Page 25 of Daddy's Girl

I pad out of the bathroom, feeling weirdly vulnerable walking through the house naked, to find Jack sitting in his chair by a roaring fire, reading something. He doesn't look up, but I know he's aware of me. The corner he indicated is a few feet to his left, waiting. Ten steps away. A lifetime away.

I cross the space on tip toes, my body prickling despite the blazing fire he stoked while I was in the tub. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I position myself in the corner, raising my hands to rest on my head as instructed. My back to the room. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Behind me, I hear the rustle of pages turning. Jack continuing to read as if nothing unusual is happening. The casual dismissal burns hotter than any scolding, leaving me achingly aware of my position—displayed like a misbehaving child, naked, waiting for his attention.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My arms begin to ache, muscles trembling from maintaining the position. Still, Jack doesn't speak. The only sounds are the occasional turn of a page, the crackle of the fire, the iron poker he uses to shift the logs, the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

I shift my weight, a tiny throbbing on the skin on my knee. A small sound escapes me—not quite a whimper, but close, and I start to sway back and forth, not in pain but craving movement.

"Did I say you could move?" Jack's voice cuts through the silence.

"No," I whisper.

"No, what?"

The response rises to my lips without thought. "No, Daddy."

"That's better." I hear him stand, heavy footsteps crossing the room behind me. He stops close enough that I feel his heat against my bare back, goosebumps rising on the skin of my bare ass, but he doesn’t touch me. Torture. Pure and simple. "Do you understand why you're being punished?"

"Because I didn't listen about the creek bank," I say softly. "I put myself in danger."

His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, thumb tracing the notch of my spine. "And why does that deserve punishment?"

The question catches me off guard. "Because... you told me not to?"

"No." His voice drops lower. "Because you're precious to me. Because the thought of you hurt—or worse—tears something open inside me I can't stitch closed." His fingers move to the base of my throat, pressing upward into my jaw while the fingers squeeze. "Because your safety is my responsibility."

The rawness in his voice makes my eyes sting. "I understand. I’m sorry, Daddy."

"Good girl." He guides me away from the corner by my throat, an odd sensation of struggling to breathe that should make me fearful but instead, it makes me feel floaty, my eyes start to droop as he turns me to face him. "Bend over the arm of the couch."

My stomach drops, as does his voice, but I obey, and he releases my throat, gathering my hair in his fingers before giving me an encouraging shove into place.

“Bend. Spread your feet shoulder width apart. Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

Fire races through my veins as I position myself over the padded armrest, oddly hoping I’m doing things correctly. Hoping for those two words that make me feel better than they should.

Good girl.

Please, my heart begs, say it.

But he doesn’t, and I bite down on the inside of my lips to keep the burning in my eyes from overflowing.

The rough fabric scrapes against my bare stomach as Jack places one broad hand on my lower back, holding me down.

"Ten," he says simply. "You'll count."

The first smack catches me by surprise—the flat of his hand connecting with my cotton-covered backside with calculated force. Not gentle, but not cruel either. A sharp reminder disguised as heat.

"One," I gasp, fingers digging into the couch cushions.

The second lands slightly higher, the sound cracking through the quiet room. "Two."

By five, my skin burns beneath my underwear, each slap sending a confusing mixture of pain and pleasure radiating outward. By eight, I'm squirming, thighs pressing together as wetness gathers between them.

"Nine," I choke out, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity of being handled this way. Cared for through discipline.

The final smack is the hardest, his hand lingering afterward, hot against my sensitized skin. "Ten," I whisper, body trembling.

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