Page 130 of Dark King Daddy

I sat in the armchair. My hands rested on the arms. I watched her cross the room—four steps, five, six—until she stood directly in front of me, close enough that her knee touched mine.

“Ksyusha.”

“Yes?”

“You were supposed to wait for my invitation.”

“I know.”

Her mouth curved. Full, deliberate, unapologetic. She looked down at me with the confidence of a woman who had done exactly what she intended and was waiting to see what came next.

“I broke the rule,” she said. “On purpose. The second I walked in, just like I told you.”

“Hmmm. This is very serious.” I hammed it up, acted very dissappointed. I wanted her to feel it.

“What are you going to do about it?”

I reached for her wrist. Not hard—a guiding pressure, my fingers closing around the bone, turning her slightly. I drew her down across my lap.

She went willingly. Her body settled over my thighs—her stomach against my legs, her hands finding the floor on the other side, her feet touching the carpet on her toes. The t-shirt rode up. The black underwear was all that covered her.

“A spanking. Ten.”

“No Daddy, it’s too harsh!”

“Maybe this will help you remember the rules next time.”

I rested my hand on her lower back. Held her there. Felt the warmth of her skin through the cotton.

“But can’t I have another ch—”

“Count,” I said. “From one.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I lifted my hand. I brought it down.

The sound was sharp in the quiet library. A flat, clean crack of palm against skin. The impact rippled through the muscle of her ass—I watched it, the brief compression and release, the pink flush that appeared immediately across the curve where my hand had landed.

“One,” she said. Her voice was steady.

I waited. Let the sting settle. Let her feel it.

The second stroke. Harder. Lower, where the curve met her thigh. She flinched—a small, involuntary tightening of her legs—and then relaxed again.

“Two.”

Third. Fourth. Each one deliberate, placed with care, building a pattern of warmth across her skin. I watched the color change—pink deepening toward red, the flush spreading with each strike. Her body responded. Her back arched slightly with each impact, her hips pressing forward against my thigh, and by the fifth stroke I could feel it.

Wet. Through the underwear. The thin black fabric was damp, and the moisture had transferred to my leg, warm and unmistakable. She was aroused. Not mildly — soaked. The spanking was doing exactly what she had wanted it to do, and her body was proving it.

“Five,” she said. Her voice had changed. Rougher. Lower.

I paused. My hand rested on her ass — warm, flushed, the skin hot beneath my palm. I traced my thumb along the edge of her underwear. She shuddered.

“Daddy.”

“Yes?”