Page 62 of Enforcer Daddy
"We'll start with your shorts on," he said, his hand rubbing circles on my back. "This is a good girl spanking, remember. You've earned this through obedience, through choosing to submit rather than fight. This is your reward for being brave enough to trust me."
Trust. Such a small word for such an enormous thing. But lying across his lap, feeling his hand warm on my back, knowing he'd stop if I said red, knowing there would be aftercare and warmth and praise when it was done—maybe trust was exactly what this was.
"I'm ready, Daddy," I said again, meaning it more than I'd ever meant anything.
His hand left my back, and I held my breath, waiting for the first strike that would mark the beginning of something I couldn't take back.
The first strike was barely more than a pat, his palm connecting with my shorts-covered ass with a sound that was more suggestion than impact. But even that gentle contact sent electricity through me, my body responding like he'd hit a switch I didn't know existed.
"One," I counted without being asked, the word coming out breathier than intended.
"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words made me wetter than the actual spank had. "Keep counting."
The second strike landed slightly harder, still over the shorts but with enough force to create warmth. The sensation traveled straight to my clit, making me squirm against his lap.
"Two," I managed, pressing my thighs together to try to ease the sudden, overwhelming need.
By five, I was panting. He'd found a rhythm—steady, measured strikes that built heat without real pain. Each impact sent waves through me, and I could feel myself getting wetter with every count. The thin sleep shorts did nothing to hide my arousal; I knew he could probably see the wet spot forming, could definitely smell how turned on I was.
"Six," I gasped as his palm landed again, the impact reverberating through me.
"You're doing so well," he said, rubbing where he'd just struck, the gentle touch after the spank making me arch into his hand. "Such a good girl, taking your spanking so beautifully."
The praise combined with the physical sensation was overwhelming. I'd been aroused before—had touched myself plenty of times—but this was different. This was my entire body lighting up, every nerve ending singing, my pussy clenching around nothing with each strike.
"Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . ."
By ten, I was shaking. Not from pain—there was barely any pain—but from the effort of not grinding against his thigh, not begging him to touch me where I needed it most. I could feel myself dripping, knew the shorts were probably soaked through.
"Time for these to come down," he said, his voice rougher now, affected despite his control.
His fingers hooked into the waistband, and I lifted my hips immediately, eager to help, eager to feel his hand on my bare skin. The shorts slid down to mid-thigh, and the cool air on my exposed, heated skin made me moan.
"Fuck," he breathed, and I knew he could see everything—how wet I was, how swollen, how desperately ready. "You're dripping, little one."
"Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was begging for.
"Not yet," he said, but his hand trembled slightly as it settled on my bare ass. "We're only halfway done."
The first strike on bare skin was electric. Without the barrier of fabric, I could feel everything—the heat of his palm, the slight sting, the way the impact rippled through my flesh. My clit throbbed in response, and I could feel myself clenching, empty and desperate.
"Eleven," I moaned, the count coming out like a plea.
He struck again, slightly harder now, and the sound of skin on skin filled the room. The intimacy of it—that specific sound, the heat building under his palm, the way my body responded without my permission—made me feel exposed in ways that had nothing to do with my lack of clothing.
"Twelve . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . ."
At fifteen, he paused, both hands now on my ass, rubbing the heat deeper into my skin. His fingers occasionally dipped lower, not quite touching where I needed but close enough to make me arch and whimper.
"You're being so good," he said, voice thick with want. "Taking this so perfectly. You've soaked through my pants, little one. I can feel how wet you are."
The words made me clench again, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through me. I was making a mess of him, of his expensive clothes, and somehow that made it even hotter.
"Fifteen more," he said, and I both wanted them and didn't know if I could survive them.
The strikes came faster now, building in intensity. Not harsh, never cruel, but firm enough that the heat spread from my ass down my thighs, up my back. Each impact pushed me slightlyforward on his lap, creating friction against my clit that was almost enough, never enough.
"Sixteen . . . seventeen . . . eighteen . . ."
