards in white hot pain.
There is no compromise. I will not refuse. I will hit her. I will cane her.
I succumb, resigned to my fate, silencing my objections and stilling my sobs.
I line the cane up but he moves my position, pulling the cane down so the end connects with the middle of her cheek. I start slowly, considerably less impact than the paddle with a much weightier punch.
Her extreme response is almost immediate, much louder than before. I almost feel her pain, connecting so personally with her moans. She’s shaking her head and lifting up her hands. Each time catching herself, wanting but refusing to block the target, forcing her own hands back down against the quilt until she’s making a frantic flapping motion.
I land one much harder stroke, guided by his hand and she moves, rolls out of the way with a whimper. She is instantly repentant, turning to face us and begging “I’m sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you”
I repeat her words back to her “You too babygirl, I’m sorry I hurt you” but it’s Daddy’s attention she wants. She apologises for moving, promises she won’t again. Swears she’ll be good.
“You will be good” his words are laced with threat of worse to come if she dares not be.
I regain my focus and she returns to her place, face down, ready….but my ability to return the lesson is entirely impaired by him entering me again, with more force than before. Pushing himself into my obliging wanting cunt.
I try to keep rhythm, to ignore the spontaneous clenching from deep within me that signals my closeness to orgasm but it borders on impossible. Overwhelming and sublime.
I abandon hope of completing the lesson, unable to land safely whilst being pounded from behind. I collapse onto the bed, into my sisters arms and deep into waves of orgasmic pleasure.
My lesson over….but only for today.