Page 32 of Hero Daddy

His arms wrapped around me once more, more firmly this time though still careful not to cause discomfort. The position pressed me against the length of his body, my back to his front, his thighs behind mine. This time, I could have sworn I felt something—thick and long, between his legs, pressing against me.

The serious student in me knew I should focus on the technique, should execute the stomp with the controlled force he'd requested. The woman attracted to him wanted to remain in his arms longer, to feel the strength of him surrounding me. And that newer, testing part of me—the Little who'd been given permission to exist in this space but had already been warned about appropriate boundaries—that part whispered a different suggestion entirely.

"Ready?" Chad asked, his voice close to my ear. "Remember – commitment. Make me feel it."

In that moment, I made a decision. Despite his earlier warning, despite knowing better, I deliberately chose to push the boundary again. When I brought my foot down, instead of the focused strike he'd instructed, I executed what was barely more than a tap—my heel making the lightest contact with the top of his foot, with none of the force or intention the technique required.

Then, compounding my deliberate defiance, I let out a soft giggle, looking up at him over my shoulder with wide, innocent eyes. "Was that hard enough, Daddy?" I asked, the bratty tone unmistakable.

The effect was instantaneous. Chad stopped the drill, his arms releasing me completely. He took one deliberate step back, creating a physical space between us that felt more significant than the mere inches it represented. The shift in his demeanor was palpable.

When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a register I hadn't heard before, quiet yet carrying an immutable weight that seemed to settle directly into my bones.

"That is twice, Daliah," he stated, each word precisely measured. There was no anger in his tone, which somehow made it more impactful. This wasn't a loss of control; this was deliberate, focused authority. "Twice you have deliberately chosen to disobey a direct safety instruction after being clearly warned about your focus."

I stood frozen, my playful smirk fading as the reality of my actions. The atmosphere between us had transformed completely, charged with a current that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"This is not play," Chad continued, his gaze never leaving mine. "This is a willful disregard for the seriousness of your training and a test of my established boundaries."

My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it in the quiet intensity of our secluded training space.

"As we agreed in our contract," he said, the reminder of our formal agreement sending a fresh wave of heat through me, "such defiance necessitates correction."

The word 'correction' hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning. We had discussed this, had outlined specific disciplinary measures that could be implemented when boundaries were crossed. But the abstract discussion around my kitchen table felt worlds away from this moment, from the reality of having deliberately pushed him to this point.

"Our technical training for this evening is concluded," Chad stated, his tone making it clear this wasn't open for discussion. "You will gather your belongings." He gestured toward the bench where my gym bag sat. "We will then proceed to a private space where your behavior will be addressed thoroughly, andyour understanding of obedience to your Daddy will be . . . reinforced."

Chapter 6

Myheartpoundedagainstmy ribs as Chad's words hung in the air between us. The shift in his demeanor was subtle but unmistakable – the patient instructor had vanished, replaced by something both more controlled and more dangerous. His eyes held mine with an intensity that pinned me in place, making my breath catch and my skin flush with a complicated heat that was equal parts fear and shameful excitement.

"Gather your things," he repeated, his voice a low, steady rumble that brooked no argument. "Now."

I moved to the bench where my gym bag sat, my legs unsteady beneath me. I could feel his eyes tracking my every movement, assessing my compliance. The playfulness that had possessed me minutes ago seemed foolish now, childish in the face of his resolute authority.

When I returned with my bag clutched to my chest like a shield, Chad placed a firm hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. His touch wasn't rough but itwas unyielding, a constant pressure that directed my steps with absolute certainty.

"Your behavior today represents a serious breach of our agreement," he said as we walked, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "This isn't about play or games, Daliah. This is about trust, focus, and the foundation of everything we're building together."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I'm sorry," I whispered, the words feeling inadequate even as they left my lips.

"I know you are," Chad replied, not unkindly. "But sorry isn't enough. Actions have consequences, especially actions that put your safety at risk or violate the terms we established together." His hand moved from my back to my upper arm, his grip secure but not painful. "What you need now isn't an apology—it's correction. Physical discipline to reinforce the importance of obedience, particularly in matters concerning your protection."

A shiver ran through me at the word "physical."

We passed through the main training floor, now empty of students. Chad led me down the familiar hallway, past the door to the small locker rooms, toward the area I recognized from my previous visit.

As we approached the pastel-hued nursery room, my steps faltered slightly. Was that where he was taking me? But he guided me past it, his hand steady on my arm, to a section of the hallway I hadn't noticed before. A short corridor branched off, ending at a heavy wooden door I hadn't seen during my previous panicked exit.

The door was solid oak, stained dark and fitted with what appeared to be subtle soundproofing around its edges. There was no signage, no indication of what lay beyond. Chad released my arm to withdraw a key from his pocket—not a modernkeycard, but an actual metal key that clicked solidly in the lock when he turned it.

"This room serves a different purpose than the nursery," he explained, his hand returning to my arm as he pushed the door open. "Different needs require different approaches. Some require nurturing. Others . . ." He paused, his eyes meeting mine with unmistakable intent. "Others require discipline."

He guided me across the threshold, and I stepped into a space unlike anything I had ever seen.

The room was not large but felt spacious due to its meticulous organization. Subdued lighting from wall sconces cast a warm amber glow across dark wood paneling and deep burgundy accents. The floor was covered in thick, sound-absorbing carpet in a rich chocolate brown. Unlike the nursery's soft pastels and comforting curves, this room featured clean lines and functional elegance.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the centerpiece—a sturdy, padded bench positioned in the middle of the room. It stood about waist-high, its leather upholstery a deep mahogany red, with padded supports and subtle but unmistakable restraint points. A spanking bench. I'd seen them in my research, but the reality of it—solid, undeniable, clearly purpose-built—made my mouth go dry.

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