Page 24 of Bratva Daddy
When he returned, my stomach dropped to my feet.
He carried something small, pink, made of what looked like silicone. It took my brain several seconds to process what I was seeing, and when understanding hit, heat flooded my face with such intensity I thought I might faint.
A pacifier. An adult pacifier, because of course it was adult-sized, designed for exactly this purpose. Not cheap either—this had been purchased deliberately, probably custom-ordered, definitely expensive. He'd planned for this. Had anticipated my tantrums and prepared the most humiliating response possible.
"You’re going to act like a toddler having tantrums?" His accented voice was terrifyingly calm, each word measured and deliberate. "Then you'll be treated like one."
"This is insane." I backed away but he followed, matching each of my retreating steps with an advancing one. "That's—you can't actually think—"
My back hit the bookshelf, leather spines digging into my shoulder blades. Trapped. He stood close enough that I could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, close enough that his body heat made my skin prickle with awareness.
“I can.”
"That's... you can't be serious," I managed, but my voice wavered, betraying me. Between my legs, heat gathered with shameful insistence. This was humiliating. Degrading. Everything I should hate. So why was my body responding like this was exactly what it had been waiting for?
"Open wide," he commanded.
The word hung between us, simple and impossible. I pressed my lips together, shaking my head, though we both knew how this would end. He had all the power here—physical, situational, psychological.
"Clara." My name on his lips was a warning. "Open your mouth."
I kept my lips pressed tight, staring at him with all the defiance I could muster. Let him force it. Let him show his true colors. Let him be the monster I needed him to be.
Instead, he simply pinched my nose closed.
The gesture was almost gentle, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to seal my nostrils. No violence, no rage, just practical efficiency. He waited with inhuman patience while my lungs began to burn, while my body betrayed me with its need for oxygen.
I lasted maybe thirty seconds before I had to gasp for air.
The pacifier slipped between my lips with ease, large enough to fill my mouth, the shield pressing against my lips. It tasted like nothing, clean and sterile, but the weight of it on my tongue made my whole body flush with humiliation.
"There we go," he murmured, thumb brushing my cheek as tears pricked at my eyes. Not from pain—there was no pain—but from the sheer mortification of standing there with a pink pacifier in my mouth while my panties soaked through with arousal I couldn't explain.
"You'll keep this in for one hour," he said, voice steady as if he was explaining a business contract. "If you remove it, it becomes two hours. If you remove it again, three. I can do this all day, little girl. Can you?"
I made a sound around the pacifier—protest, fury, something—but it came out muffled and infantile, exactly as he'd intended. The humiliation burned through me like fire, but underneath it, something else blazed just as hot. I was helpless. Silenced. Completely under his control. And my traitorous body loved it.
"Nod if you understand."
I wanted to spit it out. Wanted to scratch his face, throw things, scream until the neighbors called the police. But more than that—and this was the truly sick part—I wanted his approval. Wanted to be someone’s good girl, the one whofollowed rules and accepted consequences and earned praise in that dark velvet voice.
I nodded.
"Good girl," he said, and those two words sent warmth flooding through me like expensive whiskey. My nipples hardened against the cropped sweater, visible through the thin fabric, and his eyes flicked down for just a moment before returning to my face.
He stepped back, leaving me pressed against the bookshelf with a pacifier in my mouth and wetness running down my thighs. The loss of his proximity felt like punishment all on its own.
"One hour," he reminded me, checking his watch. "I'll be in my office. You're free to move around the penthouse, read, watch television if you've earned those privileges. But that stays in your mouth. And Clara?" He paused at the hallway entrance. "I'll know if you cheat."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with my humiliation and the devastating arousal that came with it.
I stood there for several minutes, afraid to move, afraid that walking would make me more aware of how wet I was, how my body had responded to being treated like a naughty child who needed discipline. The pacifier filled my mouth, making swallowing awkward, forcing me to focus on the simple act of breathing around it.
This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? When I'd thrown that plate, I'd been begging for consequences. Well, now I had them.
I should have been planning escape. Should have been figuring out how to use this time to find a weapon, a phone, anything that could get me out of this penthouse. Instead, I was counting the minutes until he'd come back, until he'd remove the pacifier and maybe, if I'd been good, tell me I'd done well.
God, what was wrong with me?
