"Eighteen!" The number came out as almost a scream. "Thank—thank you—Daddy, please—"
I didn't even know what I was begging for. For him to stop. For him to never stop. For him to touch me where I was dripping and desperate. For him to fuck me. For him to keep me right here on this knife's edge forever.
His hand paused, palm pressing against my heated skin, and I sobbed at the contact. I could feel how hot I was, how the blood had rushed to the surface, how thoroughly he'd marked me without leaving lasting damage.
"You're soaking through my pants," he observed, and his voice had gone rough, control audibly fraying. "Grinding against me like you're in heat."
The crude words should have embarrassed me. Instead, they made me wetter, made me press harder against his thigh, made me moan his name.
"I can't help it," I gasped. "I need—I need—"
"I know what you need." His other hand tangled in my hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding me. "
The next strike was harder still, making my whole body jerk.
"Nineteen!" My voice cracked completely. "Thank you—Daddy—please, I can't—"
"You can." Another strike, precise and devastating. "You will."
"Twenty! Thank you, Daddy!"
I was falling apart across his lap, all pretense gone, all dignity abandoned. My hips moved without permission, grinding, seeking, desperate for pressure that would never be enough. And beneath me, I could feel him—rock hard, his cock straining against his pants where my hip pressed against it. The knowledge that he was as affected as me, that he wanted this as much as I did, made me bold.
I shifted deliberately, pressing against his erection, and heard his breath catch.
"Feel what you do to me?" His voice came out strained, like every word cost him. "This is what happens when you don't take care of yourself."
Another strike, harder, making me cry out.
"Twenty-one—thank you—oh fuck—Daddy—"
"I have to do it for you." Another spank, the sound echoing. "Have to remind you—"
"Twenty-two!" I was sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, but they weren't from pain. They were from overwhelming sensation, from need so intense it felt like dying. "Thank you, Daddy!"
"—that you're mine to protect."
The word 'mine' hit me like a physical blow. Mine. His. Belonging to someone who would spank me for not eating, who would enforce bedtimes, who would take care of me when I couldn't take care of myself.
"Twenty-three," I gasped, and my voice sounded broken, desperate, completely wrecked. "Thank you—thank you, Daddy—please—"
"Please what, little bird?"
Another strike, and I screamed.
"Twenty-four! I don't know—I just—please—"
I was climbing toward something enormous, impossible. Surely I couldn't come just from this—from his hand on my ass and his thigh between my legs and his voice telling me I was his. That wasn't how bodies worked. That wasn't—
"Thank you, Daddy, please, I think I'm going to—"
"Not yet." His hand stilled, and I actually wailed, the sound torn from deep in my chest. "Not until I say."
"I can't—I can't stop it—"
"You can." His hand smoothed over my burning skin, soothing and inflaming simultaneously. "You will. Because I told you to. Because you trust me. Because you're mine to take care of, and I'm telling you to wait."
The word 'mine' again, possessive and certain, made my whole body clench. I was right there, right on the precipice, holding on by threads while my body screamed for release.
