Sloane
I was sitting in his lap, my legs parted at his command, my dress falling open between them. I was bare underneath, flushed, already wet, and he hadn’t even touched me intimately yet. He was just looking at me like I was a meal he intended to take his time with.
His eyes were heavy, dark with focus, like he was cataloging my every reaction, every little flutter of my breath, every tiny shift in my muscles. Maybe like he analyzed his opponents in the ring, so he could anticipate their next move. I could feel it in the way his hand moved, not rushed, not greedy. Like he was studying me.
Like he had waited for that moment longer than I could have ever imagined.
And fuck… the way he touched me.
It wasn’t just sexual. It was possessive. His hand skimmed up my inner thigh, then back down, then up again, tracing the path just short of where I needed him the most. He was watching me fall apart one heartbeat at a time, and he was doing it on purpose.
I glanced up at him, desperate for something—permission, friction, anything—but he just watched me with that calm, unreadable expression. Like I was already unraveling exactly the way he wanted me to.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice wrecked and breathless.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Not yet,” he murmured.
Then his fingers brushed the slick heat between my thighs, finally, and I whimpered—an actual, honest-to-God whimper that flew free from my lips before I could bite it back.
His eyes flicked up at me, and they burned with heat and overwhelming satisfaction.
“You feel that?” he asked, his voice rumbling through my core, his thumb pressing gently against my clit in slow, maddening circles. “This is what surrender feels like, baby girl.”
I moaned, tilting my hips forward into his hand without thinking. Everything inside me was tight, coiled. Like I’d been waiting for this moment since the second he walked into my life. Every flick of his fingers, every drag of his thumb, every slow stroke over my soaked, aching skin, it was all done with an air of authority. Like he wanted me to feel everything. Like he wanted to watch me feel it.
And I did.
Every touch was fire, every second a test I was desperate to fail.
I rested my forehead against his shoulder, lips parted, trying to hold onto something, anything, but he was already everywhere.
In my head.
Under my skin.
Inside my soul.
When his other hand came up to cradle my jaw, tipping my face back up so he could watch me while he kept working me with his fingers, I swore I could have cried. I had never been touched like that.
Not by someone who wanted all of me.
Not by someone who meant to keep me.
It felt like he was everywhere. His fingers between my legs, coaxing every last nerve to the edge of something unbearable. His hand on my jaw, holding me in place like he already knew I’d try to hide my face when I broke.
“You’re so close,” he crooned, voice like smoke against my cheek. “Look at you… so wet, so needy. All spread out for me like a good girl.”
My thighs trembled, my hips rolling into his hand, chasing the pressure, the heat, the release…
“Say you want it,” he demanded, lips brushing the corner of my mouth.
I wanted to. I did. But something bratty and reckless lodged in my throat, and instead of surrendering, I smirked.
“Is this your way of making me behave?” I managed, my voice breathless, but wicked. “Because it’s not working.”
His fingers went dead still.
My breath hitched hard.
“Wrong answer,” he growled.
And then he spanked my pussy.
Right there in his lap, one hand tangling into my hair, the other landing hard on the wet folds of my slit. The sound echoed through the office, and I yelped, shocked at the sting, the suddenness, the sheer force of it.
“Such a bad little girl,” he rumbled, and his voice cut straight down into my soul.
Another sharp slap.
I moaned—embarrassingly loud—because the pain melted straight into the pleasure still pulsing between my thighs.
“I think you need to remember what happens when you mouth off,” he murmured.
He pressed his fingers into me and I cried out, the sound catching in my throat as my body jolted forward.
My hands clutched at his shoulders, my nails digging in. Everything inside me contracted like a bomb about to blow.
“Beg for it,” he whispered.
I shook my head, breathless, desperate.
He moved faster, thumb circling my clit, fingers thrusting with slow, punishing precision. My vision blurred.
“Say it, baby girl,” he growled. “Or I’ll stop.”
I broke.
I broke.
“Please, Daddy,” I sobbed, hips rocking, thighs shaking. “Please let me come—please, please—”
“Come for Daddy, baby girl.”
And then I fell apart.
Hard.
I came with a cry, loud and raw, burying my face into his neck as every nerve in my body exploded at once. My legs quaked. My stomach clenched. My hands fisted the collar of his shirt like I might fall off if I didn’t hold on.
Still, he kept touching me—dragging it out, working me through every aftershock like he wanted to make sure I never forgot who did this to me.
“Good girl,” he breathed, kissing the side of my head as I shuddered in his lap. “My perfect baby girl.”
I couldn’t stop trembling. He’d made me come completely undone with just the fingers of one hand.
I panted soft gasps into his neck as he let go of my hair, my whole body going limp and useless, melting into him like I might never move again. My thighs were shaking. My cheeks were still flushed. My everything was buzzing.
And yet…
My mouth moved before my brain caught up.
“Was that your best, Daddy?” I whispered, my voice soft and teasing, still laced with aftershocks.
I didn’t even know why I said it. Maybe it was the high. Maybe it was leftover pride clawing its way out of me like it couldn’t stand being this soft for too long. Whatever, it was too late to take those words back, and I felt the change in him the second they left my lips.
He went still beneath me. His hand stopped stroking my thigh, and he let out the softest little laugh: dark, dangerous, amused.
“Oh, baby girl,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
I didn’t get the chance to answer because suddenly, I wasn’t in his lap anymore. He toppled me over like I weighed nothing at all, and before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me by the hips and flipped me over his lap.
“Wait!” I yelped in panic.
“Too late, naughty girl.”
The dress rode up easily, the silk sliding over my skin like water, pooling around my waist. I was bare again, ass in the air, thighs spread across his lap, still humming from the orgasm he had just wrung out of me.
And now I was way more sensitive.
I twisted once, squirming, but his hand was already splayed across my lower back, pinning me down.
“Nikolai—”
The first slap made me scream—not loud, just shocked—because my whole body lit up again, white-hot fire across skin that was already tender. The sting bloomed instantly, twice as intense as before, and my legs kicked involuntarily, even though I knew better.
“Oh, my God—!”
Another slap. Harder.
I whimpered, but he didn’t stop. He spanked me with a slow, punishing rhythm, every strike placed exactly where it hurt the most. My hips jerked, my thighs trembled, and my clit pulsed with every shock of pain like I was being rewired from the inside out.
And worse?
I couldn’t stop moaning.
Every slap had me gasping, twitching, fighting, and melting at the same time. It was too much. Too good.
“Sensitive now, aren’t you?” he murmured.
“Y-yes,” I cried out, breath catching on the edge of another moan I couldn’t hold in.
He leaned over me, his mouth close to my ear.
“Then maybe you’ll learn that sassy little girls get their bare asses spanked much harder than they’d like.”
His hand landed again.
And then again.
And again.
I jerked with every strike, squirming, trying to brace myself on the edge of the chair, but it was no use. I was trapped across his lap, my body on fire, every inch of me screaming with sensation, painful, hot, humiliating.
And worse?
I knew I deserved it.
“Keep wiggling like that and I’ll start over,” he growled, his palm smacking down across my already sore cheek, sending another bolt of heat through me.
I yelped. “Daddy, please!”
Another slap.
My legs kicked, useless and frantic, but he just tightened his grip on my waist.
The spanking was brutal. I felt the first tear prick at the corner of my eye, the heat and the humiliation twisting inside me until it wasn’t just arousal anymore; it somehow became emotion.
Big, all consuming emotion.
“N-no—please, Daddy—please, I’m sorry—” I was now willing to beg, but he didn’t stop.
Not yet.
“I won’t hesitate to punish you whenever and wherever you need it, baby girl,” he told me, spanking me again, the sharp sting radiating up through my spine. “I could take you over my knee every single day and never tire of reddening this naughty little ass.”
I sobbed.
Just once.
Soft. Broken.
And then it was over.
He stopped.
My chest was heaving. My throat was tight. My skin was molten and buzzing and I knew that I was soaked between my legs, throbbing with a need that was somehow stronger than the stinging heat across my ass.
He rubbed my back gently now, palm moving in slow, soothing circles.
“You needed that,” he murmured.
I was too overwhelmed to argue, too wrecked to deny it.
He adjusted me carefully, lifting me from his lap and cradling me against his chest. My bare thighs straddled him now, but my face was hidden in his neck, breath shaking as I tried to calm myself. He kissed my temple, lips warm against my skin, and exhaled like the weight he carried had finally settled somewhere it belonged.
“I’ve got you now,” he said, his voice sure. “And I’m never letting go.”
