Page 12 of Daddy Enforcer
I hate this.
I hate how small I feel, how his control makes my heart race like I’m about to go on stage. But there’s something else too, something grounding, like the world’s stopped spinning for a second, and it’s just me and his voice.
I hear Max move behind me, the creak of the floor as he sets a timer on his phone. “Until my timer buzzes,” Max says. “Use it to think about how you’re gonna act from now on.”
I bite my lip, staring at the wall’s grainy texture.
My body’s a mess—my pulse is racing, my skin’s hot, and there’s that tingly feeling again, low in my belly, like when I was in the bathroom earlier. That was… intense, touching myself while thinking of Max’s stern voice, his towering presence.
I don’t know what’s happening to me.
I’m Billie B, prince of the charts, not some boy who gets butterflies from a timeout.
But standing here, hands on my head, I can’t deny it: his control is doing something to me, something sexual but also… deeper.
My mind drifts to Zane, my old dancer friend from the tour. He used to talk about being a Little, how his Daddy would disciplinehim—timeouts, spankings, paddlings, a whole bunch of rules—and how it wasn’t just about punishment.
It was humbling, sometimes painful, but it made him feel safe, like he could let go of the world’s weight and justbe. I’d listen, fascinated but too shy to ask more, wondering what it’d be like to feel that secure.
Zane would get this dreamy look, talking about how his Daddy’s rules gave him freedom in a weird way, like he didn’t have to carry everything alone. I thought it sounded crazy back then, but now, standing here with Max’s timer ticking, I’m starting to get it.
My heart’s beating so fast, and I’m picturing Max’s hands, his voice, his eyes—wondering what it’d be like if he punished me for real. Not just a timeout, but something more. Something that’d make me feel…his.
But then my thoughts shift, and I’m back to my childhood, to the dreams I had before the pop star life took over. Back when I was a kid, I didn’t want to be Billie B, chart-topping diva. I wanted to be a stage actor, treading the boards in some grand theater, losing myself in Shakespeare or Chekhov.
I’d spend hours in my room, practicing monologues fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream, imagining myself as Puck, all mischief and magic, or as Juliet, pouring my heart out under a spotlight.
I’d beg my mom to take me to community theater rehearsals, where I’d watch the actors transform, their voices carrying stories that felt bigger than life. I thought that’s where I’d end up—on a stage, not a stadium, telling stories that made people cry or laugh or think, not just dancing to catchy beats.
What would my life have been like if I’d stuck to acting?
Maybe I’d be in New York now, doing off-Broadway shows, living in a tiny apartment with too many roommates, scraping by but happy. When I finished my run as a child actor I had a decent amount of savings, it would have been enough to tide me over and support me as I tried to make it in the theater, at least for a few years. And maybe I could have used the money to set up my own small theater production company too, build a small community where we could express ourselves and make challenging, interesting work.
I’d have real friends, not just a team of dancers who scatter when Trent snaps his fingers. They would be the kind of friends who would call me on my BS, and only praise me when I really deserved it.
I’d have quiet nights, reading scripts by lamplight, instead of partying in VIP lounges to forget how lonely fame feels.
Maybe I’d have found someone—a director, a fellow actor—who saw me as Billie, not Billie B, and loved me for it.
Maybe I wouldn’t be here, stuck in a cabin with a bodyguard who makes my head spin and my body do things I don’t understand. I wonder if that Billie, the stage actor, would’ve known what to do with these feelings, this pull toward Max’s control. Would he have been brave enough to explore it, or would he still be running, like I am now?
I shake my head, my hands still on my head, the cold wall grounding me.
That life’s gone. I chose pop music—or maybe Trent chose it for me, with his contracts and promises of never-ending fame and fortune.
And I love it, I do—singing for thousands, feeling their energy, knowing my songs mean something to them. But standing here, in this timeout, I feel like that little boy again, the one who dreamed of stages and stories, not stadiums and security threats. Max’s rules, his stern voice, they’re making me feel him again, that boy who just wanted to be seen. And it’s terrifying, because I don’t know if I can be him anymore.
The timer beeps, sharp and sudden, and I flinch, my hands dropping from my head.
I turn, my cheeks still hot. But Max is nowhere to be seen.
I wander to the window. The snow’s falling thicker now, blanketing the trees, and I spot Max outside, heading toward a pile of logs.
OMG.
He looks so…
Wow.
