“Bring her here,” Jax said. “I think I can persuade her.”
I felt a mortifying, traitorous heat bloom between my legs at the sound of his words. Something about the cool confidence in Jax’s voice made my body react in ways my mind tried desperately to reject. The thought of being ‘persuaded’ by those obviously strong hands sent an electric current straight to my core, and I hated myself for it.
“Bring her to me,” Jax commanded again, his eyes never leaving mine.
Walker smirked. “You heard him, Charlie. Deliver the merchandise.”
Charlie hesitated for just a second before grabbing my arm. “Come on, Lou. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Get your hands off me!” I shrieked, twisting violently in his grip. I kicked backward, connecting with his shin. “I’m not your fucking property!”
Charlie grunted in pain, but tightened his hold, wrapping both arms around my waist and lifting me off the floor as I thrashed. My heels caught the edge of an end table, sending a crystal ashtray crashing to the floor.
“Jesus Christ, control your bitch,” Walker snapped as Charlie struggled to carry me the few steps to where Jax remained seated, watching the scene with detached interest.
“Let me go!” I screamed, my voice raw with panic and rage as Charlie deposited me beside Jax’s chair. I tried to bolt, but in one fluid motion, Jax reached out and caught my wrist, tugging me forward with such unexpected force that I stumbled directly across his lap.
Before I could process what was happening, I found myself face-down over his knees, my ass elevated in a position that made my cheeks burn with humiliation. His left arm locked firmly across my back, pinning me in place with surprising strength.
“What the hell do you think you’re—” I began, but my words died in my throat as I felt his free hand grasp the hem of my tight black dress and deliberately pull it up, exposing my thighs and the thin black thong I wore underneath.
“Young ladies who use such filthy language,” Jax said in a calm, almost instructional tone, “need to learn the value of old-fashioned discipline.”
The cool air of the room kissed my exposed skin as he tugged my underwear down just enough to bare my bottom completely. I froze in shock, mortified by the vulnerability of my position and the audience watching my humiliation.
“You can’t do this,” I whispered, my earlier defiance crumbling under the weight of my exposed position. “This is assault.”
“This,” Jax replied evenly, “is a consequence.” His hand came down with a sharp crack against my right cheek, the sting immediate and shocking.
I gasped, more from surprise than pain. I’d expected many things tonight—being pressured for sex, maybe having to fight off wandering hands—but not this ritualized punishment that felt like it belonged to another century.
Another sharp smack landed, harder this time, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The room fell silent except for the sound of Jax’s hand connecting with my bare skin.
“Tell me, Charlie,” Jax said conversationally, as if we were discussing the weather instead of my exposed ass, “have you ever disciplined Louisa like this?”
I twisted my neck to see Charlie’s face turning a deep shade of red. He shuffled his feet, looking everywhere but at me.
“No,” he mumbled finally. “Never saw the need.”
“Never saw the need,” Jax repeated, his tone mocking as his hand caressed the spot he’d just struck. “Look at how she’s responding. Her body is practically begging for correction.”
My cheeks burned with shame because I knew he was right. In the midst of the humiliation and pain, my body had continued to betray me. I could feel the wetness growing between my legs, the way my nipples had hardened against the fabric of my dress. The clinical way Jax discussed my arousal made it somehow worse—and inexplicably more exciting.
“If you’ve never spanked her,” Jax continued, “you’ve clearly never understood what she needs sexually. You’ve never trained her to please a man the way she so obviously craves to be trained.” His fingers traced the curve of my bottom, making me shiver involuntarily. “Let me demonstrate what this little girl has been missing.”
“I don’t need your fucking demonstration,” I hissed, finding my voice again. “And I’m no one’s fuckinglittle girl.”
In response, Jax brought his hand down with stunning force, the crack echoing through the room. I cried out, unprepared for the intensity.
“Language, young lady,” he warned.
“What?” I gasped.
“You will speak with the proper decorum from now on. You may call meDaddyorSir.”
What followed seemed like a methodical, calibrated destruction of my defenses. Jax spanked me with precise, measured strokes that gradually increased in intensity. Each time his hand connected with my flesh, fire bloomed across my skin. Between strikes, his fingers would trace the heated flesh, sometimes dipping dangerously close to where I had grown mortifyingly wet.
By what I thought was the tenth or eleventh swat, I had begun to squirm uncontrollably over his lap. By fifteen or so, tears streamed down my face. By what must have represented at least twenty spanks, I was sobbing openly, all pretense of resistance shattered.
