There I am, kneeling in the center of the room, hands cuffed tightly behind my back, a blindfold stretched firm across my eyes. My naked body shivers in the cool air, vulnerable to whatever he has planned for me. Every nerve hums with feverish anticipation, my breathing uneven as I strain to hear his next move.
I tense when I hear footsteps approaching — the unmistakable, measured sound of him closing the distance between us.
Fingertips brush across my shoulders, feather-light, sending shivers racing down my spine. A soft sigh escapes his lips as his hands grip my shoulders firmly, leaning in close enough for me to feel his breath against my ear.
"Tonight, I remind you who owns you."
His voice is a low growl, and it pulls a trembling moan from my throat before I can stop it.
He moves behind me, one hand wrapping around my throat, applying just enough pressure to make my breath catch, and my head swim. The sudden, possessive grip leaves my pulse pounding in my ears. He pulls me to my feet, his hand tightening deliciously around my neck, the warmth of his body against mine making my skin ache to be touched.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my lips as I gasp, blood rushing hot through my veins. He releases me just as suddenly, pressing a kiss to my cheek - a fleeting, tender contrast to the roughness of his grip.
Then his hand slides to my waist, steady and commanding.
"Come here."
I follow blindly, guided by his touch.
"Stay right here."
"Yes, Sir."
My voice trembles, a perfect, breathless blend of nervousness, need, and heady arousal. It’s so easy for him to unravel me - a simple word, a lingering touch, and I’m already reeling.
I hear the scrape of a chair pulled across the floor and the soft creak as he settles into it.
Then, his hand finds mine again, while the other rests at the small of my back, guiding me down over his lap. The weight of his palm presses between my shoulder blades, holding me in place, and I exhale a shaky, eager breath.
With one hand, he traces my form, gliding gently from my shoulders to my hips, over the curve of my ass, and down the back of my thighs. His touch barely grazes the aching warmth between my legs — a teasing, fleeting stroke — before it’s gone.
Whack.
A sharp, heavy slap lands against my right asscheek, making me buck forward with a startled cry. But his palm presses firm between my shoulder blades, holding me down. I whimper, arousal and anticipation flooding my body in equal measure.
"I expect you to count for me, pet." His voice is low, dangerous, laced with that edge that makes my stomach flip. "Each spank is a penance for your behavior over the last week. Starting with when you poured salt in my coffee."
I bite my lip, grinning against the sting. “One, Sir.”
And I must admit, I knew I was in trouble.
A few weeks back, Daddy made the mistake of saying, "I love what an obedient girl you’ve become. I suppose you could say I’ve finally tamed that brat inside you."
Oh, Daddy. What a dangerous thing to say.
Ever since, I’d made it my mission to remind him what a mistake that was. Four to five little acts of defiance a day — salt in his coffee, mustard packets carefully placed under the toilet seat, and one particularly petty night where I mismatched every pair of socks in his drawer.
All in good fun, of course. But it didn’t stop there. I wasn’t just playing pranks — I was daring him. Daring him to remember exactly what I’m capable of. To make him work for it. To tame me all over again.
Whack.
"Two, Sir."
The count had begun, and with each sharp smack, heat bloomed under my skin. By the time his hand cracked down for the tenth time, my ass was a perfect, flushed shade of crimson.
The tenth offense? Well, one night — when things had gotten particularly rough, and I’d managed to wrestle my way on top of him — I’d gripped his hair, leaned down with a wicked grin, and purred, "Eat my pussy like a good boy."
I grinned at the memory, biting my lip harder to suppress the satisfied laugh threatening to escape. That one had been so worth it.
And he wasn’t even halfway through his list yet.
Whack.
"Eleven, Sir."
My voice cracked on the number, my skin radiating heat where his palm had landed. Each strike stung deeper, sharp pain melting into a wicked pulse between my thighs.
His fingers traced over the inflamed flesh, soothing and teasing, before dipping between my legs. A smug, satisfied sound rumbled from his throat when he found how soaked I was.
"Disgusting little thing," he murmured, sliding one finger through my slick folds, barely brushing my clit. "So fucking wet for your punishment. You’re not even sorry, are you?"
“N-No, Sir.”
I didn’t even bother lying. My voice trembled, high with need.
Another sharp slap, this time to my pussy — a sudden, cruel sting that made me jerk against his lap, a ragged moan spilling from my lips.
"Twelve."
He chuckled, dark and low, the sound vibrating through me.
"Count faster, pet. You’ve still got eight to go."
I tried to keep pace as his palm rained down, each strike harder than the last. By twenty, I was breathless, the numbers barely audible past my moans and the wet sounds of his fingers toying with me between blows.
At the final spank, his hand lingered, massaging the bright heat of my skin before dipping two fingers inside me, slow and possessive.
"You’ve earned a little something for being such a good, bad girl."
A desperate, eager whimper escaped me.
"But don’t you dare come, not yet."
He worked me with his fingers, curling them just right, brushing my sweet spot with infuriating precision. I felt myself climbing fast, breath ragged, thighs trembling. My body betrayed me, hips rocking against his hand.
"Daddy, please," I gasped, blindfold soaked with sweat and my hair clinging to my skin. "Please… I-I can’t—"
His hand stopped. Completely.
I sobbed, a broken, wrecked sound.
"Not until I say."
Tears pricked behind the blindfold. I was so close it hurt, every nerve strung tight, skin still stinging from the spanks, my cunt slick and aching.
He started again, slower this time, dragging it out, making sure I felt every damn second of it. I whimpered, begged, a litany of “please, Daddy, please, Sir, let me come” spilling from my lips like a prayer.
And finally — finally — his voice dropped to a growl.
"Come for me, you filthy little brat. Now."
I shattered. My body seized, pleasure crashing over me in violent waves. I sobbed through it, body trembling against his lap, overwhelmed and so deliciously wrecked. He didn’t stop — coaxing every last pulse and spasm from me with his fingers, milking me for everything I had to give.
When I finally stilled, limp and spent, he pulled me up into his lap, cradling me against his chest.
The blindfold slipped off, and I blinked up at him, tears streaking my cheeks.
"That’s my good girl." His voice was softer now, thick with pride and possession. He pressed a kiss to my temple, one to my lips, his hand carding gently through my tangled hair.
"You took that so fucking well. Proud of you, baby."
He reached for a cool cloth, pressing it against my sore skin, his other arm still tight around me.
"You’re mine, you hear me? Every inch of you."
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, sinking into the safety of his hold, my body marked, used, loved.
And I smiled.
Because he would always tame me. And I would always make him work for it.
