Page 19 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
"Thought so," he murmurs. He takes me by the wrists and tugs me gently but insistently toward the working barn.
"Brett—"
"Quiet." The single word carries the weight of absolute authority, cutting through my protest like it's meaningless. And the terrible thing is, it feels like relief, this moment of not having to argue, not having to fight, not having to be strong for just a few minutes. My pulse hammers as he guides me inside, past stacks of hay bales and bins of apples, until we're alone. He closes the door and locks it and with it all the noise of the orchard. The world outside feels miles away.
This is exactly the kind of setting the Naughty Girls Book Club fantasizes about. It’s rustic, private, charged with the kind of tension that makes readers' hearts race. Except this isn't fiction, and the man leading me deeper into the shadows isn't a fantasy hero. He's real, and he's about to prove just how real the dynamics I've been reading about can be.
He turns to me, arms folded. "You've pushed yourself past the point of sense. You ignored warnings. You argued when you should've listened. You scared me, Monica."
The vulnerability in that last admission catches me off guard. Because beneath all his authority, all his control, he's genuinely afraid for me. It's not about dominance for its own sake; it's about caring enough to intervene when I can't take care of myself.
“Remember last night when I told you that daddies don’t like it when their girls put their health and safety at risk?”
“Yes, but–”
“And yet, today you put both your health and safety at risk. In fact, you’ve been doing that since I arrived a week ago. I can’t count the number of times you’ve done something risky.” His gaze hardens. "So now, I'm going to make sure to give you a lesson that sticks with you more than my words did."
My stomach flips. "You wouldn't?—"
"Wouldn't what?" His brows lift. "Wouldn't put you over my knee? Wouldn't spank you until you remember that you're human, not a machine? Spank the stubbornness out of you and make you realize that it's okay to not be Superwoman all the damn time? You want me to spank you, Monica. You’ve wanted me to step up and take control for a few days now; you and I both know it."
The words are exactly what I've been reading about for weeks, exactly what the heroines in my books crave and fear in equal measure. But hearing them in real life, in Brett's calm, certain voice, makes them infinitely more powerful. This is real. I’m not dreaming. Professor Perfect is threatening to spank me.
Heat floods my face. "You can’t."
"I can." He steps closer, his presence towering, steady, unyielding. “I'm right. And you know it."
I do know it. That's the terrifying part. He's right about my self-destructive tendencies, right about my need for someone to intervene, right about the way I respond to his authority. Andhe's about to be right about what I need, what I want, what I’ve been craving… even if I'm not brave enough to ask for it.
I back up a step, heart pounding, until my thighs hit the edge of a hay bale. "You can't just?—"
His hand lifts, brushing my cheek with surprising gentleness. "You can stop this. All you have to do is say no. Do you want me to stop?"
The choice is mine, freely given, no coercion or manipulation. Just a clear offer to walk away if this isn't what I want. It's exactly the kind of consent I need to know I’m safe. He’s given me control. The barn hums with silence. My pride screams yes, stop! But my body… my body leans into his touch, craving the release, the surrender.
I whisper, "No."
His eyes darken, satisfaction flashing in their depths. "Good girl."
And there it is. Two simple words. The praise that makes my knees weak, the approval I've been craving since he first used those words on me. This is what surrender feels like: not defeat, but relief. Not weakness, but trust.
Before I can reconsider what I’ve consented to, he sits on the hay bale and pulls me effortlessly across his lap.
"Brett!" I squirm, but his arm locks around my waist, holding me firmly in place.
"You're safe," he murmurs, low against my ear. "But you're also about to learn that I don’t make idle threats."
Safe. The promise settles something deep in my chest, some fear I didn't even know I was carrying. Whatever happens next, however vulnerable this position makes me feel, I trust him not to hurt me. Besides, how much could a spanking hurt?
The first swat lands sharp and startling against my jeans. I gasp, jerking, but his hand steadies me.
Swat. Swat. Swat.
Each one lands firm, deliberate, not brutal but impossible to ignore. Heat blooms across my backside, shame and arousal tangling in a dizzying rush. This is exactly what I've been reading about, exactly what I've been secretly fantasizing about. The firm guidance, the controlled strength, the way he delivers each swat with deliberate precision. It's correction and care wrapped up in one overwhelming package.
"Why are you here?" he asks between swats, his voice calm, measured. “Over my lap having your bottom warmed?”
"Because I—ah!—overdid it," I gasp. His hand hasn’t stopped falling. One swat after another swat lands. My jeans are on, but I must have bought the thinnest denim material on the planet because damn if I can’t feel every single sting of his palm.
