Page 104 of Hunt Me, Daddy

My ass wasbareover his lap.

The words formed in my head with unbearable clarity.

I was bare over Ivan Morozov’s lap.

Waiting for a spanking.

My firstrealspanking.

I had made jokes about consequences. I had fantasized under hot water and pretended that was my body being a weird little chemical disaster. I had taunted him with ‘Daddy’ like a weapon. None of that prepared me for the actual vulnerability of this moment: my leggings and underwear pulled down, my face hot, my hands gripping the couch, his palm resting lightly on my bare bottom like he owned the right to put it there and I thought that maybe, just maybe, in this moment, he did.

“This is for leaving without telling me,” he said.

His voice was steady. Mine was not.

“I came back though,” I tried.

“And for thinking coming back erased the risk.”

“I wasn’t gone long.”

“And also for deciding the length of the risk mattered more than the lie.”

“I needed the drive.”

“And finally for using a true statement to avoid the real one.”

His hand lifted and I felt the absence of his touch for a split second before the first smack landed. The sound of it cracked loudly through the apartment.

So did the sting.

His palm was big and firm, and the impact bloomed over my left cheek in a hot, shocking burst that seemed to travel everywhere at once. My whole body jerked, I gasped, and his arm tightened around my waist, keeping me in place.

“Oh, my God,” I said.

“No,” Ivan replied calmly. “Just Daddy.”

The second smack landed on the other cheek, just as hard, just as stinging. Heat flared. My toes curled against the floor. My hands dug into the couch.

This was not like fantasy.

Fantasy had been manageable because fantasy let me control the camera angle. Fantasy let me skip the humiliating logistics, the burning sting, the awkward vulnerability, the terrible awareness that each smack made my body remember exactly why I was there.

His hand fell again.

And again.

Alternating cheeks. Hard enough that the sting built instead of fading. Hard enough that by the six or seventh smack, I started worrying about what was happening.

I was being spanked.

Reallyspanked.

That thought kept repeating with every crack of his hand against my naked cheeks.

I, Kit Calloway, who treated every system as compromised and every man as potentially useless until proven otherwise, was over Ivan Morozov’s knee getting my bare ass spanked because I had lied to him and put myself at risk.

The humiliation should have eclipsed everything else.