Page 59 of Enforcer Daddy
She stood from the stool, the movement making the shirt ride up dangerously. "And my punishment? For this morning?"
I stood as well, towering over her, letting her feel the size difference between us. "Lines first. One hundred times: 'I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.' In your best handwriting."
"Now?"
"Now. Then cold shower, five minutes. If those punishments are carried outperfectly, then there will be one more punishment.”
“One more?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“What punishment?”
“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”
Chapter 11
Eva
Somanypunishments.
The fountain pen weighed more than I expected, heavy and cool between my fingers. Dmitry had set everything out while I'd changed into sleep shorts and his t-shirt—pristine white paper.
"One hundred times," he'd said, settling across from me with a Russian novel. "Your best handwriting, devochka."
I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.
The first line came out angry, letters sharp and leaning forward like they wanted to fight. The ink was darker where I'd pressed too hard, making the paper dimple. My usual inner voice—the one that had kept me alive on the streets, that whispered about exits and weapons and never trusting anyone—screamed that this was humiliation, control, everything I'd sworn I'd never submit to.
I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.
Line two was slightly less aggressive. Across from me, Dmitry turned a page in his novel, the soft whisper of paper the only sound besides the pen scratching. He wasn't watching me, wasn't gloating or checking my work. Just reading, like he trusted me to complete this task without supervision.
I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.
By line ten, a rhythm had developed. Dip the pen, write the words, watch the ink shine wet before it dried to matte black. The repetition should have been maddening, but something about the physical act—the careful formation of letters, the slight resistance of quality paper against the nib—was almost soothing.
I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.
Dmitry glanced up around line twenty, his dark eyes taking in my posture, the way I'd stopped death-gripping the pen. He didn't say anything, just gave me the smallest nod before returning to his book. That tiny acknowledgment made warmth bloom in my chest.
I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.
Somewhere around line forty, something fundamental shifted. The words stopped being punishment and became something else—a mantra maybe, or a meditation. Each repetition carved the rule deeper into my consciousness, not through force but through choice. I was choosing to write these words, choosing to accept this boundary, choosing to trust that Dmitry's control over my pleasure would be better than the chaos I'd always known.
I started to take my time. Really focus. My handwriting suddenly became beautiful. I'd never had nice handwriting before—it had always been functional at best, barely legible when I'd bothered with it at all. But now each letter was carefully formed, the sentences straight across the unlined paper, the spacing consistent. It looked like something from an old letter, formal and deliberate and meaningful.
When I realized I was at line ninety, a flutter of panic went through me. This peaceful bubble where my only job was to obey, where the rules were clear and the expectations simple—it was ending. After line one hundred, I'd have to return to the complex world of choices and consequences, of wanting things I shouldn't want, of trusting someone who could destroy me with that trust.
I will not touch myself without Daddy's permission.
The final period felt momentous. I set the pen down carefully, parallel to the pages now covered in my careful script. The completed lines looked beautiful to me—not just the handwriting but what they represented. Evidence that I could be good. That I could choose obedience over chaos. That maybe, possibly, I could trust someone enough to let them make rules that I'd actually follow.
"Finished," I said, my voice rough from disuse.
Dmitry looked up from his book, something warm and proud in his expression. He stood, moving around the island to look at the pages, not touching them but taking in the evolution from angry scratches to careful calligraphy.
"Beautiful work, little one," he said, and the praise made my chest tight with emotion I couldn't name. "You can see the moment you stopped fighting and started accepting."
