Page 32 of Finding Little Fiera

“W-wait! What are you doing?”

“We already talked about this. Naughty little girls who don’t mind their Daddies get spanked on their bare bottoms,” he told her. “Do you need to use your safe word? Because if you don’t say yellow, these leggings and panties are going down to your ankles.”

Her bright blue eyes shot to his. Sticking her hand out to the side, she wiggled her fingers. “Will you hold my hand?”

That wasn’t yellow or red. She understood what he’d said, so he took her hand and pinned it to the small of her back as well. Hooking a finger under the waistband of her leggings and white cotton panties, he skimmed them down her legs. To make sure she was putting no pressure on her forehead, he lifted her bare legs to rest on the couch.

He placed his hand on her bottom and rubbed the smooth skin. “What did Daddy tell you?”

“You said not to take off my glasses,” she answered.

She went back and forth from scraping her toes on the leather cushion to burying them in the space between it and the arm of the couch. Finally, she gave up and crossed her ankles. It was adorable.

“And what did you do instead?” He kept his voice deep and stern. Her muscles in her bottom flexed as he continued to rub. He waited for her answer.

“I took them off.”

That was all he needed. He smacked her bottom. Her breath hitched. Her feet lifted from the cushion before thudding back into place. Although he wanted to get his point across, since this was her first spanking, he didn’t intend for it to be harsh. She would always remember her first spanking as it would set the standard for the future.

“You’ve put a lot of effort into making it over my knee, naughty girl. I hope it was worth it.”

He spanked her then, the palm of his hand smacking her bottom with a gusto that soon brought a rosy-pink blush to both cheeks. He swatted her in sharp, steady spanks, moving back and forth from cheek to cheek. Two high, two on the swell of her bottom, two lower where her backside met her thighs. delivering his swats in rounds of four. Before long, she was yelping and gasping.

“Oh. Ow! Daddy, please! I’m sorry. I promise I’ll mind you—ow!—from now on!”

He loved the way her flesh wobbled. She was twisting her hips and clutching at his thigh and knee. Since he had promised to only give her fifteen smacks with his hand, he wanted them to communicate how serious he was.

He knew he’d made his point when she ripped the hand he was holding from his grasp and shot it back to protect her hot bottom. “Naughty girl,” he scolded, catching her wrist and pinning it back to her lower back again. “What did you just do?”

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy. I d-didn’t mean t-to reach b-back. But it hurts!”

Her voice trembled, and tears tracked down her cheeks as she looked at him over her shoulder. But she didn’t say red, so it wasn’t time to stop.

“I’m sorry, too, firefly. You’ll find I’m a man of my word, so the rest of your punishment will be with the brush. You now have seven licks instead of five.”

She caught her breath when she felt him press the back of the brush to her bottom, but promptly lost it again as the first crisp impact of that hairbrush met the center of her right bottom cheek.

Stiffening, Fiera sucked a startled gasp. A flush of bright pink rose to stain a perfect oval upon the surface of her skin. It was a brisk spanking, one meant more to make his point than to impart pain, although judging by her reaction, a significant amount of both was happening.

She twisted, her hips waggling from side to side as she squeaked and squealed and finally threw back her head and wailed. She bounced and stamped, but her hand didn’t reach back again. She also never used either of her safe words.

She only yelled once, in fact, and that was just as the hairbrush rebounded off her for the seventh and final time. “Ow! Owie! Can we be done, Daddy!”

“It’s okay,” Mace soothed, tossing the hairbrush back onto the coffee table before allowing his hand to rest upon the flushed and heated surface of her naked backside. He rubbed gently. “You’re okay.”

Fiera’s breath hitched, a soft, wounded sound that scratched his heart. In the time-honored ritual of Littles, she scissored and kicked her legs to relieve the pain. In all that, though, she never once protested his touch or tried to twist away.

His touch shifted from correction to comfort as his palm moved slow and steady over her heated skin long after the last swat had faded into memory. Her body responded to him by the time he stopped, her hips lifting slightly, pressing back as if asking for… something more.

“Can I sit up now, Daddy?” she asked, her voice thin and trembly.

There was only one answer to that question. “Of course, babygirl.”

He loosened his hold, already preparing to gather her against his chest. He expected her to curl into him, burrow close so he could kiss her temple, murmur how proud he was of the way she’d handled herself like a big girl. The Daddy in him loved this time. The praise, the certainty that she was safe. But she didn’t move toward him.

Instead, she folded inward, knees to chest, hands covering her face. And then she broke. The sound of her crying tore straight through him.

“Don’t, firefly. It’s done now.” He shifted closer, gentling his voice. “Let Daddy hold you.” He tried to ease her hands away, but she turned away from him. Not violent or angry, just... retreating and withdrawing from him. That was so much worse.