by Alex Dawson
“All in good time, pretty girl,” he said.
A familiar voice returned.
“Are you ready for the rest of your punishment?”
“No, sir,” Farrah Joy said miserably, and hung her head.
“That’s okay,” he said, “It’s time anyways. Now, you’re going to get twenty-five strokes with the paddle on your ass, because I am merciful.”
Farrah Joy whimpered again. It didn’t sound merciful to her.
“Your crime was denying me access to your breasts, so I should be paddling those, but the other guys bitched and said that they’d be all bruised tomorrow and they’re not done playing with them,” he said.
If that was mercy, Farrah Joy supposed she was grateful for it. Still blindfolded, still hanging by her wrists, she waited for the blows to come.
She heard men arguing behind her, arguing and laughing, and she finally heard them come over closer to her. She felt one of them grab her hair and yank her head back.
“You need to count the blows, and thank me for them, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured.
“Let’s practice,” he said, “this does not count towards your punishment spanking, but if you do it right you can avoid earning more punishment.”
Farrah Joy nodded.
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp blow across both breasts from something hard, something unyielding.
She shrieked, but remembered what she’d been told.
“One, sir,” she gasped, tears rolling out from her blindfold and down her face, “Thank you, sir.”
“Good girl,” he said, “I’m almost disappointed that you did so well. I was planning on giving you several more whacks.”
She said nothing, only trembled in her bonds. Even if she’d wanted to escape, there was no way out for her - she’d totally forgotten about the bet, about the veto powers she held. Her world had narrowed to the desires of the men, fulfilling them and avoiding punishment.
It didn’t occur to her that she might not deserve punishment, only that she didn’t want it and should try to make them happy to avoid it.
She was left alone for a minute, before her spanking began.
The paddle cracked down on her virgin ass.
“One, sir, thank you,” she gasped.
Again.
“Two, sir, thank you,” she said again. The second blow had hurt even more than the first, but she knew that she was only beginning to hurt. She had no doubt that she would feel more pain than that before the end of the spanking.
“Why am I doing this?” her punisher insisted.
“Because I tried to stop you from touching my chest,” she said. She wasn’t crying anymore, but her voice was trembling as she answered him.
“That’s right. You defied my will, and that needs to be trained out of you,” he said.
Farrah Joy didn’t love hearing that, but it didn’t occur to her to object. When she’d woken up that morning, she’d been a shy virgin, now she’d been fucked by at least a dozen guys, sprayed with cold beer and forced to chug alcohol, jizzed on, had her nipples tortured, and she was getting her first spanking. She was totally overwhelmed and exhausted.
Suddenly, before the next blow, she heard a grunt and felt a hot spurt of jizz on her face.
As it was dripping down her cheek, she felt the next blow crack like fire across her ass and she obediently counted it.
Another jet of come came, and another. The spunk and the paddle blows were both unpredictable, sometimes she’d feel both at the same time, sometimes she’d be left hanging and alone for what felt like forever, and sometimes they’d come in rapid fire, overwhelming her, the different sensations almost too much to focus on.
She lost track of how many times she’d been jizzed on, but the first spurts were already starting to grow unpleasantly cold on her face and breasts and neck, an unwelcome contrast to the heat and pain in her ass.
The murmurs were growing into more distinct voices, though, it sounded like more people were coming near.
“All right, cum dumpster!” she heard someone yell drunkenly.
She heard men shuffle and crowd around her, but she was mostly focused on the misery in her tormented back end. She tried not to struggle, but she couldn’t resist squirming in her bonds. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. They were too busy groping her, pinching her nipples, jerking her head this way and that… and always covering her with more jizz. She knew that there were dozens and dozens of badass biker gang members, and it felt like they were all coming on her and lining back up for seconds.
Several times, they came in her mouth as she choked and spluttered on the words, struggling to get them out properly so that her punishment wouldn’t be increased. When that happened, the jeering and laughter got louder and louder.
She was up to a dozen strokes now. Not even halfway through, and each blow felt more painful than the last, since her butt got sorer and sorer. It felt like it was as red and hot as the sun, she didn’t doubt that it would get worse before it was over.
She was crying snotty tears now, making tracks through the drying jizz on her face. She didn’t doubt that she looked absolutely disgusting, and the comments she heard from the badass biker gang members who were still using her as a receptacle for their pleasure backed that up.
“Look at that little whore, she’s dripping with it from her hair to her toes!” one of them cried.
Farrah Joy was so ashamed of herself that a great sob welled within her on the next count.
“Thir… thirteen, sir, thank you!” she whimpered.
The next blow came quickly, and was so hard that she was propelled forward into someone’s hard thigh. She swung through the air by her wrists and screamed, not even bothering to count.
“You can stop counting,” her original punisher said, and laughed.
She lost count of the blows as she was buffeted back and forth, hit like a pinata and sliding over the cum-slick floor.
Jizz was still falling on her, and all around her men were cheering and laughing. Sometimes she felt hands pushing her one way and then the next. She was totally overwhelmed.
She had no idea how long it took, but when it stopped, she ended up just hanging limply in her bonds and sobbing quietly. She was exhausted, humiliated, filthy, and in pain.
"Okay, okay, you've had your fun," she heard Daryl say, and strong hands supported her while someone else untied her blindfold.
"We're going to get her cleaned up and take her to sleep, you can have at her again in eight or nine hours," another familiar voice, but she was too worn-out to care.
Her blindfold was removed and she saw that she knew several of the men currently supporting her. They picked her up gently and carried her into the shower room, where they washed her carefully. She caught a sight of herself in the mirror and shuddered - she was naked, covered in red welts that she knew would turn into bruises, and absolutely drenched in cum. She looked totally whorish, totally filthy.
She was just glad that nobody she knew outside of the badass biker gang had seen her, or at least that she hadn't seen them.
She didn't say anything to them or try to help them as they bathed her. She was past the point of caring about what happened, and didn't want to feel like she was part of it.
If they were doing things to her, it wasn't her fault. It was just them, and she just had to hold still and let them.
Farrah Joy shuddered again, thinking about the punishment she'd just endured. She was expecting a brisk spanking, not the beating that she'd endured. Even though she'd lost track, she was convinced that there were more than a dozen more blows, that her 'punishment' was more than administered, it was extended.
She'd learned her lesson, though. She doubted that she'd ever deprive them of access to her body again.
When her bath was over and she was dry and free of jizz, they asked her if she was hungry, and she shook her head.
"Do you want to go to bed?" Da
ryl asked.
She nodded.
"Do you want to be alone?" the familiar guy said. She knew that he was the one who'd given her the contract to sign, but she couldn't bring herself to care about his name.
She hesitated, and then shook her head. She somehow didn’t think that she’d be alone for long.
Daryl picked her up and spoke to the others.
"As President, I'm calling it my civic duty to keep her company tonight," he said.
"Yeah, your civic duty and you have the biggest bed," someone else said, and they all laughed. They were friendly laughs, though, not the terrifying jeering of the men who'd struck her and swung her around.
Daryl carried her up two flights of stairs and deposited her in a comfortable queen-sized bed. She immediately covered herself with the blankets, but he had already walked away from her to his dresser, opening a drawer.
He stripped naked, facing away from her, and climbed into a pair of flannel pajama pants, pulling an old t-shirt on. He turned and tossed an almost-identical outfit to her and smiled. She held them and looked at him, wary.
“I meant it, you’re not going to be bothered until tomorrow morning. Feel free to sleep in those, or in nothing, or if there’s something else you want, let me know,” he said.
She shook her head and smiled a little.
“I usually sleep in something like this,” she admitted, and stood up to put them on. She had to ease them over her sore skin, and winced when she caught one of her own rapidly-forming bruises.
They climbed into bed and lay there facing each other for a minute. He reached a hand out and stroked her cheek, touching her carefully, as though he could break her easily.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he said, “I hope they’re not too bad tomorrow.”
They weren’t. Farrah Joy still got fucked raw, but the colorful parade of bruises on her ass and tits made most of the bikers pretty sympathetic, and she wasn’t given another vicious punishment like the one the previous night.
She knelt and sucked cocks in a line, she was tied up and teased to orgasm over and over, and she was pretty sure that she was fucked on every surface in the building, but she was so grateful not to be paddled again that she bore everything cheerfully.
When she walked out of the building, Daryl’s strong arm was companionably across her shoulder as he led her to his hog.
“Want a lift to the bank?” he asked.
She nodded.
“That would be great, thanks,” she said.
He smiled at her, his green eyes lingering on her own.
“Do you still think I’m not game?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“I’m going to be busy with college, but you should let me be your babe,” she said.
“Oh, really?” he asked.
She nodded and he laughed. “Get on my bike, you silly girl. I don’t let a girl on my hog unless I really like her.”
They both straddled the powerful machine and took off, the checks safely zipped up in a pocket of Daryl’s leathers.
She smiled into the handsome biker’s back. Farrah Joy may have been sore and tired, but she had enough money to pay the rest of her way through college and she was proud of being the first girl to win the bet and take what they could dish out.
The End
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Table of Contents
Copyright
BOOK ONE SPURRING ON A DEVIL'S COWBOY
BOOK TWO RESCUED
BOOK THREE PAYING FOR IT
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