Page 16 of Davoren (Dragon Master Daddies #1)

The first impact stole every thought from my head.

It was sharp and immediate, the volcanic glass meeting flesh with a crack that echoed off the chamber walls.

But the pain—the pain was nothing like I'd expected.

It bloomed like fire across my skin, yes, but underneath ran something else, something that went straight to my core and exploded into pure arousal.

My body interpreted the strike not as punishment but as claim, possession, proof that I belonged to someone strong enough to mark me.

I gasped, fingers curling against the leather, hips twitching involuntarily. Through the bond, I felt Davoren's satisfaction at my response, his arousal spiking to match mine.

The second strike came while I was still processing the first, landing slightly lower, spreading the heat.

Then a third, a fourth, establishing a rhythm that made my hips move without my permission, seeking something, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to escape the paddle or present myself for more.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and I felt him shift position, adjusting his angle.

The next strike landed with precision on the spot where thigh met backside, and I cried out at the intensity.

The pain transformed immediately into liquid heat that pooled between my legs, making me achingly aware of how wet I'd become.

"Your body knows what it needs," he continued, the paddle finding its rhythm again. "See how you arch for me? How you present yourself for correction? This is what you were made for, little one. To be guided, disciplined, treasured through the kind of attention that leaves marks."

Another strike, harder this time, and my knees nearly buckled.

Only his free hand on my lower back kept me in position, that simple touch somehow more intense than the paddle itself.

The golden lines on my skin were blazing now, creating their own light in the dim chamber, and I could feel the collar warm against my throat in response.

"You will address me properly during discipline," he commanded, the paddle pausing in its rhythm.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste iron, some last vestige of defiance warring with the overwhelming need to submit.

I knew what he wanted, knew the word that hovered on my tongue, but saying it would mean accepting everything—not just the discipline but the dynamic, the roles we were establishing, the complete transformation of who I'd been into who I was becoming.

The paddle came down again, harder than before, the crack of impact followed immediately by waves of sensation that made my vision blur. The pain was exquisite, transforming into pleasure before my nervous system could properly categorize it.

"Properly, Kara." Another strike, precise and devastating. "Who holds the paddle? Who decides when you've had enough? Who owns your pleasure and your pain?"

The need won. It crashed over me like a tide, drowning out every rational thought, every shred of resistance. The word tore from my throat, part surrender and part revelation.

"Daddy."

The word ignited the bond between us like oil on fire.

I felt his satisfaction, his approval, his possessive pleasure at my surrender.

It flooded through me, amplifying my own arousal until I could barely breathe.

The collar around my throat seemed to pulse in recognition, the dragon-scale lining warming against my skin.

"Good girl." The words rumbled through the bond as much as the air, and somehow his praise was more overwhelming than the discipline itself. "My perfect, fierce little one. You take your punishment so beautifully."

Another strike of the paddle, but gentler now, more reminder than punishment.

Then another, and another, creating a rhythm that had me rocking back to meet each impact.

The pain had transformed entirely into something else—not pleasure exactly, but something new .

My backside burned, would probably show marks for days even with my enhanced healing, but I craved each strike like my body craved air.

"That's it," he encouraged, his free hand moving to stroke along my spine, tracing the golden lines there. "Let go. Let yourself feel what you need to feel. There's no shame here, little one. Only truth."

The truth was that I was desperately, achingly aroused. The truth was that calling him Daddy had unlocked something in me I hadn't known existed. The truth was that I wanted more—more discipline, more praise, more of his controlled attention that made me feel simultaneously small and precious.

When he finally set the paddle aside, I nearly sobbed at the loss. My backside throbbed with heat, each pulse sending fresh waves of arousal through me. I stayed bent over the bench, trembling, waiting for whatever came next.

"You did perfectly," he said, and his hands were gentle as he helped me stand. The change in position made me gasp—my punished flesh protesting and singing simultaneously. "Now we move to the next part of your lesson."

When he pulled me fully upright, the movement sent fresh fire across my punished skin, making me gasp and sway against him.

His arm came around my waist, steadying me, and that simple protective gesture somehow undid me more than the paddle had.

Through the bond, I felt his satisfaction—not just at my submission, but at how beautifully I'd taken the discipline, how my body had transformed pain into need.

"We're not finished yet, little one. Your trespass requires a more thorough lesson."

He guided me across the room with gentle but inexorable pressure, past the bench that still held the impression of my body, toward the wall where the restraints waited.

My legs trembled with each step, hyperaware of how the movement made my punished flesh ache and sing simultaneously.

The wetness between my thighs had become impossible to ignore, and I knew he could smell my arousal—his dragon senses would miss nothing.

"Here," he said, positioning me facing the wall. The volcanic glass surface reflected my image back in fragments—wild hair, dilated pupils, the collar dark against my throat, golden lines glowing like embedded fire across my skin. I looked thoroughly debauched already, and we'd barely begun.

He reached up to select the chains I'd touched earlier, the ones that looked like captured flame.

This close, I could see they weren't metal at all but something else, something that existed in the space between solid and energy.

They were warm to the touch when he brought them to my wrists, not burning but present, alive in a way that made my mark pulse in recognition.

"Arms up," he commanded, and my body obeyed before my mind could process the instruction.

He drew my arms high above my head, positioning my wrists just so before the chains engaged.

They wrapped around my wrists like living things, adjusting their grip to be secure but not painful, spreading my arms wide enough that my muscles stretched pleasantly.

The position left me completely exposed—my breasts lifted by the angle of my arms, my legs necessarily spread for balance, every inch of my transformed skin on display.

The vulnerability of it should have terrified me.

Instead, my body sang with anticipation, the golden lines tracing patterns that seemed to pulse with my heartbeat.

"Perfect," Davoren said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. And that's when I truly noticed—he was still fully clothed. His dark shirt remained perfectly buttoned, his pants showing no sign of our activities. The contrast between his composition and my naked, restrained state made me quake.

He stood there for a long moment, just watching me, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

Through the bond, his arousal thrummed against mine, but underneath it ran that iron control, that ancient patience that could wait millennia for what it wanted.

He was going to take his time with me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

"Do you know what you need, little one?" he asked, moving to the table of implements with that predatory grace.

"Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet.

You need to be brought to the edge of pleasure and held there, suspended between want and satisfaction, until you learn that your release belongs to me. "

My breath caught as he selected the bottle of oil I'd noticed earlier.

When he uncapped it, the fragrance filled the air like a physical presence—jasmine sweet and heavy, mixed with something musky and wild that bypassed rational thought entirely.

My core clenched with need, and I pulled involuntarily against the chains, though they held me perfectly.

"This oil is special," he said conversationally, pouring some into his palm.

The liquid gleamed gold in the chamber's light, seeming to move with its own inner fire.

"Pressed from flowers that only bloom in dragon fire, mixed with oils that enhance every sensation.

Your new body will be especially responsive to it. "

He stepped close, close enough that I could feel his heat but not quite touching, and raised his oil-slicked hand.

The first contact was light—just his fingertips trailing along my collarbone, following the golden lines there.

But even that gentle touch sent lightning through every nerve, the oil making my skin hypersensitive, every point of contact singing.

"So responsive," he murmured, his fingers trailing lower, circling my breast but not quite touching my nipple.

The anticipation was agony, my back arching as much as the restraints allowed, trying to press into his touch.

"The transformation made you exquisitely sensitive, didn't it?

Every nerve ending rebuilt to experience pleasure more intensely. "