His other hand came to rest on the back of my thigh, just below the curve of my ass, and I couldn't stop the whimper that escaped.
"Color?" he asked.
It took me a moment to remember what he was asking—the safe words we'd established, the check-in that meant he was still putting my safety first even now.
"Green," I managed, voice shaking. "Very, very green."
I felt more than heard his exhale—relief mixed with something darker, hungrier. His hand on my thigh squeezed gently, then smoothed upward, learning the shape of me through the thin cotton of my underwear.
"Then let's begin."
My whole body tensed with anticipation, every nerve focused on that single point of contact as his hand smoothed over my ass with deliberate slowness.
"Relax," he murmured, and his other hand pressed firmer against my lower back. "Don't fight it. Let it happen."
Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one spread across someone's lap with underwear that had gone transparent with how wet I was. He wasn't the one whose body had been wound tight for three days, desperate for exactly this kind of attention.
His palm made another slow pass, and I felt him mapping me—the shape, the give, the way my body responded to even this gentle exploration. My hips shifted without permission, seeking more pressure, more anything, and he made a low sound that might have been approval.
"Count them," he reminded me, voice steady as bedrock. "And thank me for each one."
Then his hand lifted.
The absence of contact made me hold my breath, made every muscle go rigid with anticipation. One second. Two. Three—
The first spank landed with a crack that seemed to echo off the walls.
Shock came first—the sound more than the sensation, loud and obscene in the quiet room. Then heat bloomed across myright cheek, sharp and stinging and somehow exactly what my body had been craving.
"One," I gasped, the word tumbling out rough and desperate. "Thank you, Daddy."
The title on my lips sent a fresh wave of arousal through me, made me clench around nothing, empty and aching.
He didn't respond verbally, just lifted his hand again. This time I knew what was coming, but the anticipation made it worse—better—made my whole body sing with need.
The second strike landed on my left cheek, perfectly symmetrical, the same measured force. Not too hard—I realized through the haze of sensation that he was warming me up, conditioning my skin, getting my body ready for more.
"Two. Thank you, Daddy."
My voice sounded wrecked already, breathy and desperate, and we'd barely started.
The third came quicker. "Three—thank you, Daddy."
Then the fourth. "Four. Oh god—thank you, Daddy."
He found a rhythm, steady and inexorable, alternating sides with scientific precision. Each strike sent heat spreading across my skin, each impact jolting through me in waves that went straight to my core. I was squirming now, couldn't help it, hips rolling as I sought friction that wasn't there.
"Five—thank you—" My voice cracked. "Daddy."
"Six!" The number came out as a cry. "Thank you, Daddy."
By the tenth spank, I was pressing my thighs together desperately, seeking pressure, seeking anything to ease the ache that had gone from want to need to desperation. The cotton of my underwear was soaked through, and I knew he could see it, knew he was watching everything.
His hand paused, resting on the heat he'd created. Even that simple contact made me whimper, oversensitized and desperate.His palm was warm against my stinging skin, soothing and inflaming at the same time.
"You're enjoying this."
Not a question. An observation delivered in that low, controlled voice that made my insides liquid. His fingers traced along the elastic edge of my underwear, so close to where I was dripping and desperate that I actually sobbed.
