Page 12 of Daddy Protector (Night Ops Daddies #1)

Richie

“Ha! Didn’t even have the authority to stop me leaving,” I say, my voice way too loud as I step outside the safe house cabin and stomp around the small lawned area at the front. “La-la-la! Kiss my ass, Cole!”

Part of me can’t believe that I’m acting out like this.

But I know that Cole is hiding something from me.

There’s no way that Pop would send a voice message without having some kind of specific reason or information to deliver.

So if Cole wants to hide that from me, then he can – but he’ll have to deal with the consequences too.

“ La-la-la! Look at me, doing what I want!” I sing, my voice louder than ever.

“Right, you want it this way. Fine,” Cole says, his voice briefly booming behind me as he takes me by the arm and marches me to the side of the house and the spot where we did the combat training.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, boy. And don’t you dare think that this is anything more than the punishment paddling that you deserve. ”

Wait, what?

Punishment paddling?

Is he… serious?

It doesn’t take me long to find out as Cole swiftly bends me over the old water barrel and pulls my trousers and briefs down so fast that for a second I think he’s going to tear them right off my body.

“I’d hold on tight if I was you,” Cole says, reaching over toward a box of sports equipment that’s nestled near the combat gear. “Your butt is going to be hotter than the Sahara desert before long.”

“Right, sure it is,” I say, one last attempt at sassing Cole making me feel a mixture of proud, excited, and definitely very nervous.

“As you wish,” Cole growl, pressing his hand down on my back to fix me in position before he brings a paddle swat down onto my naked ass. “And we’ll keep going until I’m convinced that you’re sorry.”

“ Owww !” I holler, the reality of the paddle’s wide, flat surface hitting home.

“Don’t blame me for your red bottom,” Cole says, pausing before the next swat, almost delighting in the fact that he’s got me precisely where he wants me – submissive, exposed, and unable to resist. “This is all on you .”

CRACK! CRACK!

CRACK! CRACK!

CRACK! CRACK!

“Daddy! Owwww !” I cry out, my willpower gone and my defenses down. “My butt! It hurts! It’s all stingy!”

CRACK! CRACK!

“Yup, you got it,” Cole says, a note of subtle mischief in his voice as my cheeks wobble in the aftermath of another hard double swat.

“Now make sure to keep that ass presented for me. And you can count yourself lucky that I’m not going to give you corner time afterward.

Once we’re done, we’ll be done. Punishment over. But until then, it’s paddle time.”

CRACK! CRACK!

I cry out in pain once more, the feel of Cole’s big hand on my back making me feel powerless, submissive, and excited in a way that seems so at odds with the pain that my butt is in.

I can feel my dick hardening, but I know that soon enough the pain from the paddling is going to supersede any thoughts of arousal.

I’ve always known that I was a Little. And I’ve always fantasized about a punishment like this.

But to actually be receiving it is something else.

In the wrong hands, it could be a disaster…

However with Cole I know that I can trust him to do what’s right.

Even if that means paddling me until the sun goes down…

“Yes, Daddy! Thank you, Daddy!” I say, the electric snap of the paddle on my cheeks making me tingle all over as I feel myself give everything to Cole. “I’ll never disobey you again. I promise. I’m sorry!”

“Good. Now hold tight and let Daddy bring you home,” Cole says, unleashing a flurry of shorter, but no less sharp paddle swats that has my legs trembling and my entire body reacting as he completes the punishment.

As Cole raises his hand off my back, I know it’s over.

I’ve taken my medicine like a submissive Little. I was bad, and Daddy punished me. But now I need something else…

“Come with me,” Cole says, gently hoisting me onto his shoulder and carrying me back inside.

“We’re going to get some cold cream on these cheeks and then it’s nap time.

I’ll hold you, sing to you, and send you off like the good boy you are deep down.

And when you wake up, we’ll start afresh. How does that sound, baby boy?”

“It sounds good, Daddy,” I reply, my dick, hardening once more, grinding up against Cole’s strong shoulder as he walks. “It sounds… perfect .”

Cole knows what he’s doing. He’s a real Daddy, that much is clear to me.

And if his nap time cuddles are half as good as his paddle-swat aim, then I know that I’m going to be having the deepest, snuggliest sleep I’ve had in a long, long time…

The nap was special. I’ve never felt so safe as I did when I was wrapped up in Cole’s arms and gently dozing off to sleep.

I might have had a sore butt, but as far as my body and mind was concerned it was all about feeling Cole’s strong arms around me and allowing myself to shut down from all the stresses of the world.

And now, the afternoon light creeps through the narrow window of the safe house bedroom, pale and diffused, casting faint, wavering shadows across the bare plaster walls.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over how sparse the room is, almost austere like some kind of prison cell—a single bed with a faded blue quilt, its edges frayed and soft from years of use, a wooden nightstand holding a chipped ceramic lamp that flickers when I nudge it, and a small desk wedged against the wall, its surface scarred with scratches and faint ink stains from forgotten occupants.

But it’s cozy in a worn, lived-in way, but the isolation presses in, a reminder of the danger we’re hiding from. Even after the paddling and nap time, I can’t escape my problems forever.

I’m cross-legged on the bed, the quilt soft beneath me, my notepad open in my lap—the same one I poured my heart into yesterday. Fizz sits beside me, in pride of place, his button eyes catching the dim light, my silent, snuggly confidant as I scribble my thoughts once more.

The paddling from earlier still lingers, not just the physical warmth but the way it steadied me, like Cole’s firm hand cut through the storm of my emotions.

I didn’t expect it to feel so… grounding. But it did, taming the defiance that had me tossing cushions and stomping my feet like some unruly brat. That’s not who I am, not really . I was raised better than that. But sometimes when my Little self comes to the fore, I know it’s inside me.

Writing’s helping now, more than I ever thought it could.

It’s like untangling a knotted rope, each word loosening the fear, longing, and confusion that’s been choking me since we fled to this safe house.

I write about the paddling, how it made me feel safe, seen, even as I fought it, how Cole’s stern voice anchored me when I was spiraling.

I write about Pop, the ache of missing his steady hugs, the terror that he’s hurt, the desperate need to know he’s fighting his way back to me.

And I write about Cole— far too much about Cole—his strength, his protective gaze, the way his rare smiles spark something warm and reckless in my heart.

I pause, a giggle bubbling up as a playful impulse takes over…

I flip to a new page and sketch a quick, cartoonish drawing—Cole, all broad shoulders and serious frown, his hand raised over my butt, me pouting dramatically with exaggerated wide eyes and a comically red cheek.

It’s silly, over-the-top, and I laugh harder, glancing at Fizz like he’s my accomplice.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I whisper, patting his soft fur.

The doodle’s a small act of rebellion, a way to lighten the weight of the morning, and it feels good to laugh, to let myself be silly in this quiet, heavy moment in my life.

My thoughts drift as I lean back against the headboard, the notepad resting in my lap, the pencil twirling between my fingers.

I think about the Daddies I met in the kink clubs back in the city, before this chaos with Pop and the safe house turned my life upside down. They were… okay, I guess, but never what I was looking for.

There was Derek, with his flashy leather jacket and too-loud laugh, who loved flaunting his “Daddy” title like a badge. He’d set rules—bedtimes, no sweets before dinner—but it felt performative, like he was more interested in the club’s admiration than in me.

Then there was Paul, quieter, with kind eyes and a gentle smile, but he was too soft, letting me break every rule without consequence, which left me feeling unmoored.

Victor was the opposite—stern to a fault, all rigid rules and cold lectures, no warmth to balance it, like he’d forgotten a Daddy should care, not just control.

And Leo, charming and flirty, with a grin that drew everyone in, but he spread his attention too thin, making me feel like one of many, not special.

They all had something—charisma, intensity, sweetness—but it was surface-level, like they were playing a role for the night, not living it.

I wanted a Daddy whose care was instinctive, whose strength was for protecting me, not impressing a crowd, someone who saw me, really saw me, and made me feel like I was enough.

Cole’s different.

Very different, in fact.

I chew my pencil, my cheeks warming as I picture him, his dark eyes, his steady presence.

Cole’s strong, stern, protective—not because he’s trying to prove anything, but because it’s who he is, woven into his core.

This morning, when he slammed his fist on the table, his voice like steel as he shut down my demands about his laptop, it wasn’t just authority; it was care, like he’d tear through any threat to keep me safe.

Yesterday, during the self-defense session, when his hands guided my movements, when our bodies pressed close and I felt that spark—it was raw, real, not some club game.

The thing is…

Cole’s a Daddy, whether he admits it or not, and every time he calls me boy or strokes my hair, I feel it, that pull to be his Little, to trust him with the vulnerable parts of me I’ve kept hidden. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, like standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure if I’ll fall or fly.

I sigh, my heart aching as I stare at the notepad, the doodle of Cole staring back.

It’s complicated, though.

Maybe too complicated.

Cole is Pop’s best friend, a Night Ops Guard bound by loyalties and all kinds of stuff I can only guess at.

If I told Pop about these feelings, would he understand?

I let myself daydream, picturing a world where this nightmare is over—Pop safe, the threat gone, the three of us at our old kitchen table, the one with the chip in the corner from when I dropped a plate.

I’d explain how Cole makes me feel, how his sternness steadies me, how his care fits me like a puzzle piece.

I imagine Pop’s eyes crinkling, his laugh soft as he says, “ If he’s good to you, Richie, that’s all I need to know.” It’s a fragile, reckless hope, but it blooms in my chest, warm and vivid, like a spark that could light up the dark.

I snap out of it, shaking my head, a giggle escaping.

“You’re ridiculous , Richie,” I mutter, glancing at Fizz, his sweet little eyes gleaming like he’s amused at how silly I’m being.

I’m fantasizing about telling Pop about a relationship that doesn’t even exist!

Cole and I aren’t Daddy and Little—we’re bodyguard and client, thrown together by danger, not destiny.

I’m building castles in the air when I should be grounded, focused on staying safe, helping Pop however I can.

But for a brief moment, the silliness lifts the weight of it all—the fear, the threat, the uncertainty—and I feel like the boy I used to be, laughing with Pop over burnt toast or doodling in my sketchbook, carefree and whole, before the world got so heavy.

“Oh, Pop. Let me help you,” I say, desperate for any kind of avenue where I can put my own skills to good use.

However before the thought develops any further, Cole’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and urgent from the kitchen…

“Richie! I need to talk to you. Now!” Cole bellows.

My stomach drops, the lightness vanishing as reality crashes back.

I shut the notepad, the pages crinkling under my fingers, and set it on the nightstand, my heart pounding.

What does he want?

Is it about Pop?

That message he was hiding?

I pat Fizz, whispering, “Wish me luck,” and slide off the bed, the floorboards cold under my socks.

Whatever Cole needs to say, it sounds serious, and I’m not sure I’m ready—but I’m Hunter Selleck’s son, and I face things head-on.

I take a deep breath, smooth my hoodie, and head for the door, my mind whirring with possibilities, Cole’s stern face already vivid in my thoughts.

I might be a Little, but I need to be strong enough to hear whatever it is that Cole has to say, no matter how difficult it might be…