Chapter 8: Daddy Devious: Chapter 7

“Wh-why does it have my name on it?” And why the fuck does it say nursery?

“I told you,” Mr. Stone says easily, as if he hasn’t just rocked my entire world—again. “It’s your room.”

“But… how did you…?”

The corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk. “Daddies have to have some secrets. Do you want to see your room now, my little thief?”

I’m sure the correct answer is “Yes, Daddy” but I can’t quite bring myself to say the words so I just nod instead. Juggling me in his arms, Daddy reaches for the doorknob and turns it, slowly pushing open the door.

To my nursery.

There’s no other word for the sight that greets me. Along the far wall is a crib, with one of those sheer princess canopies that hangs from the ceiling shrouding it. Just to the right of the crib is a strange sort of table with what looks to be a small mattress on top. Both pieces of furniture are far too large for a baby or even a toddler

But they are perfectly sized for me.

As is the giant rocking horse, and the dollhouse that looks like a perfect replica of the house we’re standing in right now.

“What the fuck?”

The question slips out before I even think to stop it, and needles sting my skin as Mr. Stone swats my exposed thigh. Just once, but for some reason it’s enough to bring tears to my eyes. Something about being popped on the leg like that makes me feel impossibly small, even more like a child than either of the spankings I’ve received.

“My patience is running thin, Victoria. I hope a change of clothes and some food in your belly will help improve your mood, otherwise you are going to get a demonstration on exactly how creative your Daddy can be when it comes to punishing naughty Little girls.”

I resist the urge to point out that what would improve my mood is, you know, not being treated like a literal baby. “Sorry, Daddy.”

His expression softens, and I can almost delude myself into thinking there’s affection in his eyes when he smiles at me. “There’s my sweet little one. Would you like to pick out your pajamas or should Daddy do it for you?”

As much as I would love to reassert my independence, even a little bit, this is all just so… much. The thought of having to make a decision right now, even one as simple and unimportant as sleepwear, threatens to overwhelm me. “Daddy,” I whisper, immediately burying my face in his neck, as if I can somehow hide from my shame.

“Of course, little one. Let’s see…” He carries me over to another door, which turns out to be a walk-in closet the size of my apartment back in New York. I lift my head just enough to scan the rows of clothing. Big, frilly dresses line the wall, and it surprises me that the first emotion I feel is a deep longing.

The dresses are gorgeous. Each one is a different pastel shade, every color of the rainbow and then some, with layers and layers of tulle or crinoline or something to give them volume.

I reach out for the one that calls me the most. The soft green is covered in tiny pink roses, turning the entire dress into a garden of sorts. “It’s so pretty,” I say with a sigh.

“Would you like to wear that one tomorrow?”

“Oh, I can’t. It’s too pretty. I don’t want it to get ruined.”

“We’ll be extra careful, then. But tomorrow is a big day and big days call for pretty dresses. Don’t you think?”

I can’t think. My brain is locked down, refusing to process what’s happening to me. “Maybe.”

“Hmm. We’ll leave that question for the morning, then.” With me still wrapped around him, somehow Mr. Stone manages to bend down and pull open a drawer. It’s lined with clothes, again in all colors of the rainbow, but they don’t quite look like pajamas to me.

“Here we go. You like unicorns, don’t you, my little thief?”

And just like that, I’m five years old again, buzzing with excitement over my favorite animal. It never mattered to me that they supposedly weren’t real. Every year on my birthday, when I blow out the candles, I wish for a unicorn, even now.

“I love unicorns!” I say with a happy squeal as he pulls an item from the drawer. The material is white, covered with frolicking unicorns in pink and gold. It’s everything five-year-old me could have dreamed of. For just a moment, excitement overrules the embarrassment and pain of my ordeal to this point as I run my hand over the pretty fabric.

Mr. Stone chuckles. “I know.”

“You do? How?”

“Daddies always know.”

Something tickles the back of my brain, like what he’s saying is important. But I’m too tired, despite the lengthy nap I took on the plane, to put everything together right now.

So I ignore the tickle as he carries me back out to the bedroom… and straight to the table beside the crib.

“What are you doing?” My voice trembles a bit as he lays me down on the soft cushion. Something is happening. Something important, and despite my exhaustion, fear snakes its way up my spine.

“Changing you.” He says it as simply as if he’s telling me it’s going to be partly sunny with a chance of rain today, while he pulls my shoes from my feet and tosses them to the side.

“You don’t have to do that. I can dress myself.”

“You can, but⁠—”

“I may not. Yeah, I got the memo.”

Frowning down at me, Mr. Stone grabs my ankles, lifting my legs up high in the air and exposing my bottom. Hard spanks rain down all over my ass and the tops of my thighs, and it doesn’t take long for the air to fill with the sound of my cries and pleas for mercy. The swiftness with which I went from happy and excited over my unicorn pajamas to sobbing as I endure yet another painful punishment nearly makes my head spin.

“Ow, Daddy, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“I’ve had more than enough of this attitude, Victoria Rose. The next time I have to punish you for this, I will use a paddle on your naughty bottom. Am I understood, little girl?”

“Yes, Daddy! I’m sorry!”

Tears are running freely down my cheeks by the time he lowers my legs back down to the cushion. “Lift your hips so I can get your skirt off, Victoria.”

Sniffling, I do as I’m told, raising my hips up so he can drag my practical business skirt down my legs. Leaving me completely bare, completely open to his gaze.

I press my legs together in a desperate attempt to preserve some sense of modesty, but all my efforts earn me is a slap to the top of my thigh.

“Little girls do not hide from their Daddies. Open your legs, Victoria.”

If I can’t hide my pussy, then at least I can hide my shame. Covering my face with my hands, I let my legs fall open.

“Much better. Your sweet little kitty belongs to Daddy now, Victoria, and you will not hide it from me.” I feel a gentle tug on my pussy lips, and he sighs. “Tomorrow we will have to get rid of all this hair. Proper Little girls do not have hair on their pussies.”

Oh. My. God. This cannot possibly get any more humiliating.

“Arms up, Victoria. Daddy needs to finish getting you undressed.”

Groaning, I force my arms up, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t have to look this gorgeous man in the face while he strips me like a toddler. Mr. Stone makes quick work of my shirt and my bra, and a shiver races through me at the knowledge that I am completely, one hundred percent naked in front of one of the most powerful men in the world. My brain makes quick work of cataloguing every flaw I can remember from my too-small boobs to the tiny scar on my stomach from where I had my appendix out when I was sixteen.

Every last bit of me is on display for him, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Why that should arouse me as much as it horrifies me, I don’t know, but my pussy is aching again and if I wasn’t so busy trying to hide myself from him, I might be tempted to reach down and touch myself.

I can hear him moving around, sense him reaching across me, but I’m too lost in my own misery to think about what he might be doing.

Until I feel something press against my stomach. It almost feels like a belt of some kind, so I risk opening my eyes, just a fraction.

Sure enough, I’m strapped to the table, a large leather band across my stomach holding me in place. I wiggle a bit, testing the restraints.

“Stop wiggling, Victoria.”

Tears well in my eyes. Not because I’m strapped naked to a table, completely at the mercy of a man I barely know. But because his tone is sharper than before, and he’s reverted to only using my given name. A sob wells up in my chest and bursts free before I can fight it back.

Mr. Stone runs a hand over my hair, his touch surprisingly gentle as he soothes me like one might a fussy baby. “Shhh, my sweet little one. What’s all this?”

“You h-hate m-me!”

It’s a toss-up as to who’s more shocked by my outburst, me or Mr. Stone. As confused as I am by the words that have just left my mouth, he looks even more stunned.

“Of course I don’t hate you. Where did you ever get such an idea?”

Sniffling loudly, I try to get my sobs under control. “You sound s-so angry.”

Some of the confusion clears from his expression as it turns apologetic. “I’m sorry, little one. Sometimes Daddies get a little cranky, just like Little girls when they’ve had a long day. Forgive me?”

“It’s my fault you had a long day,” I say, the misery I feel in every cell of my body coating my words.

“So much travel always makes for a long day.” Smiling down at me, he tickles me behind my knee, teasing a giggle out of me. “But it was worth every mile to finally have my sweet little thief here with me.”

Finally? How long has he been waiting to get me here?

Before I can decide if it’s worth risking a punishment to ask him, he distracts me by pulling a wet wipe from some hidden compartment on the table and wiping my face clean. Not just of my tears, but what little bit of makeup I slapped on for work this morning goes as well.

God, was that really only eight hours ago? It feels like days, weeks, another lifetime.

“There we go. All clean. Now let’s get you dressed so we can enjoy our dinner.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

His smile is brilliant, and there’s a part of me that wonders if there’s anything I wouldn’t do just to see him smile like that at me, full of beaming of approval, every single day of my sentence.

But then he holds up what looks at first like a giant maxi pad. It takes my brain a moment to fully comprehend what I’m seeing. When it does, I realize that there is, indeed, one thing I won’t do just to see Maxwell Stone smile.

“I am not wearing a diaper.”