Page 61 of Enforcer Daddy
The praise broke something in me. Not in a bad way—more like cracking open a shell I'd built around the soft parts. Tears leaked from my eyes, mixing with the water still dripping from my hair, and he just held me through it, solid and warm and there.
"This is aftercare," he said quietly, answering a question I hadn't asked. "The punishment has an end, and warmth always follows the cold. Always, Eva. No matter what you do, no matter how you fail, there's always warmth waiting after."
I pressed my face into his chest, breathing in his scent—safety and structure and home I'd never had. The cold shower hadn't broken me or hurt me or made me less. It had washed something away, maybe, cleared space like the lines had.
"One more punishment," he said eventually, when my shivers had completely stopped. "But because you've been so good, so accepting, it's going to be different."
"Different how?" I asked, though I thought I already knew from the way his voice had dropped, from the tension I could feel in his body where it pressed against mine.
"You'll see. Come on, little one. Let's get you dry first."
Thelivingroomrugwas soft under my knees, and I hadn't even realized I'd chosen to kneel until I was already down, looking up at Dmitry with eyes that felt too open, too vulnerable. My hair was still damp from the shower, leaving wet spots on the fresh t-shirt he'd given me, and I could feel drops trailing down my neck like curious fingers.
Something had shifted during the lines and the cold shower. The constant static in my head—that survival voice that calculated exits and weapons and worst-case scenarios—had dimmed to almost nothing. For the first time in maybe ever, I felt present in my body without needing to armor against the world. My knees on the rug, the slight chill from my wet hair, the way Dmitry's presence filled the room—I was aware of all of it without the usual accompanying panic.
He stood before me, studying my face with those dark eyes that missed nothing. Whatever he saw there made his expression soften, though his posture remained commanding. He reached down, fingers ghosting along my jaw, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel the heat.
"You're different," he said, not a question but an observation. "Quieter inside."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He was right—the constant rebellion that had kept me alive for four years had gone quiet, replaced by something I didn't have a name for yet. Not submission exactly, but maybe the possibility of it.
"You completed your punishments beautifully," he continued, his thumb finally making contact with my cheek, just the lightest touch. "The lines were perfect by the end. You took the cold shower without fighting, used the breathing techniques I taught you. You chose acceptance over resistance."
Pride bloomed warm in my chest. Street-Eva would have mocked me for caring about his approval, but Street-Eva had never felt this kind of safety, this structure that made sense of chaos.
"Because you've been so good," he said, voice dropping to that register that made my thighs clench, "your final punishment will be different. A reward disguised as discipline, though it will still sting."
My breathing quickened. I knew what he meant—could see it in the way his eyes had darkened, the way his free hand flexed at his side. The spanking he'd denied me this morning because I'd want it too much.
"What kind of punishment?" I asked, though my body already knew, was already responding to the promise in his voice.
"The kind that good girls get when they've earned it through obedience rather than demanded it through defiance." He moved to the couch, settling into the leather with deliberatecontrol. "A spanking, Eva. A proper one, the kind you've been craving."
Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly. This morning, the denial of a spanking had felt like deprivation. Now, having earned it through submission rather than brattiness, it felt like a gift.
"Is that what you want?" he asked, watching my reaction with laser focus. "A good girl spanking as your final punishment?"
The question hung between us, loaded with more than just this moment. He was asking if I wanted to cross this line, if I was ready for the physical intimacy that would come with being over his lap, vulnerable and exposed but held and cared for.
"Yes," I said, surprised by how steady my voice was. "Yes, Daddy, I'm ready."
The title came out without thought, without the sarcasm or challenge that usually accompanied it. Just Daddy, simple and true, acknowledging what he'd become to me in the space of signed contracts and careful punishments.
Something flared in his eyes—possession maybe, or satisfaction. He patted his lap once, a clear invitation, and I stood on legs that felt disconnected from my body.
"How do I . . . ?" I started, genuinely unsure of the mechanics.
His hands found my waist, guiding me with the same careful control he'd shown all evening. "Like this, little one. Let me position you."
The gentleness in his touch, the way he made sure I was comfortable even as he arranged me for punishment, made my throat tight with emotion. This wasn't the harsh discipline I'd known in foster homes or the chaotic violence of the streets. This was something else entirely—structure wrapped in care, consequences delivered with love.
Love? Where had that thought come from?
"Comfortable?" he asked, one hand settling on my lower back, holding me steady.
"Yes," I whispered, though comfortable was a strange word for being draped over someone's lap, ass in the air, completely at their mercy.
But I was comfortable. My upper body was supported by the couch, my feet firmly on the floor, his thigh solid beneath my stomach. I felt held, contained, safe in a way that made no logical sense given the vulnerable position.
