Page 53 of Wings
I thought about her tears, how she'd sobbed into my shirt like the world was ending. All that fear she'd been carrying alone, even for just those few minutes. The weight of it. No wonder she'd been shaking on the ride home.
My job was to make sure she never felt the need to carry that weight alone again. To build walls of trust so high and strong that honesty became her first instinct, not her last resort. And sometimes, building those walls required tearing down the old ones.
Footsteps in the hallway, soft and hesitant. My entire body went alert, that same hypervigilance from night patrols. She was coming. My baby girl in her punishment pajamas, probably scared out of her mind but trusting me enough to return.
The door opened slowly, and there she was.
The yellow duck pajamas should have looked ridiculous. Should have made this easier somehow, seeing her in something so innocent and childish. Instead, they gutted me. She lookedimpossibly small, impossibly young, impossibly vulnerable. Her hair hung loose around her face, still damp from washing it. No makeup, no armor, just Ki stripped down to her truest self.
Her eyes met mine for a second before dropping to the floor. I saw everything in that glance—fear, shame, need, trust. Always trust, even now. Even knowing what was coming.
"Close the door, baby girl," I said, surprised my voice came out steady.
She obeyed immediately, the soft click loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. Then she stood there, hands twisting in the hem of her pajama top, waiting. Always waiting for someone else to make the first move, to tell her what came next. Another habit Alex had trained into her that we were slowly unlearning.
Looking at her now—trembling slightly, lower lip caught between her teeth, the collar I'd given her just visible above her neckline—my resolve crystallized. This wasn't just about one lie. This was about every lie she might tell in the future to avoid inconveniencing me. Every moment of fear she might hide. Every time she might choose silence over trust.
I loved her too much to let that pattern continue.
"Come here," I said, and watched her take those impossible steps toward her own punishment, toward me, toward the future we were building one difficult moment at a time.
She took those last steps on trembling legs. When she stood at my right side, I could feel the heat radiating off her, the way her whole body vibrated with nervous energy. Her hands had gone still at her sides—no more twisting the hem of her pajamas. Just waiting for instruction, for me to guide her through this.
"Over my lap," I instructed, patting my thighs once. "You know how."
We'd talked about this possibility, discussed positions and implements and safety. But talking and doing were different universes. She moved like she was underwater, each motiondeliberate and difficult. When she started to lower herself, I helped, one hand at her waist, the other supporting her as she settled across my thighs.
The position was vulnerable by design. Her upper body angled down, supported by the bed. Her legs straight, toes just touching the floor. And her bottom—covered by thin pajama pants and whatever panties I'd chosen for her this morning—positioned perfectly over my lap. I could feel her trembling through the contact, little shivers that had nothing to do with cold.
"Hands on the bed," I said, adjusting her slightly. "Keep them there unless you need to safe word. Could you choose one?"
"Plaster," she whispered into the comforter.
"Good girl." I rested my hand on her lower back, feeling the tension there. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready, Daddy. I trust you.”
I raised my hand, pausing for a heartbeat that stretched like eternity. Then brought it down in the first measured swat.
The sound cracked through the room—not as loud as I'd expected, muffled by fabric, but sharp enough. She jolted, a small gasp escaping, but kept her position. Kept her hands on the bed.
"This is for lying to Daddy," I said, bringing my hand down again on the other side. Same force, same intention. Teaching, not harming.
Another gasp, her fingers curling into the comforter. I watched the way her body absorbed the impact, the way she fought to stay still. My brave girl, taking what she'd earned.
"This is for not letting me keep you safe." Another swat, lower this time.
The pattern established itself—steady, rhythmic, covering the fullness of her bottom with careful attention. Not harsh enough to bruise, but firm enough to sting. Firm enough to make the lesson sink past skin into memory.
"This is because your honesty is the most important thing to me." Swat. "Because I need to know when you're struggling." Swat. "When you're scared." Swat. "When you need me."
She'd started making sounds—soft whimpers that twisted my gut even as I maintained the discipline. Her body had stopped fighting the position, going limp over my lap in surrender. Tears, I knew, though I couldn't see her face. I could hear them in her breathing, feel them in the way her shoulders shook.
"You matter too much to hide from me," I continued, each word punctuated by my hand. "Your safety matters. Your fears matter. Your truth matters."
Something shifted around the eighth swat. The quality of her sounds changed—still whimpers, but breathier. Her position adjusted subtly, hips tilting just slightly. If I hadn't been hyperaware of every response, I might have missed it.
But I was her Daddy. Noticing these things was my job.
