Page 74 of Tyson
"Sparkles." My voice came out steadier now, grounded by the reminder that I had control too. That this was something we were doing together, not something being done to me. "And I'll use it if I need to."
"Good girl." The praise washed over me warm as sunshine, making something in my chest glow. He helped me down from the table with careful hands, his touch reverent even in its firmness. "Come on."
He led me to the couch, and I followed on unsteady legs. The living room felt different now—charged with intention, transformed from our usual casual space into something more. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting everything gold and shadow.
Tyson settled onto the couch with the kind of deliberate movement that said he'd thought this through. Planned it, maybe, while dealing with whatever had happened at Cruz's store. The thought that he'd been considering how to handle me even while facing danger sent heat spiraling through my belly.
"Over my lap," he said simply. "We'll start with my hand, see how you feel."
The position felt impossibly vulnerable. I draped myself across his thighs, hyperaware of every point of contact—my stomach against his legs, my breasts brushing his jeans, my ass elevated and exposed.
"Breathe," he murmured, one hand coming to rest on my lower back. The weight of it grounded me, reminded me I wasn't alone in this. "That's it. Just breathe."
I focused on pulling air into my lungs, on the solid presence of him beneath me, on the safety net of trust we'd woven between us. This was Tyson. My Tyson. Who'd held me through little space and protected me from threats. I was safe here.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked, his voice calm and measured. Teacher voice, I realized. The tone he probably used to train new recruits, to impart important lessons that could save lives.
"Because I disobeyed," I breathed, the words coming easier than expected. "Because I sent pictures during church when you told me to behave."
"And why did I tell you not to?"
The question made me actually think instead of just reacting. His hand traced soothing circles on my back, patient while Iworked through it. "Because you need to focus on keeping me safe."
"Keep going." Encouraging but expectant.
Understanding dawned like sunrise, bright and sudden. "Because distractions could be dangerous. Because when you're thinking about me instead of threats, you might miss something important. Something that could hurt us. And because I don’t come without you."
"Exactly." His hand stilled, and I felt the shift in energy. "We're going to do ten. Count them for me."
Ten. The number felt simultaneously too many and not enough. My skin prickled with anticipation, every nerve ending alive and waiting. But underneath the nervous energy was something else—trust. Bone-deep certainty that whatever happened next, Tyson would keep me safe. Would push me exactly as far as I needed and not an inch further.
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, the title falling from my lips like a promise.
The first strike landed with more sound than sting, his palm connecting with my skin in a way that made me gasp more from surprise than pain. The sharp crack echoed in the quiet apartment, seeming impossibly loud, impossibly real.
"One," I managed, the word coming out breathier than intended.
His hand rubbed the spot gently, soothing the minimal sting before I could even fully process it. "Good girl. Just like that."
The second strike came after a pause that felt like forever, landing on the other side. This one had slightly more force behind it, enough to make me actually feel it beyond just sound and surprise. "Two."
"That's it," he murmured, his free hand steady on my lower back. "You're doing perfectly."
Three and four followed the same pattern—deliberate, measured, with time between each one to let me fully experience it. He wasn't rushing, wasn't just going through the motions. Every strike was intentional, placed with the same tactical precision he brought to everything else. By the fourth, warmth had started to spread across my skin, a pink heat that went deeper than just the surface.
"Four," I counted, shifting slightly as the sensation built.
"Halfway there," he said, and I could hear the pride in his voice. Pride that I was taking this, submitting to it, trusting him with this vulnerability. "How are you feeling?"
"Good," I admitted, surprised to find it was true. "Different than I expected."
"Different how?"
"It's not really about the pain." I tried to find words for the swirling emotions. "It's about . . . letting go? Accepting? I don't know how to explain it."
"You're explaining it perfectly." His hand came down again, slightly harder.
"Five." The word came out on a squirm, my body starting to react to the building sensation. Not unbearable, not even close, but impossible to ignore. Each strike layered on the last, creating a heat that spread through more than just my skin.
