This is one of 22 stories collected in my e-book Obey The Rules – Stories of Degrading Boundaries, available for only $3.99 USD at my creator site. Purchases support the creation of new, free content! (Click here to view.)
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Lolly had been a brat all her life, wilfully disobedient, cheeky, taking delight in deciding the rules didn’t apply to her.
This put her at odds with her parents, and inevitably, soon after her 18th birthday, the day came when she left home. (As she saw it, anyway. From her parents position, they had thrown her out.)
Needing accommodation quickly, she found an offer of a room online at very affordable rates, living with an older man, and signed a lease on the spot.
“I have three rules in my house that I require you to follow,” he told her. “You will dress attractively. You will show me respect. And you will keep the house clean.”
She nodded, already ignoring what he was saying. She didn’t take it at all seriously, and so she was taken aback when he cornered her in the kitchen the next day.
“You have left a mess in the bathroom. Clean it,” he said to her.
She frowned. “I’ll do it tonight. I’m about to go out.”
“I’m about to go out, *sir*,” he told her.
“What? No, I’m not calling you sir,” she said. “And you know what, you can clean the mess yourself.” She stuck her tongue out.
“Lolly, I told you I have three rules,” he said in a dangerous voice. “Already you have not kept the house clean. You have not shown me respect. And I don’t know what this is” – indicating her loose shirt and leggings – “but it’s not dressing attractively. I’m going to give you one chance to reconsider.”
She laughed, and tried to push past him.
He grabbed her hair, and pulled down on it, hard. She wailed and fell to her knees, struggling to free herself from his hand. He slapped her across the face, and again, until she stopped struggling. She looked up at him with fear in her eyes.
Wordlessly, he took a knife from the kitchen drawer. She started to struggle again, but he said, “Relax. This is not an implement I intend to hurt you with, but you don’t want to make me slip.” She swallowed nervously and held still.
Slowly, he cut her shirt away from her body, and then her bra, until she was topless, on her knees. She blushed, wanting to cover her tits but afraid to move.
He put the knife on the bench, still holding her hair, and with his free hand he bent down and cupped her right tit.
“Girls have tits for three reasons, Lolly,” he told her. “To show men – but you were covering them, so they weren’t useful for that.” He squeezed her breast painfully, tugging on the nipple, and she yelped. “To make milk – but you’re not a very good cow, Lolly. I don’t see any milk coming out.” He looked at her. “Do you know what the third purpose of tits is, Lolly?”
She shook her head, as best she could with him holding her hair.
“It’s so you can be hurt,” he told her. “That’s why they’re so sensitive. Because sometimes girls like you need correction, and thankfully nature has given you these nice targets right on your chest.” And with that he raised his hand, and brought it down hard on her breast. She squealed at the pain of the slap.
“Say, ‘sorry, sir,'”, he told her.
She tightened her lips. She didn’t want to call him “sir”.
He slapped her tit again, harder. Pain bloomed in her breast.
“Don’t worry, Lolly, if you’re going to live here, we’ll make sure your tits get to do all the things they’re designed for. You’re going to have big, naked, milky slut udders, and they’re going to be in pain every time you’re a brat. Now, say, ‘sorry, sir’.”
She shook her head defiantly.
His face hardened. He started to remove his belt. She tried to get up, but he pushed her down again with one hand.
“Lolly, I’m going to whip your tits with this belt. I’m going to whip you forty times. After each one, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ or it won’t count.”
“No!” she protested.
He slapped her face. “Do you understand what I just said?”
She was trapped. He was stronger than her. Even if she escaped the house, she would be topless, and have nowhere to go. She bit her lip, and nodded. “I’m not calling you sir,” she said.
“Yes, you will,” he said, “because you can’t take 40 strokes of my belt to your tits. You are going to cry for mercy after 20. If you beg me to stop after 20, I will relent, but we’re not even going to get to 20 unless you count them properly by saying, ‘Thank you, sir.'”
He looked at her. “I’d advise you to use your hands to cup your tits and lift them up for me, thumbs tucked underneath out of the way. I don’t want to hit your face or sides with the belt, and you don’t want me to either.”
She thought for a moment, and then saw the logic. She cupped her tits, raising them up, offering them to him. She felt like a slut like this. She blushed.
“Good girl,” he said. And then he brought the belt down across her breasts.
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