Page 41 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Her breath caught—not fear but interest. She'd responded so perfectly to structure since arriving, craved boundaries like some people craved freedom.

"On your knees on the mattress," I instructed, and watched her comply immediately, my shirt riding up her thighs. "There are two positions tonight. You'll learn them perfectly."

I moved behind her, hands gentle but firm as I adjusted her posture.

"This is Present," I said, guiding her knees apart to shoulder width.

"Hands behind your lower back, fingers laced.

" I positioned her arms, feeling her pulse accelerate under my touch.

"Shoulders back, open. Chest out. Chin up, eyes on yourself in the mirror. "

She found her reflection and inhaled sharply. The position displayed her completely—vulnerable, offered, but also powerful in her deliberate submission.

"Present is for inspection, for admiration, for when I want to see all of you," I explained, circling to observe from every angle. "It's not punishment. It's appreciation."

A slim riding crop materialized in my hand—not for pain but for precision. I tapped once behind her knee, the lightest touch. "Wider." She adjusted immediately. Another tap at her outer thigh. "Angle your hips forward slightly."

Each correction was a whisper of leather against skin, and she responded like she'd been trained for years instead of minutes.

"Now Nest," I said, guiding her down onto her side. "One knee drawn up, comfortable. Hands tucked under your cheek like you're sleeping. Eyes soft, unfocused."

This position was gentler, recovery rather than display. She settled into it naturally, and I saw her recognize its purpose—safety, rest, coming down from intensity.

"Nest is for after," I explained, stroking her hair. "For when you need to be small and protected. Both positions give you something firm to lean on when everything else feels liquid."

She nodded against her hands, understanding deeper than words.

"Back to Present," I commanded, and watched her shift smoothly into position, knees spread, hands behind her back, chin up toward the mirror. Already, the position was becoming natural.

"Corrections are taps," I explained, crop resting against my palm. "Light ones for adjustment. If you break posture, you wait for five breaths without my touch. No punishment, just pause. Your body needs to learn patience as much as position."

I started with touch that was almost nothing—fingertips grazing her throat, the barest brush of breath against her ear. Her body responded immediately, leaning into the contact, seeking more. The moment she moved, I stepped back.

"Five breaths," I said calmly. "Count them."

She counted aloud, voice slightly strained, body vibrating with the need to move, to seek. But she held the position, and when she reached five, I returned.

This time, my hands skimmed her sides through the shirt, barely there, just enough to make her nerve endings fire. She shivered but held position, and I hummed approval.

"Good," I said, the single word making her whole body relax into the posture. "So good for me."

I continued the sweet torture—touches that promised but didn't deliver, breath against her neck that made her shake, the crop trailing along her inner thigh so lightly she might have imagined it. Each time her body tried to chase the sensation, I withdrew, made her breathe, made her wait.

Twenty minutes of this, and she was trembling constantly, skin flushed, pupils blown wide. In the mirror, she looked wrecked—lips parted, chest heaving, arousal obvious even through my shirt. But she held position, determined, trusting me to take her where she needed to go.

"You're doing so well," I praised, finally—finally—letting my hand cup her through damp cotton. She cried out but didn't move, didn't chase, just held herself in perfect presentation while I stroked her slowly.

"Watch yourself," I commanded, moving behind her, one hand still between her legs while the other tilted her chin toward the mirror. "Watch yourself fall apart for me."

My fingers found the rhythm that destroyed her—not fast but relentless, exactly the pressure and speed I'd learned she needed. In the mirror, I watched her face contort with pleasure, watched her fight to hold position even as orgasm built.

"You can come," I said against her ear, voice dropping to that register that owned her. "Come for Daddy while watching yourself. See how beautiful you are when you let go."

She came with a scream that the reinforced walls swallowed, body bowing but somehow still maintaining the basic position, hands behind her back even as she shook apart.

I held her through it, watched her watch herself, saw the moment she understood what she looked like in true submission—glorious, powerful, mine.

When the tremors stopped, I guided her down into Nest position, covering her with the blanket I'd set aside earlier. She curled into the safety of it immediately, hands under her cheek, that soft unfocused look that meant she'd dropped into subspace clean and deep.

"Rest, little one," I murmured, setting the crop carefully on the nightstand. "Just rest."

The room went quiet except for our breathing, and I settled beside her to stand guard while she floated in that space between consciousness and dreams, held by position and praise and the absolute safety of surrender.