Page 31 of Bratva Daddy
"And?" I prompted, because I could feel there was more, words she was afraid to say.
"And I need you to be the one who does it." The admission came out in a rush, like she was embarrassed by the truth of it. "I need you to be my Daddy, to set rules and enforce them and make me feel like I exist for more than decoration."
The words destroyed something in me—some last wall between what I should do and what I wanted. She wasn't just accepting this; she was asking for it. Begging for the structure and discipline and care that came wrapped in control.
"Then that's what you'll get," I promised, and finally let my hand fall.
The first strike was gentle, testing—barely more than a firm pat through the silk nightgown. Clara gasped anyway, her whole body tensing across my lap. The sound went straight to my cock, already hard from having her draped over me like an offering.
"One," she breathed, then added with a shaky voice, "Thank you, Daddy."
The title on her lips, sincere this time instead of sarcastic, made my blood burn hotter. The second strike came firmer, the sound of my palm meeting silk echoing through the penthouse. She squirmed against my thighs, and I had to fight not to groan at the friction.
"Two. Thank you, Daddy."
By the third strike, the nightgown had ridden up enough that I could see those black lace panties clearly, could see the damp spot that had spread since she'd first positioned herself. She was getting wet from this, from the punishment, from calling me Daddy while I spanked her like the bratty little girl she'd been all day.
"Three," she moaned, and it was definitely a moan now, not just counting. "Thank you, Daddy."
The fourth strike landed harder, and she ground against my thigh seeking friction I wouldn't give her. Not yet. This was about consequences, about teaching her that actions mattered,that someone gave enough of a damn to correct her when she acted out.
But my body didn't care about lessons. My cock throbbed against her stomach where she pressed into me, and I knew she could feel it, feel how affected I was by her submission, her soft cries, the way she was melting under my hand.
"Four," she gasped, hips rolling. "Thank you . . . oh god . . . thank you, Daddy."
The silk nightgown was useless now, bunched around her waist, leaving just those soaked panties between my hand and her skin. The fifth strike made her cry out, a sound that was pure need, pure want, nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the arousal making her thighs tremble.
"Clara . . ." I warned, though I wasn't sure what I was warning her about. That she was too responsive? That she was making me lose control? That if she kept grinding against me like that, I was going to forget all my rules about maintaining distance?
"Five," she whimpered, and then deliberately, knowing exactly what she was doing, ground down against my thigh. "Thank you for punishing me, Daddy. Thank you for caring enough to correct me."
The words destroyed my control. The sixth strike was the hardest yet, and she practically screamed, but it wasn't pain in that sound. Her whole body shuddered, and I could feel the heat of her through my suit pants where she pressed against me.
"Six," she moaned, barely coherent now. "Thank you, Daddy. Please, one more, please, I need—"
I could see it, feel it, the way she was right on the edge. One more strike would push her over, would make her come across my lap from being spanked, from being punished, from finally having someone enforce consequences she'd been begging for her whole life.
My hand stilled, and she whimpered at the pause. "Do you deserve to come, little girl? After destroying my grandmother's vase? After breaking seven rules?"
"No," she admitted, but her hips kept moving, seeking. "But please, Daddy. Please. I'll be good. I'll follow your rules. I'll eat breakfast and get dressed on time and won't break anything. Please."
The begging destroyed me. This beautiful, defiant woman reduced to pleading for one more spank, for permission to come from punishment. She was perfect in her submission, in her need, in the way she'd given herself over to this completely.
"One more," I agreed, raising my hand. "And you'll come for Daddy, won't you? Come from being punished like the naughty little girl you are?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, Daddy, please—"
The seventh strike landed perfectly, and she shattered. Her back arched, body going rigid, and then she was coming with my name—my title—on her lips. "Daddy!" Not muffled this time, not hidden, but screamed into my penthouse as she shook apart across my lap.
I held her through it, one hand on her lower back keeping her stable as waves of pleasure crashed through her. She was beautiful in her climax—abandoned, uncontrolled, completely mine in this moment. My cock throbbed painfully, demanding attention I wouldn't give it. This wasn't about my pleasure. This was about her needs, her consequences, her lesson.
When she finally stilled, I pulled her up, intending to send her to her room. To reestablish distance before I did something that couldn't be undone. But she moved faster than I expected, straddling my lap before I could stop her, eyes glazed with post-orgasm haze and something else. Determination.
"Clara—" I started, but she pressed her finger to my lips.
"Shut up," she whispered, and then her mouth was on mine.
For a moment, I was lost. Her lips were soft and demanding, tongue seeking mine with desperate need. She tasted like vanilla and desperation. My hands tangled in her hair without conscious thought, pulling her closer, devouring her mouth like a starving man finally allowed to eat.
