Page 44 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

Then he turned me. Pressed down between my shoulder blades to bend me forward. My hands landed on the bed, and I slowly lowered myself down to my elbows. The silk sheets were cool against my palms, and I shook hard, my entire body alight with goosebumps.

“Look at me, baby girl,” he said, his deep voice incredibly powerful .

I looked over my shoulder, my eyes locking with his.

He stood behind and to the side of me at the foot of the bed. Then, with devastating slowness, he reached down.

His fingers moved to the buckle of his belt.

I heard the soft click of the metal releasing, the faint sound of leather sliding free of his pants.

The sound was quiet, almost nothing in the vastness of the room, but it was deafening to me.

It sliced straight through my chest, landed low in my belly, and spread heat like wildfire across my skin.

He pulled it through each loop with a steady, smooth drag— snick, snick, snick —the kind of sound that made my heart pound and my thighs tremble. He wasn’t looking away, not even for a second.

This wasn’t an afterthought; it was part of the whole experience he had planned for me. This was a man taking off his belt for one single reason—to whip my ass for disobeying him—and he wanted me to know it.

He folded the thick leather in half in his hand, tested the weight of it once against his palm, the way a man tests a weapon he knows all too well.

Then he smiled. Not cruelly. Not mockingly either.

With that smile, he conveyed that he knew exactly what he was going to do and that he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

The first strike didn’t come right away.

He stood behind me, belt in hand, and let the moment stretch so long it buzzed in my bones.

I stayed obediently bent over the bed, bare, exposed, presenting myself to him for my punishment.

My skin was hot despite the cool air licking across it.

My heart thudded in my chest, my breath quick and shallow, and every inch of me was aware—of the space, of him, of the brutal inevitability of what was coming.

Then he pressed his hand to the small of my back, pushing down to make me arch my back and push my ass out for him. He nudged my feet wide apart, exposing my soaking wet pussy for him to view.

My skin prickled with anticipation. I swallowed hard, breath already shallow, nerves tangling together in my stomach.

The first strike came before I was ready for it.

A whoosh, then a sharp, stinging crack across the center of my ass made me jolt forward and gasp, more from surprise than pain. I bit my lip, heat blooming where the leather had kissed my skin. It hurt, but I could take it. That was my first thought.

I could take it.

The second one landed lower—across the underside of my cheeks—and this one sizzled like a fresh burn . The kind of pain that didn’t just sting, it lingered, sinking into my skin like fire simmering beneath the surface.

I hissed through my teeth .

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Daddy ,” I muttered, my voice coming out far sassier than I really intended it to.

Wrong move.

The next lash came down harder, snapping across the same spot like a brand. I cried out this time, fingers clutching the bedding, my back arching.

“You openly defied me, baby girl,” he said, voice steadfast. “This is what it feels like, what it will always feel like, when you’re a bad girl and need to be punished by Daddy.”

Another strike, high, near the upper curve of my buttocks. Then another. Lower. The sound echoed like thunder in the quiet room.

By the fifth, my breath was ragged.

By the sixth, my thighs were shaking.

Holy fuck, did this hurt.

More than I thought it would.

I’d imagined this moment, fantasized about it. In my head, it had been fire and lust and control. Not this relentless burn. Not this agony that bloomed wider and deeper with every stroke.

He didn’t count and neither did I because I didn’t know how many were coming. That was the worst part, the uncertainty.

I squeezed my eyes shut as another lash hit the curve of my ass, then the top of my thigh. I whimpered. My knees buckled slightly.

I thought I could take it.

But now?

I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I was beginning to think that I didn’t know if I could.

Another lash. Harder this time.

I yelped, voice breaking, fingers tangled in the sheets like they could anchor me. My eyes blurred. My ass was scalded. There was no teasing left in me. No sass. Only the sharp, sinking realization that this was way more than I bargained for.

I was slowly realizing that this was a real punishment, and I was only just starting to understand what that meant.

The next strike landed just above the last, and this time I cried out loud, sharp and ragged.

My voice broke, and my pride cracked with it. Tears burned at the edges of my eyes, and the sting on my ass was no longer some beautiful ache I could twist into arousal, it was pain. Real. Blistering. Unforgiving.

I tried to breathe through it and tell myself I could still control this. But when the belt came down again, harder yet—low, across both cheeks, right where it already throbbed—my breath hitched, and the sob caught in my throat.

I couldn’t take much more, but he wasn’t done.

“Does it sting, baby girl?” he asked, his voice terrifyingly sedate. “Is Daddy’s belt reminding you who you belong to?”

My face flushed, shame and arousal tangling in my chest like vines.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, voice shaking. “It hurts.”

“Good,” he said. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Another lash. This one angled, across both cheeks at once. I cried out again, my control broken, and the tears fell, hot and fast.

“You disobeyed me,” he said, stepping closer, his hand pressing between my shoulder blades to keep me down. “You looked me in the eyes and lied to Daddy.”

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”

He cut me off with another strike, then leaned over my back, his breath warm against my ear.

“No,” he growled. “You don’t get to cry your way out of this. Your punishment is just beginning.”

I whimpered, hands fisting on the bed. I was trembling and openly sobbing now, my ass on fire, every inch of me exposed and broken by him.

The next strike came fast. It tore across my skin like a blaze to kindling, licking up along the tender curve of my ass, already welted and stinging.

I screamed into the sheets, the sound swallowed by the silk and the weight of it all—his presence behind me, the sting in every nerve, the way my body trembled from the inside out.

My breath came in broken gasps.

I couldn’t keep track of how many times the belt had lashed against my bare ass. I’d lost count. Maybe a dozen. Maybe twice that. I didn’t know. I didn’t care because it wasn’t about the number anymore. It was about what he was doing to me. What I was becoming beneath him.

Another strike—hard and sharp, across the tops of my thighs.

I sobbed this time. A real sob. Loud and messy and helpless, the kind that cracked open something deeper inside me. I tried to lift myself off the bed, tried to shift away from the next blow, but his hand pressed between my shoulders again and pinned me there.

“You’re going to take what Daddy gives you, bad girl,” he growled.

I sobbed harder, tears spilling across my cheeks, hot and wet and humiliating. My body was shaking, wrung out and throbbing, my thighs damp with arousal and shame and need I didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I cried again, my voice hoarse. “Daddy, please—please, I’m sorry?—”

“Are you?” His voice was still low, still terrifyingly calm. “Or are you just sorry you’re being punished?”

Another lash. This one softer, but no less painful on my punished ass. My hips jerked. My throat seized.

“I wanted to be good,” I whimpered. “I tried?—”

“No,” he cut in sternly. “You didn’t. You wanted to be clever. You wanted to defy me. And now look at you. Ass bare and welted from Daddy’s belt.”

His hand slid into my hair, tangled there, pulled just enough to tilt my head back so he could look at my face. I blinked up at him through tears, chest heaving, mouth open.

“Daddy likes it when you cry, bad girl. It makes his cock very hard,” he murmured and then his tongue darted out and tasted my tears.

I could barely breathe.

Every inch of me was pulsing. My ass was blazing. My legs were trembling so badly I didn’t know how I was still standing, but I didn’t ask him to stop. I didn’t beg for it to be over. Deep down, beneath all of it—beneath the cries and the pain and the trembling—I wanted this.

I needed to be punished.

And he knew it.

There was a long pause, another strike, and then another and then another and then—I broke.

I sagged over the bed, sobbing, every inch of my body trembling and raw. My fingers grasped at the sheets like I needed them to protect me, to remember where I was, who I was. The fire across my ass throbbed with each breath, the pain sinking deep into my bones, into my skin, into me.

His hand came down, not in punishment this time, but in comfort. Warm and steady, stroking gently over my spine. His palm dragged softly up the arch of my back, then down again, over and over, until my sobs started to quiet, each breath more of a shiver than a cry.

He leaned over me, close enough that I felt his breath against the shell of my ear.

“You took that so well,” he murmured. “Daddy’s proud of you.”

I whimpered.

He gathered me up slowly, gently, lifting me from the bed like I weighed nothing. My thighs trembled and I hissed as he eased me into his lap, his arms wrapping around me tightly, protective, an anchor for me to cling to.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Daddy’s got you now.”

I buried my face against his shoulder, tears still leaking from my eyes, but they were different now, I realized, full of sorrow for my disobedience. My body started to soften in his hold, the ache in my ass grounding me, warming me.