Page 99 of Punish Me, Daddy

Her, slinking back into the penthouse, eyes wide, breath catching in that beautiful throat. Caught mid-step, halfway into some flippant excuse she hadn’t finished rehearsing. And me, already standing there. Alreadywaiting.

The sound of the leather sliding through the loops of my slacks—snick—ominous and inescapable, the kind of sound that didn’t just echo, it would reverberate throughout the room.

She would think she could take it, that she was brave and strong, that she could handle it.

But she’d never been truly punished before.

Not by me.

I’d bend her over the edge of the bed, where she’d begged for mercy the night before, the sheets still carrying her scent.I’d press her cheek down into them, fingers tangled in her hair, and bare every inch of her ass to the open air.

And I’d belt her.

Not hard at first, not cruel, but hard enough to teach her what happens to naughty little girls who explicitly defy Daddy’s instructions.

The first strike would make her gasp because it would be harder than she expected. The second would make her moan, hips twitching, thighs already slick. By the third, she’d be trembling, breathing heavy as she started to question whether she could take it all without crying.

I’d talk her through the next several strikes and she would tell herself that she could survive this.

“Count for me, baby girl.”

“You disobeyed me.”

“You asked this, now take it.”

And she would. For at least a little while.

Eventually, the pain would build and I’d belt her hard enough and she’d begin to cry. She’d take it with those gorgeous tears streaming down her cheeks, with her lip trembling, with her whole body quivering as I whipped that defiant little bottom harder than she ever thought possible.

She would beg, I would make certain of it, and when she was sobbing and pliant and clinging to the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her grounded, I would not stop.

No.

That would only be the beginning, because a punishment wasn’t just about pain. It was about much more than that.It was about taking control,not to strip her of power, but to give it structure, boundaries, to tame the storm without extinguishing it.

And I was the only man who could do it for her.

She could claw and bite and scream all she wanted, but when it was over—when she was wrecked and spent and trembling in my lap—she’d look up at me with those tear-glossed eyes, and she’d know.She’d know that everything I did, I did because I saw the truth of her, because Iunderstoodher.

I wouldn’t hesitate to give her exactly what she needed, even when she didn’t know how to ask for it. I would love her the only way a man like me could: hard, without apology and without restraint.

I exhaled once, every cell in my body already strung tight with arousal.

Me: Don’t worry about it.

My phone buzzed again.

Ivan: You sure?

I could hear the subtext in his question, that careful, clinical detachment he always used when he was letting me make thecall. He didn’t care about rules; he cared about outcomes. That’s what made him invaluable. That’s what made him dangerous.

I smirked and looked out the window.

I typed the response without thinking.

Me: Let her stay. I’ll handle it.

And I would.

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