Page 49 of Enforcer Daddy
Tears pricked at my eyes because no one had ever been proud of me for failing before. No one had ever made my mistakes feel like they were worth something just because I'd admitted them.
"But you still need discipline," he continued, and there was something dark and promising in his voice now. "Not because I'm angry, but because you need to know that rules matter. That when Daddy tells you not to touch what's his, he means it."
What's his. Like my pleasure belonged to him now. Like my body was his to control, his to deny, his to grant release when he decided I'd earned it. The thought should have made me angry—I'd spent four years belonging to no one but myself. Instead, it made me wet all over again.
"Are you going to spank me?" I asked, voice small.
Something flickered in his eyes—heat maybe, or amusement. "Is that what you think you deserve?"
I didn't know how to answer that. Part of me wanted the spanking, wanted the physical release of it, the clear consequence that would absolve my guilt. But another part suspected that was too easy, too close to what I actually wanted.
"I think," I said carefully, "that you're going to do something worse."
His smile was slow and dangerous. "Clever girl. I'm going to give you exactly what you need, which isn't always what you want."
He stepped back, leaving me cold despite the warm kitchen. "Finish your breakfast. All of it. Then meet me in the living room. We have some things to take care of before I leave for my meeting."
He walked away, leaving me with a plate of rapidly cooling eggs and a stomach full of butterflies that felt more like bats.Bear looked up at me with those soulful eyes, like even he knew I was in trouble.
"Emergency correction," I muttered, forcing down another bite. "What the hell does that even mean?"
When my plate was clean, I stood on shaky legs and walked to my fate.
Thelivingroomfeltdifferent when I entered—charged with that particular energy that meant Dmitry had been planning something. He stood by the window, backlit by morning sun, holding what looked like clothing in his hands. Small clothing. Child-sized clothing that made my stomach drop.
"Come here," he said, voice calm as still water.
I moved on unsteady legs, bare feet silent on the hardwood. As I got closer, I could see what he held—a tiny pink t-shirt with some cartoon character on it, shorts that looked like they'd fit a ten-year-old, knee socks with ruffles at the top. Little girl clothes that would be obscene on my adult body.
"What—" I started, but he cut me off with a look.
"You acted like a naughty little girl who couldn't control herself," he said, setting the clothes on the couch. "So you'll be dressed like one while you think about what you did."
Heat flooded my face—humiliation and arousal twisted together in a combination that made me dizzy. "Dmitry, I can't—those won't even fit—"
"They'll fit," he said with certainty that suggested he'd measured me somehow, calculated exactly what size would be uncomfortably small without being impossible. "They'll be tight. Restrictive. A constant reminder that your body is under my control, not yours."
My breath came faster. This was worse than a spanking. A spanking would be over in minutes, would give me the physical release I craved. This was psychological, designed to last the entire time he was gone.
"What about a spanking? A hard one?" I asked, voice small.
He moved closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You want the spanking. You would get wet from it, maybe even come from it if I'd allowed it. That's not discipline, Eva. That's reward dressed up as punishment."
He was right. God help me, he was completely right. I'd been fantasizing about him spanking me, about being over his lap, about the heat and sting and eventual release. This—clothes that would constantly remind me of my failure, corner time that would leave me alone with my thoughts—this was actual punishment.
"Strip," he commanded.
My hands shook as I pulled off my t-shirt and shorts, standing in just my panties. The morning air raised goosebumps on my skin, or maybe that was the weight of his gaze as he watched me with clinical detachment.
"Everything," he said when I hesitated at my underwear.
I pushed them down, stepping out of them, fighting the urge to cover myself. He'd seen me naked before—on the mountain, when he'd tasted me—but this felt different. More vulnerable. More about power than passion.
He handed me the tiny clothes piece by piece. The panties first—little girl cotton with hearts on them, so small they barely covered anything. They cut into my hips, the elastic biting into my skin, the fabric wedged uncomfortably between my ass cheeks.
"These are horrible," I whined, trying to adjust them.
"They're supposed to be," he said simply. "Arms up."
