Page 33 of Hero Daddy

Along one wall hung an array of implements displayed with the same careful precision Chad brought to everything. Paddles of various sizes and materials. Several riding crops with different tips. A flogger with soft leather falls. Each hung from individual hooks, spaced evenly, like tools in a craftsman's workshop.

Other details registered in quick succession—anchor points discreetly embedded in the walls and ceiling. A small cabinet with a locked glass front containing items I couldn't identify. A comfortable armchair in one corner. A sink and cabinet in another, presumably containing first aid supplies.

Everything spoke of careful preparation, of activities thoroughly considered and meticulously executed. There was nothing haphazard or improvised here. This was a space designed with specific intent, by someone who understood exactly what they were doing.

I realized I'd stopped breathing and forced myself to inhale. The air smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood—Chad's signature scent—and something else I couldn't name but that registered as clean and slightly medicinal.

"This is my discipline room," Chad said, locking the door behind us with a soft click that somehow sounded thunderous in my heightened state. "A space dedicated to correction, consequences, and growth. Not many come here."

I turned to face him, finding his expression calm but resolute. He had transformed completely from my jujitsu instructor to something both more intimate and more formidable—my Daddy Dom in full authority, preparing to deliver his first real discipline.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the unyielding set of his shoulders.

I considered lying but knew he would see through it instantly. "Yes," I admitted, my voice barely audible. Then, with more honesty than I'd intended, I added, "And excited. And ashamed of being excited."

Something softened briefly in his eyes, not his resolve, but perhaps appreciation for my honesty. "There's no shame in your response, Little One. Fear and excitement are natural reactions." He moved past me toward the bench, running his hand along its padded surface. "What matters now is your acceptance of the correction you've earned, and the lessons it will teach you."

My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my fingertips, a strange thumping pulse that seemed to echo the throbbing heat building between my legs.

Chad moved to stand directly in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was purely authoritative, the tone of a man who expected absolute compliance.

"As we agreed in our contract, deliberate defiance during training warrants physical correction," he stated, no hint of anger in his words, only calm certainty. "You will receive a spanking—first with my hand, then with this." He reached out to a nearby wall hook and retrieved a flat leather paddle, perhaps eight inches long and four inches wide. He held it up for my inspection, turning it so I could see its smooth, well-oiled surface.

My mouth went dry, but I couldn't look away.

"This is not punishment for its own sake, Daliah," Chad continued, setting the paddle on a small side table near the bench. "It's a physical reinforcement of verbal lessons that didn't take hold. When I instruct you in self-defense techniques, your focus and obedience are not optional – they are essential to your safety and growth."

I nodded mutely, unable to find words that wouldn't sound like excuses.

"You will position yourself over the bench," he directed, gesturing toward it. "You'll remain fully clothed for now, but the spanking will take place on bare skin. Place your hips here," he indicated the higher padded section, "and your chest here." His hand moved to the lower padding. "Your arms will extend forward to grip the lower crossbar for stability."

The clinical precision of his instructions somehow made this more real, more immediate. This wasn't roleplay or bedroom games. This was structured discipline with clear purpose.

I moved toward the bench on legs that felt disconnected from my body. As I approached, the solid construction of it registered more clearly – not a lightweight piece of furniture butsomething anchored and immovable, designed to support force and resistance. The padding was firm but yielding, covered in butter-soft leather that felt cool against my fingertips when I touched it.

"Position yourself, Daliah," Chad reminded me, his voice still measured but with an edge that expected immediate compliance.

I bent forward, draping my body over the bench as instructed. The height and angle were perfect—clearly designed with ergonomics in mind. My hips rested atop the higher section, my chest against the lower portion, my toes just touching the floor. I reached forward to grip the crossbar he'd indicated, the cool metal grounding against my sweaty palms.

In this position, my backside was elevated and prominently displayed. Even through my leggings, I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that sent contradictory signals racing through my nervous system—alarm and arousal tangling together until I couldn't separate them.

Chad's footsteps moved behind me, deliberate and unhurried. I couldn't see him now, could only sense his presence and hear his movements. The anticipation was almost worse than any physical sensation – the knowing something was coming but not exactly when or how.

"These need to come down," he said, his hands suddenly at my waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. "A proper spanking is delivered on bare skin."

Before I could process his words fully, he was pulling my leggings down with firm efficiency—not rough or rushed, but with the practiced motion of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The fabric slid down over my hips, pooling around my thighs. My thin cotton panties followed immediately after, leaving my bottom completely exposed to the cool air and his steady gaze.

Shame and excitement blazed through me in equal measure. No man had ever seen me this way—bent over, exposed, waiting for discipline. I squeezed my eyes shut, simultaneously wanting to disappear and wanting him to see every inch of me.

"Open your eyes, Daliah," Chad commanded, somehow knowing without seeing my face. "Part of discipline is being present for it. Aware of it. No hiding."

I forced my eyes open, staring at the dark wood paneling of the wall in front of me. Behind me, I heard Chad's measured breathing, felt the weight of his gaze on my exposed skin.

"I will begin now," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact. "You will count each stroke. Twenty with my hand, ten with the paddle. If you lose count, we start again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I whispered, then quickly corrected myself. "Yes, Daddy."

His hand came to rest on my right cheek, the touch surprisingly warm and gentle. It lingered there, a brief moment of connection before the discipline began. Then it was gone, and I sensed rather than saw it rise into the air.

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