Page 51 of Enforcer Daddy
Another five minutes, and I was dripping.
I could feel it—wetness soaking through the tiny panties, probably visible through the shorts if anyone could see. The fabric was so wet it moved differently now, sliding against me with every breath. My nipples were hard points of need against the stretched shirt, so sensitive that even the air hurt.
Forty-five minutes in, and I broke.
My hand moved from behind my back without conscious decision, sliding down my stomach to press against the shorts. The first touch—even through the fabric—made me gasp. I was swollen, desperate, so turned on I could barely think.
"He'll know," I told myself, hand still pressed against the shorts. "He's watching. He'll see."
But my fingers were already rubbing small circles, the friction of the tight fabric almost painful against my sensitized clit. The position—still facing the corner like a punished child while I touched myself—made it even more intense. More wrong. More perfect.
I should have felt guilty. Should have stopped. Should have remembered that this was supposed to be punishment, that I was supposed to be learning control.
Instead, I pushed my hand inside the shorts.
The angle was awkward, the fabric so tight I could barely get my fingers where I needed them. But when I finally touched my clit directly, my knees nearly buckled. I was so wet my fingersslid easily, finding that swollen bundle of nerves that had been tortured by fabric for an hour.
"Oh god," I moaned to the corner, not caring if the cameras caught it, not caring about consequences.
I rubbed faster, harder, my other hand coming around to pinch my nipple through the stretched shirt. The dual sensation made my hips buck, made me grind against my own hand like an animal. The shorts restricted my movement, made everything tighter, more intense.
In my mind, Dmitry was here. Watching me be a bad girl. Watching me fail again. But instead of stopping me, he was encouraging it. Telling me what a naughty little girl I was, how I couldn't even handle simple corner time without touching myself.
"Such a desperate little slut," I imagined him saying. "Can't keep your hands off what belongs to Daddy."
The words—even in my imagination—made me wetter. I slipped two fingers inside myself, gasping at the stretch, at how easily they slid in. My palm pressed against my clit with each thrust, the too-tight shorts adding pressure that made everything more intense.
I was close already. The forced arousal from the clothes had primed me like a weapon, and now I was about to explode. My fingers moved faster, fucking myself while standing in the corner like the disobedient brat I was.
"Daddy," I moaned, not caring about cameras or consequences or the contract we hadn't signed yet. "Oh fuck, Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but I can't—"
The orgasm hit like a lightning strike. Harder than anything I'd ever given myself. My knees buckled and I had to press my face against the corner to stay upright as waves of pleasure crashed through me. I came and came and came, pussyclenching around my fingers, clit throbbing under my palm, entire body shaking with the force of it.
"DADDY!" I screamed into the corner, not muffled, not hidden, completely surrendered to the pleasure I'd stolen.
The aftermath was intense. I stood there, face pressed to the corner, hand still in my shorts, body still trembling with aftershocks. The reality of what I'd done crashed over me like cold water. Not only had I touched myself again, I'd come. Hard. While screaming his name. While being punished for touching myself the night before.
But instead of guilt, I felt . . . satisfied. Powerful, even. Like I'd taken back some control, even if that control was just over my own orgasm.
I pulled my hand out of the shorts, wiping it on the already ruined fabric. The clothes that had been torture were now soaked with my arousal, evidence of my complete failure at following rules.
I turned from the corner, finally, not caring that he'd told me not to move. What was the point of pretending now? I'd already broken every aspect of this punishment. Might as well be comfortable while I waited for him to come back and discover what a complete brat he was dealing with.
I settled on the couch, ignoring how the wet shorts pressed against me. Bear immediately came over, tail wagging, and I petted him while staring at the door.
Part of me was terrified of Dmitry's return. He'd said the punishment would be worse if I disobeyed, and I'd disobeyed spectacularly. But another part—the bigger part—was excited. Eager, even.
Chapter 10
Dmitry
Theelevatorrecognizedmykey code with a soft chime that felt too cheerful for the weight in my chest. Eleven AM exactly—my brother appreciated punctuality. I couldn’t help thinking of Eva in my apartment, int those tiny clothes, waiting for me to return.
“Focus,zasranets,” I scolded myself.
I gave myself a light slap on the cheek, and headed in.
The ride up to Alexei's penthouse was long. Each floor marked a countdown to vulnerability I'd spent thirty-four years avoiding.
