Chapter 9 #3
My breath came faster. This was worse than a spanking. A spanking would be over in minutes, would give me the physical release I craved. This was psychological, designed to last the entire time he was gone.
"What about a spanking? A hard one?" I asked, voice small.
He moved closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You want the spanking. You would get wet from it, maybe even come from it if I'd allowed it. That's not discipline, Eva. That's reward dressed up as punishment."
He was right. God help me, he was completely right.
I'd been fantasizing about him spanking me, about being over his lap, about the heat and sting and eventual release.
This—clothes that would constantly remind me of my failure, corner time that would leave me alone with my thoughts—this was actual punishment.
"Strip," he commanded.
My hands shook as I pulled off my t-shirt and shorts, standing in just my panties. The morning air raised goosebumps on my skin, or maybe that was the weight of his gaze as he watched me with clinical detachment.
"Everything," he said when I hesitated at my underwear.
I pushed them down, stepping out of them, fighting the urge to cover myself. He'd seen me naked before—on the mountain, when he'd tasted me—but this felt different. More vulnerable. More about power than passion.
He handed me the tiny clothes piece by piece. The panties first—little girl cotton with hearts on them, so small they barely covered anything. They cut into my hips, the elastic biting into my skin, the fabric wedged uncomfortably between my ass cheeks.
"These are horrible," I whined, trying to adjust them.
"They're supposed to be," he said simply. "Arms up."
The shirt was worse. It had clearly been made for a child, probably sized for an eight-year-old. The fabric stretched obscenely across my breasts, the hem barely reaching my navel. Every breath made it ride up higher, made the cartoon character on the front distort.
The shorts were torture. I had to jump to get them up over my thighs, and when they finally settled, they cut into my waist and crotch simultaneously. The fabric pressed against my clit with every movement, a constant pressure that was neither pleasant nor ignorable.
"The socks," he said, handing me the final pieces.
I had to sit to pull them on, and the movement made the shorts dig deeper, made me gasp at the sensation. The knee socks were the least uncomfortable part, but the ruffles at the top made me feel ridiculous, infantilized in a way that burned with humiliation.
"Stand," he commanded when I was dressed. "Let me see."
I stood, hyperaware of every place the clothes touched. The shirt had ridden up to just below my breasts. The shorts created a camel toe that would be visible from space. The panties had worked their way so far between my ass cheeks they were basically a thong.
"Perfect," he said, and there was something dark in his voice. "Now, corner."
He guided me to the corner by the bookshelf, the one that faced away from the windows, away from the TV, away from anything interesting. Just white walls meeting at a ninety-degree angle.
"Nose to the corner," he instructed, hands on my hips positioning me exactly where he wanted me. "Hands behind your back. You'll stand here while I'm gone and think about why following Daddy's rules matters."
"How long?" I asked, already hating the blankness of the corner.
"Until I get back." He stepped away, and I heard him gathering his things. "Probably half an hour, maybe an hour. Depends on traffic and how long Alexei needs."
"An hour?" I spun around, incredulous. "I can't stand in a corner for an hour!"
His expression went cold. "Turn around. Now."
I turned back to the corner, shaking with frustration.
"That outburst just added an extra element," he said, voice dangerous. "When I get back, if you've moved from this corner, if you've touched yourself, if you've done anything except stand here and think about your behavior, the punishment will be worse. Much worse."
"What could be worse than this?" I muttered into the corner.
"Would you like to find out?" The threat in his voice made me shake my head quickly. "I didn't think so. Be a good girl, Eva. Stand in your corner, wear your uncomfortable clothes, and think about why Daddy's rules exist."
I heard him moving around, getting ready to leave. Bear's collar jingled as Dmitry probably gave him attention and instructions. Keys jangled. The alarm system beeped as he set it.
"I'm proud of you for telling me the truth," he said from near the door. "This punishment is because you need to learn control, not because I'm angry. When I get back, if you've been good, we'll talk about rewards."
The door closed with a decisive click. The lock engaged. The alarm chirped its final activation.
And I was alone, nose pressed to a corner, wearing clothes that made every movement torture, with nothing to do but think about how wet this humiliation was making me despite—or because of—everything.
The first ten minutes were pure humiliation.
Standing nose-to-corner like a punished child, wearing clothes that would shame a stripper, knowing Dmitry was probably watching on his phone through whatever security system he had.
The shorts cut into me with every breath, the panties so far wedged between my ass cheeks they'd probably need surgical removal.
The shirt kept riding up, and with my hands behind my back, I couldn't pull it down.
Bear had settled somewhere behind me—I could hear his gentle snoring—completely unaware that his human was being tortured by cotton and shame.
By minute twenty, something shifted.
The constant pressure of the shorts against my clit had evolved from uncomfortable to .
. . something else. Every tiny movement—breathing, shifting my weight, even just existing—created friction.
The too-small panties that had been torture were now silk against sensitive skin, moving with each breath in a way that made my thighs clench.
I tried to stand perfectly still, but that was worse.
The stillness made me hyperaware of every point of contact.
The way the shirt stretched across my nipples, keeping them constantly stimulated.
The way the shorts pressed and released with each heartbeat.
The way standing with my legs together made the panties slide against wetness that had started gathering despite my best intentions.
Thirty minutes in, I was panting.
The corner had become my entire world. White walls, the faint scent of paint, the sound of my own breathing getting rougher. I shifted my weight to my other foot, and the movement made the shorts ride up further, pressing directly against my swollen clit.
"Fuck," I whispered to the corner, then remembered cursing was against the rules too. Another infraction to add to my growing list.
But what did it matter now? I'd already failed at not touching myself last night. I was probably going to fail again today, judging by the way my body was responding to what should be punishment. Maybe I was just built wrong, wired to find pleasure in humiliation, to get wet from shame.
Another five minutes, and I was dripping.
I could feel it—wetness soaking through the tiny panties, probably visible through the shorts if anyone could see.
The fabric was so wet it moved differently now, sliding against me with every breath.
My nipples were hard points of need against the stretched shirt, so sensitive that even the air hurt.
Forty-five minutes in, and I broke.
My hand moved from behind my back without conscious decision, sliding down my stomach to press against the shorts. The first touch—even through the fabric—made me gasp. I was swollen, desperate, so turned on I could barely think.
"He'll know," I told myself, hand still pressed against the shorts. "He's watching. He'll see."
But my fingers were already rubbing small circles, the friction of the tight fabric almost painful against my sensitized clit. The position—still facing the corner like a punished child while I touched myself—made it even more intense. More wrong. More perfect.
I should have felt guilty. Should have stopped. Should have remembered that this was supposed to be punishment, that I was supposed to be learning control.
Instead, I pushed my hand inside the shorts.
The angle was awkward, the fabric so tight I could barely get my fingers where I needed them. But when I finally touched my clit directly, my knees nearly buckled. I was so wet my fingers slid easily, finding that swollen bundle of nerves that had been tortured by fabric for an hour.
"Oh god," I moaned to the corner, not caring if the cameras caught it, not caring about consequences.
I rubbed faster, harder, my other hand coming around to pinch my nipple through the stretched shirt. The dual sensation made my hips buck, made me grind against my own hand like an animal. The shorts restricted my movement, made everything tighter, more intense.
In my mind, Dmitry was here. Watching me be a bad girl. Watching me fail again. But instead of stopping me, he was encouraging it. Telling me what a naughty little girl I was, how I couldn't even handle simple corner time without touching myself.
"Such a desperate little slut," I imagined him saying. "Can't keep your hands off what belongs to Daddy."
The words—even in my imagination—made me wetter. I slipped two fingers inside myself, gasping at the stretch, at how easily they slid in. My palm pressed against my clit with each thrust, the too-tight shorts adding pressure that made everything more intense.
I was close already. The forced arousal from the clothes had primed me like a weapon, and now I was about to explode. My fingers moved faster, fucking myself while standing in the corner like the disobedient brat I was.
"Daddy," I moaned, not caring about cameras or consequences or the contract we hadn't signed yet. "Oh fuck, Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but I can't—"
The orgasm hit like a lightning strike. Harder than anything I'd ever given myself.
My knees buckled and I had to press my face against the corner to stay upright as waves of pleasure crashed through me.
I came and came and came, pussy clenching around my fingers, clit throbbing under my palm, entire body shaking with the force of it.
"DADDY!" I screamed into the corner, not muffled, not hidden, completely surrendered to the pleasure I'd stolen.
The aftermath was intense. I stood there, face pressed to the corner, hand still in my shorts, body still trembling with aftershocks.
The reality of what I'd done crashed over me like cold water.
Not only had I touched myself again, I'd come.
Hard. While screaming his name. While being punished for touching myself the night before.
But instead of guilt, I felt . . . satisfied. Powerful, even. Like I'd taken back some control, even if that control was just over my own orgasm.
I pulled my hand out of the shorts, wiping it on the already ruined fabric. The clothes that had been torture were now soaked with my arousal, evidence of my complete failure at following rules.
I turned from the corner, finally, not caring that he'd told me not to move. What was the point of pretending now? I'd already broken every aspect of this punishment. Might as well be comfortable while I waited for him to come back and discover what a complete brat he was dealing with.
I settled on the couch, ignoring how the wet shorts pressed against me. Bear immediately came over, tail wagging, and I petted him while staring at the door.
Part of me was terrified of Dmitry's return. He'd said the punishment would be worse if I disobeyed, and I'd disobeyed spectacularly. But another part—the bigger part—was excited. Eager, even.