She arches and shudders, trying to hold her position while writhing against the touch of my belt.
I draw a step closer to her, so she can feel my body heat. As I move the belt over her, the leather brushes my cock and thighs. Even though we’re not touching, I feel a connection blossom between us.
“Sweet little girl.” I lean over her so she can feel my breath on her back. She arches to me, stopping just short of touching me, and I reward her with more strokes of the belt. “Daddy wants to see you come. Can you do that for me? Rub yourself until you come?”
Her shoulders heave. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “I can’t come like that. I have trouble . . . I need it, sir.”
I don’t ask what she needs. I know. I take a step back and let the belt fall to my side. Then I flick my wrist and crack the flat of it across her ass.
“Oh, God!” Her knees buckle again, but she quickly straightens. I hear a wet noise, and see her fingers begin working her clit.
“That’s it,” I growl to her. “Rub yourself for me. Imagine it’s my fingers in you.”
Her wail’s inarticulate this time and as it trails off, I bring the belt down in the other direction, laying a bright pink stripe across the first.
“Stop! Please, Daddy, stop!”
I almost do. We’re nearly strangers, in a public bathroom, and I’m beating her with a leather belt. But the wet noises continue, her fingers work frantically between lips flushed as bright as the stripes on her ass, and it penetrates that she’s finally called me “Daddy.”
I lift my belt and bring it down with a crack that echoes like thunder in the tiny tiled room.
She screeches and writhes, madly grabbing at the sink for support. A deep pink flush spreads down her back.
“Give me what I want,” I growl. “Give it to me, baby doll, be a good girl for Daddy.” I lean back a little to line up the blow and smack the leather across the juncture of her ass-cheeks and upper thighs, catching her labia. When she howls, I do it again, whipping the leather back and forth across that sensitive spot. She collapses across the sink, her back hunching and her thighs quivering so hard that I reach for her on reflex, afraid she’ll fall. She takes three gasping breaths, then her orgasm takes her. She rises onto her toes, the muscles of her calves bunching under her pale skin. A long, rattling sigh replaces the wet noises of her masturbation. Her back arches with each hard contraction. Finally, she sags against the sink. Her fingers, wet with her arousal and pink-tipped from rubbing, cup protectively over her labia.
Mmm. I’ll remember that gesture. I draw the belt between my hands and run the flat of it down her back in a caress. That’s all I can give her without breaking my own rule. I hope it’s enough.
“Good girl, Kitty,” I murmur to her. “Such a good girl.”
She makes a noise half-way between a sob and a chuckle. For a minute, she rests over the sink, breathing hard, then she pushes up and glances at me over her shoulder. “I didn’t think I could do that.”
“You did great, sweet girl.” I brush the belt down her back again. “I’ll demand things from you that you might not have done before and might push you out of your comfort zone, but I promise to make them worth your while.”
Wet-eyed, she nods. “Does that mean I passed the audition?”
I smile at her and reach over for a handful of toilet paper to wipe her up. Her sign said pampering, and even if it hadn’t, I want to take care of her. I can’t do full aftercare since I can’t touch her and we’re in a public bathroom, but I can do some little things which will make her feel cared for. Carefully touching her only with the tissue, I wipe the wetness from her pussy and thighs, then dispose of the tissue in the toilet. “It wasn’t an audition, but if it was, you’d have passed with flying colors. Now, when you’re ready, put your panties and bra back on, then your skirt and blouse. Then wash your face and fix your hair. Do that for me when you’re ready, good girl.”
“Yes, sir.” She takes a minute to start moving, and I give her that minute, just standing close to her so she can feel my warmth and presence. Finally, she starts dressing, pulling those cute panties up her legs. It’s a crime to cover up that pussy, but I’m becoming concerned about opening the door to some very angry person in a wheelchair.
I dress as she does, not hurrying, moving slowly to keep her relaxed. She shakes out her hair after she slips her tunic back on. It’s come loose from its plait and hangs in shining dark waves around her shoulders. I curse myself a second time for the “no touching” rule and stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from sinking my hands into that soft, chestnut mass. I promise myself hours of playing with her hair as I ram my fists deeper into my jeans.
She draws her hair into a ponytail and fastens it with the white silk bow. Touching on a little pink lip-gloss, she turns to me and smiles uncertainly.
“Do you drink coffee?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Tea.”
It occurs to me that this might be a little thing. Little girls don’t drink coffee, do they? I’m going to need to do some serious research on baby girls.
“Okay.” I hold my hand to her. “Let’s go find you a cup of tea and we’ll talk about what’s next.”
* * *
Thankfully, there’s no enraged handicapped person waiting outside the door, and maybe screaming comes from behind it all the time, because no one
