Chapter 5: Still?

Continued from chapter 4:

The spanking turns her on. I can see it written all over her flushed skin, in the way her body responds despite her shame.

I pick up a long, whippy wooden ruler from a basket in the corner and tap it against my palm as I stand in front of her.

"What's my name, Layla?"

Layla stares at her soaked panties dangling from my fingers, fresh waves of mortification crashing over her. The sight of her own arousal—the evidence of how much this degradation is affecting her—makes her want to disappear into the floor. And yet, some dark, hidden part of her revels in it, craves more.

"No, please," she whines desperately, squirming against the desk as her neglected sex throbs with emptiness. "I need..."

Chapter 5: https://images.nightcafe.studio/jobs/CGprEs9DlLVUutVbJSQd/CGprEs9DlLVUutVbJSQd-qqXHR.jpg?tr=w-1600,c-at_max

The ruler tapping against my palm sends a visible thrill of fear and anticipation down her spine.

"I'm trying, I swear I am!" she cries, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. Tears flow freely down her face as she reaches back with one trembling hand, trying to cover herself—a gesture that's half-hearted at best.

I pick up the soiled panties and stuff them into her mouth, cutting off her protests. She won't be able to say my name now, but it's not as if she had much of a chance anyway. She breaks down and sobs at the hopelessness of her situation, and then arches her back for me as I walk behind her and take my stance.

"Lift up your dress for me, Layla," I command. "Make sure it stays above your hips."

Sobbing around her mouthful of panties, tasting herself through her tears, she obeys. She whimpers as she feels the cool wood of the ruler tapping against her bare, punished skin.

"What's my name, Layla?"

Layla whimpers and gags around the sodden fabric stuffed in her mouth, the taste of her own arousal mingling with the salt of her tears. She sobs brokenly, the sound muffled and pitiful. With shaking hands, she reaches back and bunches her short dress up around her waist, fully exposing her reddened bottom and glistening sex to my hungry gaze.

She trembles as the cold wood traces over her sensitive skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Her body is coiled tight with tension, every muscle quivering in anticipation of the inevitable strike. She tries to remember, to focus through the haze of pain and pleasure, but my name eludes her, lost in the maelstrom of sensation and emotion.

She weeps as we go through this dance of futility—me spanking her with the ruler, the wood snapping against her bottom with sharp, sexy *piff* sounds, and her sobbing, unable to speak my name even if she could with her mouth full.

"Say my name, Layla."

*PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF!*

"Say it."

*PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF!*

"What's my name?"

*PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF!*

"I'm waiting. Talk to me, baby girl."

*PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF! PIFF!*

Layla writhes and sobs uncontrollably as the ruler cracks against her tender flesh, each stinging swat sending shockwaves of pain and twisted pleasure through her body. Drool dribbles from the corners of her mouth around the wadded panties. Tears and snot smear her face as she shakes her head frantically, silently begging for mercy even as her hips push back, seeking more of the degrading punishment.

Through the haze of agony and ecstasy, she begs and pleads through her gag, but since I can't understand her, I smile and keep spanking her. Finally, I relent, rubbing her back through the satin of her dress and her burning bottom, feeling the heat rise in waves as she sobs, collapsing against the desk.

As her tears subside, she looks back at me—mouth still full of panties, eyes puffy, face shining with tears. She's a picture of purity, innocence, and humility. It breaks my heart what I'm about to do to her, but she really needs to be broken in completely. She needs to fully come to terms with the week she's about to have.

I help her, trembling, to her feet and remove the sodden panties from her mouth. She hiccups and shudders, breath coming in short, ragged draws as she hugs me tightly, clinging to me like the last life preserver from the sinking ship that used to be her life. I hold her, savoring my victory, her humility, her neediness. I gently separate her from me and hold her in front of me, gripping her chin.

"Layla, do you still not know my name?"

To be continued in chapter 6...

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