Tough Girl Ch 05 Finale

Kinky Reader -- The players are 18+ in age, certified STD free, and practice birth control. No drugs or alcohol allowed... except for unwinding later, as we'll see. Advisory: implied incest.

Enjoy,

xxox Emm

PS. This is also to announce my retirement from Literotica smut writing. It stopped feeding my attention-and-praise fetish. But I wanted to wrap up this one thing. Cheers.

TOUGH GIRL Ch. 05 - FINALE.

by Emmalee_Strict

© 2025

Full Stop.

* * *

Vic whispered, his voice edged with regret, "This is no joke, Bree."

"And neither am I, Victor!"

Since he didn't seem to be getting the message, she underscored her point by hocking and spitting in his face.

"The fuck?" Wiping away the gob of saliva, his eyes narrowed with glowering menace. Bree laughed in his face. That bridge burned, there was no turning back now. She turned her eyes to Master James, the man of the hour, the real arbiter of her fate.

As he set his bride-to-be aside and rose to his feet, she shot him a look like,

Yes you, I'm talking to you!

"I told you, all of you... I. Am. Your. Fucking. Pain-Pig!"

* * *

Behind the couch, naked and kneeling, Bree's eyes fixed on Master James rapidly striding her way, zipping up his fly, making the bend around the end of the couch.

In her peripheral vision, the sharp motion caught her notice, and her eyes flickered that way.

The palm of a fierce hand held aloft, brimming with potential energy as it wound up for the blow. The insult she had done to Master Vic's face -- now crouching and coiled beside her -- she knew it could not go unanswered.

Yes. Oh yes,

Bree's mind said, processing everything in slo-mo.

Yes pleeeeease...

She didn't even brace herself for impact, because instinctively, she knew she wanted her block knocked off.

Deserved. No resistance.

Bring it on.

The next instant, she saw the hand catch Vic's wrist, arresting the imminent bitch-slap, and her eyes rose up to the face connected to the hand.

"No, Vic," Master James said, his expression steely calm. Bree saw his head swivel, taking in the whole room. "Everybody, stop whatever fucking and sucking you're doing -"

Her eyes riveted to his face, Bree heard behind her the chorus of moans and squeals, disappointed sighs, male and female, and of wet, squishy noises.

"Untie the bridesmaids and the slave-whores, get some food and drink into 'em. Everyone... settle down."

He turned his eyes, puzzled and edged with kindness, down on the mutineer kneeling at his feet.

In Master's direct presence for the first time, his body towering over her... broad-chested, older, impeccably dressed... she felt smaller than she was before

... smaller than a microbe, a bug on a glass lab slide... a quark.

She felt more naked than already was. She felt in danger. But at the same time, protection. She was too confused to work it out...

"We have ourselves a full stop here"," said Master James.

#_#

Darkness filled the field of Bree's vision. In the void she saw her life lived again, but stripped of all joy, friendship, meaning in her actions, value in her existence... of any pleasure she had ever known. In that blackness, corpuscles of dancing ghost-sparks broke apart, spun and dipped... their orbits slowed to an ungainly waltz. Time passed, the river ebbed...

She opened her eyes.

A small log crackled in the black metal, kiva-style hearth. Lazily, she looked around. The "bridal suite" lay at the end of the long upstairs-upstairs hallway, easily the biggest room on the floor. It boasted a huge attached bathroom and hot tub, mini-kitchen, bedroom with a California King four-poster, and a spacious livingroom-lounge area. In one corner, two velvet-upholstered armchairs angled in to face the cheerful fire in the woodstove.

In one, Bree sat with her legs curled up under one hip, dressed in a short white kimono, slipper-socks, and -- apart from her forever-collar and manacles -- nothing else.

Behind her, Master James was at the wet bar. "Water?"

When she didn't answer, he looked her way. But anticipating him, she looked down first.

"Eyes," Master James instructed. Instantly, the girl obeyed. He frowned and shook his head, "No -- no, my mistake. No commands, be yourself, protocols are off. Understood?"

Doe-eyed, she nodded her head yes.

"Ugh," the man rolled his eyes. "That one too. Voice?"

Shocking herself a little, she laughed. "I understand, Sir."

"You don't need that either. But I suspect..."

"No, you're right..." She cleared her throat. "You are correct, Sir. I can't think to call you any other way."

"That's fine, I'll take it," he smiled, returning his attention back to the wet bar. "Good girl."

Unnhhh,

the soft moan escaped her parted lips. Then,

Am I though?

She looked away. Tears started up in her eyes. She dipped her face, "I'm sorry, Sir."

"

Shush-shush,

" he admonished her. "I simply asked if you wanted water, silly girl. I mean, let's see -- there's cognac and brandy too, umm, there's --"

"Wine, Sir?" Pressing her luck, "Red?"

"Of course."

She closed her eyes. She saw the cobwebs clearing inside her head, the Master's calm moving her back in the direction of herself... not quite there, but on track.

He came around her chair and handed her the wineglass. "I think you'll like this. It's Clos Pegase Hommage cab, Napa Valley, 2019."

The girl took the glass, stared at the blood-red vintage, but didn't drink.

He went to his own chair and settled down. His necktie unknotted, collar loose, cuffs still turned up, latex gloves gone from his large, manicured hands. From the look of his snifter, Bree guessed he went for the cognac. The Master lazed back comfortably, smiling at her.

Then he manspread.

Bree gasped. It was a bell in her head and a pilot light in her pussy -- like it was the subliminal spy signal, and she was the Manchurian Candidate of suckslut whores. This activated, she set her glass on the table between their chairs, nimbly leapt from the chair and fell to her knees between his legs. One hand settled on his thigh, and the other reached for his zipper --

"

Ah-ah-ah

." The hard point of one index finger pressed into her forehead, arresting the forward lunge of her mouth. "Didn't I say --?"

Her face tipped up to meet his eyes, smiling eagerly. "To be myself, Sir?"

"Hah, touché." He took his hand away from her face and eyed her appraisingly. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, Sir."

"Ahh, that explains a lot." His face screwed up a little. "Same as my daughter..." His voice and his gaze trailed off. He looked at her again. "What's your name?"

"Breanna, Sir."

"Breanna..." he began.

"People call me Bree, Sir."

"Bree, you're still wound up like a Swiss watch. I want you relaxed. Let's

talk

."

The waving motion of his hand sent her backpedaling swiftly into her chair. He reached over the table to offer his glass in toast. "

À v otre santé.

"

"Cheers." They clinked glasses. She watched him take a sip of his cognac before she brought her own glass to her lips --

Then paused. "Um, Sir?"

"Ah, yes. I like your instincts," he chuckled. "What do they tell you?"

"Drinking isn't for players. Especially slave-whores."

He nodded. "That's right. While enslaved, your lips would never, under any circumstances, touch a drop. And I don't permit anyone to play under the influence."

He shrugged. "But we are no longer players. And you are no longer a slave."

Bree felt something leaden drop in her belly. Again she felt her eyes dampen, but fought back the tears; her self-blame kicked in next, luckily, and hardened her; inside that shell, she felt very much alone. But she quickly processed the news, and realized it made righteous sense. Her time as a captive slave-whore was over.

"Am I still not allowed to say I'm sorry?"

"Feeling relaxed?" he asked, gesturing to her to drink.

Finally, she did. The wine felt smooth, fine and warm going down. "Sure."

"Then we might as well get it over with."

She took a deep breath. "Sir, I am so, so sorry I lost control and acted out. I spoiled your party, Sir. I ruined it for everybody. I am so fucking mortified, I want to curl up into a ball right here in this chair, shrink into nothing, Sir, and die."

"Uh-huh," James nodded. "Well, you may be mortified, but I am... mollified. I mean, yes, the outburst was wrong of you. And you're right, you ruined it for everybody..."

He rolled his eyes toward the door. "Although by now, I'm sure they've recovered. Anyway, you're still under my, um, jurisprudence, though. Enough so that I'll need to see you pay for that at some point..."

Bree shuddered. Instantly, her pussy slobbered.

"That's just the rules. But they're

my

rules. That means I get the prerogative of looking at things whatever way I choose."

Bree drank again, blinking her agreement over the rim of her glass. "Thank you, Sir."

"In your case," he went on, "I'm glad you acted out when you did. Otherwise, you were falling deeper and deeper into a scene where you were way out over your skis. I don't know if I would've recognized it before it was too late."

"Too late for --?"

"You may think it was a demand for attention, Bree. And it was." He shook his head, "But I also saw it as a cry for help."

Bree opened her mouth but said nothing. His words sunk into her like an iron grip inside a velvet glove. She felt chastised beyond the pale of what she thought she'd done wrong, and with it, a thrill of admiration for how astutely the older man read her. She felt transparent in his eyes. She pictured herself nude as she had been in the living room, but imagined him seeing through her to something even more naked. At the same time, it warmed her pussy to think that the Master had noticed her on the play floor at all. She felt scrutinized, shame at the scrutiny, and arousal at the shame.

She felt bitch-slapped, bucked up, and embraced. She felt despised and she felt cared for.

She felt safe.

"How?" she asked.

"How what?"

"How did you know?"

"Some of it I noticed without noticing." He placed the snifter on a coaster on the table, set his elbows on the armrests, and folded his hands before him. "You know, at first -- subliminally, I mean, while I was reading the room. When your outburst started, before you even had the gag out of your mouth, I started to put it together. When you fucking raised your voice at

me

..."

Ugh,

she groaned with shame.

He eyed her sharply, "I saw you going off the rails."

"I think..." she sighed, "I think you're not wrong."

"Yeah, I rarely am. You wanted the kind of attention the favorite girls were getting -- not to mention the new-meat asses. You were starting to feel like you were out of your depth. You felt a need to prove yourself, and that started feeling more and more desperate --"

She looked back at him.

Check. Check. Check. Check.

"So you fell back on the one thing you know best."

"Taking pain," she said softly.

Master James lifted the snifter and tipped it toward her, as in,

Bingo.

"Do you get off on pain, Bree?"

"Yes, er, no. I -- I don't, I mean, I," she stammered. "Not yet, I haven't --"

"'Not yet, I haven't'" he repeated with a small lilt of mockery. "Well, that's a lie you tell yourself, Bree. You think you could get off, if only a sure enough hand will push past your insane pain limits -- then you'll see the light. Thinking like that, it makes you feel like you belong. It puts you into a niche in the community, 'heavy bottom,' 'masochist,' et cetera. But you aren't that, not truly."

Bree wilted. Clearly, he read her like the morning newspaper:

'BREAKING: Science exposes self-deluded non-masochist as a fraud.'

"To you, pain is a test of courage, and of will."

"The ultimate test," she added.

"Ehh, maybe -- for you, sure. But don't mistake courage for submission. Or will for...

wet

."

"Then what am I? Please, Sir?"

"You're a Struggler, never a Yielder. You're the Tough Girl. There's one in every clique --"

"More than one --" Bree started to interrupt.

"No. There's one who thinks she's tougher than rest," he corrected her. "But she is not all that, not really, and she doesn't know it. Inside that tough leather hide, she's a lost, insecure softie."

Fuck! Is that what I am?

She didn't want to believe it! But coming from

him,

she took it not as a suggested diagnosis, but as an ironclad

order

-- leaving her no choice but to accept it. She tried it on for size. She felt softer, subbier and smaller. "Then... forgive me, Sir, this girl is so fucking stupid... what am I then, Sir?"

"Well, to me?"

"Since that's the only thing in the universe that matters, Sir," Bree said without a trace of irony.

The Master chuckled and winked. "Well done, Bree. To me, you're a little girl who isn't yet ready to play with the big girls. And for not knowing the difference, that's a little girl who needs to be soundly spanked."

Gush,

said her pussy.

"

Ohh,

" said her mouth.

"Stand up," he commanded.

She did. She set her wineglass on the table and straightened up. Not knowing at first what to do with her hands -- place them behind her back, or her neck? -- finally she settled them at her sides.

Carefully, he eyed her up and down. "Good. You're steady on your feet. I think you're all straightened out -- ready to reset," he nodded with satisfaction. "I'll ask your consent, one grown-up to another. Would you like to submit to me?"

Bree felt the slickness between her thighs.

Like no is an option?

But she checked that thought, understanding that the answer had to come from her open heart, not her slavering cunt. It took her a few moments to give it. "Yes, Sir."

"No," he said as he set aside his cognac, scooted forward on the chair seat, and patted the top of his thigh. The tight black leather gloves seemed to have materialized on his hands. "You mean,

'Yes, Daddy.'

"

#_#

"Oh Daddy, oooh Daddy -- yes, yes-yes-

yessss, pleee-eease, Daddy!

" Bree screamed as the two-handed percussion on her bare cheeks mounted in tempo and force. "

Please! Daddy! Yes!!

"

He laughed. "Good answer, good girl, good attitude.... always please Daddy."

His last question --

Have I found your pain threshold, princess?

-- was already fading her ears. She barked, shrieked and panted through the open-palm drumroll that finished off her heat-fired ass. Daddy's hands withdrew and she slumped over his lap, hanging her head upside down, her sweat-soaked black hair matted to her face.

His gloved hands roamed over her scorched ass-cheeks. The soft skid of the leather felt like red-hot pinpoints dragging across her skin. "Yes, my punished princess..."

"Nuhhh-nghh, p-pp-p, guh-guh --

hunnhhh --!"

she stammered, speaking in tongues. Her voice rasped as she struggled to catch her breath. Her nose bubbled out snot that oozed up her cheeks, mingling with sweat and tears. She felt the silken folds of the kimono bunched around her upper back and shoulders, the carpeting with the tips of her fingers and toes, and in between, her bare belly nestled across the fine woolen twill of her Daddy's pants.

Strewn across the carpet beneath her, the silver rings of the forever-shackles lay open, undone by a trick lock she had missed before. Freeing her of those had un-enslaved her. He was nothing special anymore, except a naked little girl slung over a big man's lap.

Her upraised buttocks burned like they had backed up into the woodstove and stayed there for a count of ten. Her pussy was sodden as the Everglades, it pulsated with conflicting needs... and the air around her reeked of them.

Finally, settling her bare midriff into Daddy's lap, her breathing ramped down from the wheezing pants that were practically suffocating her, and after a minute, she was almost calm...

SMAK!

... before it started again! It was Daddy's bare right hand this time, palm open, fingers straight and hard -- pinpointing the sweet spot where her left cheek joined her thigh.

Fuck!!

Her back straightened out like a board, her head snapped up, and her mouth formed a perfect "O." But nothing came out. The wave of pain welled up in her, slowly crested through her belly, and finally pushed the tortured wind out of her -- "

HUHHHH!

"

"Very good," Daddy said. "Hold position."

That was all the warning she got. She balled her hands into fists, knuckles planted into the carpet, while on the other end, her legs straightened and tensed, and her toes dug in. She was barely set when the second stroke landed on the same spot.

SMAK!

Then the third, and the fourth, and the fifth.

Then she lost count.

She bit into her upper lip and grunted her way through the beating, struggling to keep quiet as best she could.

But this fucking hurts so bad!! How have I never been spanked this way before??

His left hand grasped her hipbone and tilted of her ass toward him, and without pause, his right hand laid into her other cheek.

SMAK! SMAK! SMAK!

Her locked elbows faltered for a moment, but she recovered. She felt hot pussy-snot splashing her inner thighs, sent flying by the metronome cadence of the ass-pummeling that rocked her hips.

SMAK! SMAK! SMAK!

Struggling to hold posture, she felt the Navajo rug chafing her knuckles. The pain fired off something in her pelvis, the familiar ball of squeezing-in blossomed in her belly, she felt like the Big O was on its way. This shocked her. Daddy's fingers hadn't come anywhere near her engorged cunt-lips, even once. And she wasn't tied up, or gagged, or constrained in any way except by the force of his will.

How the Holy-fucking-Moses is he doing this to me with just a spanking?

Then abruptly, it ended.

Daddy's hands withdrew and his voice barked, "Get off me. Down on the floor, all fours -- face down, ass high!"

As gracefully as she could with her mind spinning and the fire in her ass at Defcon One, she obeyed. She bid a tearful goodbye to the mounting orgasm. Daddy's Ferragamo shoe swung past her peripheral vision.

"Follow," he snapped.

At heel;

he didn't have to finish; she knew. As humbly as she could, she crawled after the shoe. Moments later, she found herself at the foot of the bed.

"Get up, bend over, tuck your elbows under, face in the duvet cover!" The girl obeyed at once. "Spread your legs. Wider."

He punctuated the command with tap to her left thigh. The tap of a hard wooden point.

A cane.

Fuck.

The thought blew up in her brain:

That spanking was just a warm-up?

#_#

"Set your feet, straighten up those skinny, coltish legs," he went on, pacing behind her. "Ass higher, princess -- on your toes."

Bree grunted as she complied. Her legs were weak from the spanking and she felt one calf quiver as she lifted her heels from the carpet. But she made fists under her chin and found her strength.

"Stay that way," he said softly. "Tiptoe. Hold position. That's your only job. Got it?"

She nodded into the covers.

"Good," he said, acknowledging her voice disciple. "Use your words if, and only if, you want to safe out -- or to beg me to let you cum. Other than that, stay quiet and still as you can."

She heard the cane swish through the air, once, twice. "I'll take care of the rest."

Settling into the rigid posture, she felt a dribble of juice trickle down her thigh, warm and viscous. The room was still. The only sound was her excited breathing. She waited.