Chapter 4
four
Daisy
Today, I broke a rule.
Dr. Mitchell calls during my lunch break. I'm halfway through the turkey sandwich Rex packed for me this morning—with a note that said "Eat ALL of it, baby girl" in his blocky handwriting.
"Daisy, I know you're off this afternoon, but Sarah called in sick. Could you cover the desk until five? Just checking people in, nothing major."
I should say no. Should text Rex first. That's rule number one: Ask permission before saying yes to work.
But it's just the front desk. And Sarah probably isn't really sick—she does this every other week when she's hungover. And Dr. Mitchell sounds stressed.
"Sure, I'll be right there."
The words are out before I can stop them. Before I can even reach for my phone.
It's not until 4:47, after spending four hours checking in cranky pet owners and fielding calls about whether dogs can eat chocolate (no, they can't, Google exists), that I check my phone.
Six missed calls from Rex. Seven texts.
2:15 PM: How's your afternoon off? Want me to pick anything up?
2:47 PM: Baby, answer your phone.
3:22 PM: If you got called into work, why didn't you ask permission?
4:01 PM: I'm not angry. But we're going to talk about this.
4:45 PM: Daisy.
5:30 PM: When your shift ends, come straight home.
My stomach drops. That last text isn't a request.
I drive home slowly, practicing explanations. Dr. Mitchell needed help. Sarah called in. It was just the front desk. But even as I rehearse the words, I know they're excuses. The rule was clear: Ask first. Always.
Rex is waiting in the living room when I walk in. Arms crossed, jaw tight, standing by the fireplace.
"Where were you?"
"Covering the front desk. Sarah called in sick."
"Did you ask permission?"
The question cuts through my explanation. "There wasn't time."
"There's always time for a text." He moves closer. "You deliberately disobeyed."
"It was just the front desk!" It comes out defensive.
"It was your afternoon off." He stops right in front of me. "What's rule number one?"
"Ask permission before saying yes to work," I whisper.
"And you broke it. Why?"
"I..." The truth sits heavy. "I didn't think. Dr. Mitchell sounded stressed and I just... said yes."
"Like you always do." There's no anger in his tone, just certainty. "Come here."
My legs move before my brain catches up. He sits on the couch, pats his lap.
"Over my knee, little girl."
My heart pounds as I drape myself across his lap. His hand rests on my lower back, heavy and possessive.
He flips up my scrub top, pulls down my pants in one smooth motion. I'm bare except for cotton panties with little hearts—the ones he'd laid out this morning.
"Ten spanks. Count them."
The first one lands gentle. "One."
"Louder."
"One!" The second stings. By five, my bottom is warm. By eight, I'm squirming. By ten, I'm gasping and wet and desperate.
"Good girl." His voice is rough. "Took your punishment so well."
His hand rubs where he just spanked, soothing. Then it slides between my legs, and he pauses.
"Someone enjoyed their spanking." He feels how wet I am through my panties. "Did being bad make you this wet, baby? Or was it the spanking?"
"Both," I admit, mortified.
"Don't be ashamed." He hooks his fingers in my panties, slides them down. "But you don't get to come. Not yet."
"Daddy—"
He helps me up, positions me straddling his lap, facing him. I can feel how hard he is beneath me.
"You broke a rule. Consequences." His hands grip my hips, holding me in place. "You're going to sit here, on my lap, while I touch you. But you don't come. Understand?"
"That's torture."
"That's punishment." His hand slides between us, finding me wet and ready. "This is what happens when little girls don't ask permission."
He circles my clit slowly, torturously. I'm already on edge from the spanking, and his touch is too much and not enough.
"Daddy, please—"
"No." He slides two fingers inside me, and I gasp. "You sit here and take it. Show me you can be good."
He works me methodically, fingers curling inside while his thumb plays with my clit. I'm shaking, right on the edge, trying so hard not to tip over.
"Look at you." His other hand grips my hair, makes me meet his eyes. "Desperate little thing. Want to come so bad, don't you?"
"Yes! Please, Daddy!"
"No." He pulls his hand away completely. I whimper at the loss. "Go shower. Early bedtime."
"It's only eight!"
"Should have thought of that before you broke my rules." He swats my bottom. "Shower. Pajamas. Bed. Now."
I shower on shaky legs, my body thrumming with need. When I climb into bed, Rex joins me. Still fully dressed, sitting on top of the covers while I'm under them.
"I'm not angry," he says softly, stroking my hair. "But you needed to understand. Rules matter. You matter."
"I just wanted to help."
"I know. But you're going to learn to help yourself first." He kisses my forehead. "Now sleep. Tomorrow, if you're good, you get your reward."
I fall asleep frustrated and aching, but somehow more settled than I've felt in days.
The next day, I'm perfect.
When the mail carrier asks if I can sign for a neighbor's package—I pause, think, then politely decline. When Dr. Mitchell's receptionist suggests I cover Friday evening—I text Rex first.
Me: They want me to cover Friday evening. Can I?
Rex: No. You work enough.
Me: Okay, Daddy. Thank you.
Rex: Good girl. Come straight home tonight.
Those two words make me glow all day.
I get home at exactly 5 PM, and Rex is waiting with that look that makes my knees weak.
"Good girl. So proud of you."
I melt. "Do I get my reward now?"
"After dinner." His smile is wicked. "Patience, baby."
Dinner is torture. He made my favorite, but I can barely eat. He watches me with knowing eyes.
Finally—finally—he leads me to the bedroom.
"Strip."
I obey with shaking hands. He strips too, and I finally get to see all of him—muscle and scars and raw masculine power.
"On the bed. Spread your legs."
I climb onto the bed, spread myself open. Vulnerable.
He kneels between my thighs, hands on my knees. "So pretty. My pretty little girl."
"Please—"
"Shh. Daddy's got you."
He leans down, licks me from bottom to top. I arch off the bed.
"Taste so good." He does it again, slower. "Been thinking about this all day. My good girl, earning her reward."
He devours me with tongue and fingers, learning every spot that makes me gasp. When I'm right on the edge, he pulls back.
"Not yet."
He does this three times—brings me close, backs off. I'm sobbing with need.
"Please, Daddy! I've been good!"
"You have." He pushes two fingers inside, thumb on my clit. "So good. Come for me, baby. Show Daddy how good you can be."
I shatter, screaming his name. He works me through it, prolonging it until I'm shaking.
When I'm boneless, he moves up my body, kissing his way up. His cock is hard against my thigh.
"Want you inside me," I whimper.
"Not yet." He kisses me, and I taste myself. "Soon. When you're ready."
"I am ready!"
"Your body is. But you're not." He pulls me against his chest. "When you can follow all the rules for a full week. When you stop putting everyone else first. Then Daddy will claim you properly."
"That's mean."
"That's giving you something to work toward." He strokes my hair. "And baby? When I finally take you? It's going to be worth the wait."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I fall asleep in his arms, satisfied but already wanting more. Already planning how to be perfect for a whole week.
Just so Daddy will finally make me his.
Completely.