The Daddy Treatment from Ava Sinclair.
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I never had a daddy. That’s about to change. It was desperation that drove me to break the law. When I wake up after sentencing to learn I’ve been forced into an experimental reform program, the last thing I expect is to be regressed back to a time in my life when I was fully dependent and vulnerable.
Dr. Eli Crane is commanding, strict, and uncompromising. While I’m here, he’ll be the daddy I never had. He’ll decide what I wear, when and what I eat. He’ll spank me to tears when I’m bad. I will be his little one, to use and touch as he pleases.
As my handsome guardian breaks down my defenses, I find myself craving not just the vulnerability and even humiliation of his treatment, but trusting a man who seems to know more about me than I know about myself.
But how does he know so much? When the secret of his knowledge is revealed, will it destroy the happiness of finally having the daddy figure I’ve always wanted.
I keep my eyes on the gleaming black tile of the floor, drawing in a deep breath as I mentally prepare for what I will see when I look up. The first thing that meets my raised eyes is a table. A medical table. My heart pounds when I turn my head to see medical cabinets. It pounds harder when I see a man who’s obviously a doctor, and harder still when I see the big man beside him. The look of patience is gone from the stubble-shadowed face. “You should have obeyed me, Sugar.”
Don’t call me that. I can only scream the words in my head because they’re stuck in my throat when he closes the distance between us. “Dr. Brockman, if you would be so kind as to fetch me that chair.” My captor nods towards the only one in the room, which sits between two tall cabinet. The doctor wordlessly fetches it and carries it into the middle of the room. The big man settles into the chair, but even sitting he is still nearly eye level.
“I would have probably set the limit at thirty, Sugar. But I believe you upped it to fifty, so fifty it is.”
Fifty what? I’m confused, then stunned as I’m pulled forward to find myself staring at the floor. I’m draped over two sturdy thighs, then jerked against his rock hard abdomen by an even harder arm that winds around my middle to restrain me. I feel the cool air of the room on the backs of my thighs, then on my bottom as it is bared. He’s pulled my panties down.
Holy fuck. He’s going to spank me! I know it even before the slight shift in his posture, even before I glance back in horror to see his huge hand raised, to note the stern set of his jaw. The sound of his hand impacting the smooth flesh of my bottom resounds across the room along with my outraged cry. My first reaction to anything is anger, always anger. But trapped in this man’s grip, the anger is scalded away by the pain and panic as he layers burning smack on burning smack.
I buck wildly on his lap. I kick. I claw at his leg, at the floor. I would bite him, but all I can do is scream. And scream. And scream. I’m not a big woman. His hand nearly spans the surface of my bottom, and he aims the punishment with stoic force, landing the blows first on the crest of my buttocks then on the sides, then-worst of all- on the crease of skin where cheeks meet thighs.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I wail the single word over and over, first as an indignant command then as a pathetic plea that dissolves into a childish bawl. Tears course down my face, running into my open mouth. Sweat adheres my shirt to my back. My throat is hoarse, my nose running like a sieve. I don’t allow myself to ponder the state of either my face or my bottom by the time I hear him say the word “fifty” and realize that he’d been counting the number of spanks I’d get, and like a stubborn fool I’d nearly doubled my punishment. My bottom is throbbing with hurt, each pulse generating a new wave of pain that seems to radiate out from the inner layers of my punishes skin. I can’t catch my breath when he raises me to my feet. I haven’t cried this hard since…I can’t remember, but I hear a child’s desperation in my own voice and through my tears I see my punisher’s steely eyes studying my tear-stained face.
“Breathe, Sugar,” he says. “Breathe.”
I still don’t want to obey, but what he’s commanding is a necessity and I know if I don’t comply I’m going to pass out. It takes me a few minutes to transform my shallow, hitching gasps to deeper inhales of air. Once I do, he reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and proceeds to mop my face and dab at my puffy eyes.
“Fifty,” he repeats the number. “And understand, Sugar, that I can and will spank you just as long and hard if you disobey me. Show your ass out there, and you might get away with it. Show your ass here and it gets blistered. Understand?” I gape at him wordlessly. I’m not five years old, but he’s talking to me like I am. And with my bottom stinging beneath my skirt, I feel like I am. I reach for my panties, which are still around my knees only to have him stop me.
“No, Sugar.” His tone carries a tinge of regret. “We’re not finished. Not yet.”
BUY LINK ->-> https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FRD1MV3/
Variety is the spice of life and Ava Sinclair writes a little something for everyone, from dark romance to menage to kinky AF age play. But the one thing that is consistent in her books are strong storylines, alpha males, and strong women whose hearts and bodies aren’t given up without a fight.
Ava lives in southern Virginia, where she enjoys hoarding books, hiking, running, spoiling her cats, and spending time with her Eurasian eagle owl, Lucius.
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