Page 27 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Wings

H ere I was, about to make my baby girl cry, and the nursery insisted on looking like a goddamn fairy tale.

The butterfly comforter lay smooth and innocent on the bed. The stuffed animals watched from their shelves with glassy, judgment-free eyes. Even the air smelled sweet—honey scent from the diffuser Ki had added last week, something about calming properties. Nothing about this moment felt calm.

She'd lied to me.

Not about something small, not a white lie to spare feelings.

She'd looked me in the eye while fear ate her alive and told me she was fine.

Just tired. The memory of it sat like glass in my chest—her face at the restaurant, the way her whole body had locked up when she'd seen whoever it was.

Connor, she'd said through tears. One of Alex's ‘associates’.

And instead of trusting me to handle it, she'd swallowed that fear whole.

The rule existed for exactly this reason. Honesty, always, especially about being scared or triggered. Because how the hell could I protect her from threats I didn't know existed? How could I keep her safe when she hid behind pleasant lies and forced smiles?

My hands flexed against the armrests. This wasn't about my ego or control.

This was about the foundation of everything we were building.

Without trust, without complete honesty, the whole structure would collapse.

She'd fall back into survival mode—hiding, running, managing everything alone until it broke her.

The Dom blogs I'd studied talked about this moment—the necessary cruelty of loving discipline.

How it wasn't really about the physical sensation but the emotional release, the reestablishment of boundaries that made the submissive feel safe.

Clinical words for something that felt anything but clinical.

I thought about her tears, how she'd sobbed into my shirt like the world was ending. All that fear she'd been carrying alone, even for just those few minutes. The weight of it. No wonder she'd been shaking on the ride home.

My job was to make sure she never felt the need to carry that weight alone again. To build walls of trust so high and strong that honesty became her first instinct, not her last resort. And sometimes, building those walls required tearing down the old ones.

Footsteps in the hallway, soft and hesitant. My entire body went alert, that same hypervigilance from night patrols. She was coming. My baby girl in her punishment pajamas, probably scared out of her mind but trusting me enough to return.

The door opened slowly, and there she was.

The yellow duck pajamas should have looked ridiculous.

Should have made this easier somehow, seeing her in something so innocent and childish.

Instead, they gutted me. She looked impossibly small, impossibly young, impossibly vulnerable.

Her hair hung loose around her face, still damp from washing it.

No makeup, no armor, just Ki stripped down to her truest self.

Her eyes met mine for a second before dropping to the floor. I saw everything in that glance—fear, shame, need, trust. Always trust, even now. Even knowing what was coming.

"Close the door, baby girl," I said, surprised my voice came out steady.

She obeyed immediately, the soft click loud as a gunshot in the quiet room.

Then she stood there, hands twisting in the hem of her pajama top, waiting.

Always waiting for someone else to make the first move, to tell her what came next.

Another habit Alex had trained into her that we were slowly unlearning.

Looking at her now—trembling slightly, lower lip caught between her teeth, the collar I'd given her just visible above her neckline—my resolve crystallized.

This wasn't just about one lie. This was about every lie she might tell in the future to avoid inconveniencing me.

Every moment of fear she might hide. Every time she might choose silence over trust.

I loved her too much to let that pattern continue.

"Come here," I said, and watched her take those impossible steps toward her own punishment, toward me, toward the future we were building one difficult moment at a time.

She took those last steps on trembling legs.

When she stood at my right side, I could feel the heat radiating off her, the way her whole body vibrated with nervous energy.

Her hands had gone still at her sides—no more twisting the hem of her pajamas.

Just waiting for instruction, for me to guide her through this.

"Over my lap," I instructed, patting my thighs once. "You know how."

We'd talked about this possibility, discussed positions and implements and safety.

But talking and doing were different universes.

She moved like she was underwater, each motion deliberate and difficult.

When she started to lower herself, I helped, one hand at her waist, the other supporting her as she settled across my thighs.

The position was vulnerable by design. Her upper body angled down, supported by the bed.

Her legs straight, toes just touching the floor.

And her bottom—covered by thin pajama pants and whatever panties I'd chosen for her this morning—positioned perfectly over my lap.

I could feel her trembling through the contact, little shivers that had nothing to do with cold.

"Hands on the bed," I said, adjusting her slightly. "Keep them there unless you need to safe word. Could you choose one?"

"Plaster," she whispered into the comforter.

"Good girl." I rested my hand on her lower back, feeling the tension there. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready, Daddy. I trust you.”

I raised my hand, pausing for a heartbeat that stretched like eternity. Then brought it down in the first measured swat.

The sound cracked through the room—not as loud as I'd expected, muffled by fabric, but sharp enough. She jolted, a small gasp escaping, but kept her position. Kept her hands on the bed.

"This is for lying to Daddy," I said, bringing my hand down again on the other side. Same force, same intention. Teaching, not harming.

Another gasp, her fingers curling into the comforter. I watched the way her body absorbed the impact, the way she fought to stay still. My brave girl, taking what she'd earned.

"This is for not letting me keep you safe." Another swat, lower this time.

The pattern established itself—steady, rhythmic, covering the fullness of her bottom with careful attention. Not harsh enough to bruise, but firm enough to sting. Firm enough to make the lesson sink past skin into memory.

"This is because your honesty is the most important thing to me." Swat. "Because I need to know when you're struggling." Swat. "When you're scared." Swat. "When you need me."

She'd started making sounds—soft whimpers that twisted my gut even as I maintained the discipline.

Her body had stopped fighting the position, going limp over my lap in surrender.

Tears, I knew, though I couldn't see her face.

I could hear them in her breathing, feel them in the way her shoulders shook.

"You matter too much to hide from me," I continued, each word punctuated by my hand. "Your safety matters. Your fears matter. Your truth matters."

Something shifted around the eighth swat. The quality of her sounds changed—still whimpers, but breathier. Her position adjusted subtly, hips tilting just slightly. If I hadn't been hyperaware of every response, I might have missed it.

But I was her Daddy. Noticing these things was my job.

The next swat drew a different sound entirely—part gasp, part something else. Something that sent heat straight through me despite my focus on the discipline. Her hands had loosened their death grip on the comforter, fingers spreading wide instead.

"Doing okay?" I asked, pausing with my hand resting on the warm curve of her ass.

"Very okay," she breathed, and there was no mistaking the need threading through her words.

The discipline was working, but not just in the way I'd intended. My baby girl was dropping into subspace through the spanking, her body translating the sting into something else entirely. The fight had gone out of her, replaced by acceptance that bordered on eagerness.

I adjusted my approach, maintaining the rhythm but watching her responses even more carefully.

She'd stopped trying to stay rigid, instead flowing with each impact.

Her breathing had gone deep and even between gasps.

And when my hand came down, she'd started meeting it—just barely, probably unconsciously, but definitely pressing back into the contact.

"Such a good girl," I murmured, letting approval color my voice. "Taking your punishment so well. Learning your lesson."

A soft moan escaped her at the praise. Definitely arousal now, mixing with the emotional release of the discipline. The pajama pants couldn't hide the heat radiating from her core, the way her thighs pressed together seeking friction.

My own body responded despite my determination to keep this about the lesson. She was beautiful like this—surrendered, trusting, taking what I gave her. Mine to discipline. Mine to protect. Mine to love in all the ways she needed.

Her breathing had changed completely—no longer the stuttered gasps of someone enduring punishment, but something deeper, needier. Each exhale carried a weight that settled right in my groin, making my jeans uncomfortably tight. She wasn't just accepting the spanking anymore. She was chasing it.

I watched, mesmerized, as she shifted her hips in tiny movements. Seeking. When my hand came down again—lighter now, more percussion than punishment—she actually arched into it. The sound that escaped her throat was pure want, no trace of the fear or shame from earlier.

"Look at you," I murmured, letting my palm rest against the heat I'd created. "My perfect girl, taking everything Daddy gives you."