Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“That sounds like a fantastic opportunity,” Devin replied. “Do you think you’ll take advantage of it?”
There was a pause, and I could almost picture Dylan nodding thoughtfully. “I believe so,” he said. “In fact, I think I’ll be ready to apply to run my own farm in about a year.”
My breath caught in my throat. Dylan, with his own farm? The image of him standing tall and proud in a field of waving grain filled my mind. I imagined myself by his side, supporting him, helping to build something together…
I shook my head, trying to dispel the domestic fantasy. How could I be thinking such things when I was about to be whipped and deflowered in front of an audience? And yet, the idea of belonging to Dylan, of being truly his, sent a shiver of excitement through my body.
The conversation in the dining room shifted to other topics, but my mind stayed fixated on Dylan’s words. A year from now, everything could be different. Would I still be here in the Weathers household? Or would I be with Dylan, learning to be the submissive partner he clearly desired?
As the meal drew to a close, my anticipation grew. My body thrummed with nervous energy, every nerve ending seeming to fire at once.
Sooner than I wanted, the sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and the clink of silverware being set down signaled the end of the meal. My heart began to race, knowing what would come next. I heard Greta’s voice, crisp and authoritative, instructing Lila and Lydia to clear the table.
A small, petty part of me felt a flicker of relief that at least I didn’t have to perform that task while naked. The thought got quickly overshadowed by the crushing weight of what awaited me.
Footsteps approached. I tensed as I sensed people entering the living room. The rustle of clothing and murmur of voices filled the air as the household members settled in. Then came the unmistakable sound of furniture being shifted around.
I desperately wanted to turn and look, to see what they were doing, but I forced myself to remain still, hands clasped tightly atop my head. My imagination ran wild, conjuring images of what might be happening behind me. Were they arranging chairs for optimal viewing? Setting up some kind of makeshift punishment bench?
The scraping and shuffling seemed to go on forever. With each passing moment, the tension in my body ratcheted higher. My legs trembled with the effort of standing still, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out across my skin despite the coolness of the room.
Finally, the noise ceased. An eerie silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. The quiet pressed in on me from all sides, seeming to amplify the pounding of my heart.
I strained my ears, trying to catch any hint of what was happening. I felt certain they were all staring at me, drinking in the sight of my naked form. The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me.
Just when I thought I couldn’t bear the suspense any longer, Dylan’s deep voice cut through the silence.
“Andrea,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind, “turn around.”
I blinked rapidly, steeling myself for what I might see. Slowly, I lowered my hands from my head and began to turn. My eyes widened at the scene before me. The living room had been transformed into what looked to me like a kind of arena. They had pushed back the chairs and couches to create an open space in the center. There, commanding attention like some horrid altar, stood the big leather ottoman.
My stomach clenched as I took in the details. The ottoman’s usual place by the fireplace was empty, making the room feel off-kilter and wrong. Now it sat dead center, its rich brown leather gleaming in the warm lamplight. I had always thought of it as an innocuous piece of furniture, good for propping up tired feet or holding a tray of snacks. Now it loomed ominously, its purpose twisted into something far more embarrassing.
My gaze went to the leather straps the ottoman now sported, which I had never noticed before. I realized they must have been concealed beneath its top, invisible when not in use. Now they hung loose, waiting for employment. The sight of them made my breath catch in my throat. Their obvious purpose impressed itself on my mind—to hold a misbehaving subservient girl in place for her punishment.
On a small side table next to the ottoman lay the family strap. I had seen it hanging on its hook by the fireplace countless times, of course, but I had always shied back from it and never taken a close look. Now I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the awful thing. About two feet long and maybe two inches wide, it was made of thick, supple leather that had darkened with age and use. The handle was worn smooth, a visible sign of how many times it had been wielded against deserving bottoms.