Chapter 3: Father's Discipline
The scent of old books and worn leather clung to the walls of the study, a comforting musk that had seeped into the wood over decades. Kim stood just inside the doorway, her fingers absently tracing the seam of her jeans where they pressed against still-tender skin. The ice pack had helped, but the memory of her mom’s spatula—and that knowing smile—lingered like a ghost.
Her dad sat in his armchair, the same one he’d read bedtime stories in when she was little. The lamplight caught the silver threading through his dark hair, the same shade as hers would’ve been if not for the red. His belt was already unbuckled, the worn leather coiled loosely in his lap. He didn’t look up from the book in his hands, but his jaw was set, the way it got when he was working through something in his head.
"Shut the door, Kimberly."
The quiet command sent a prickle down her spine. She obeyed, the latch clicking softly behind her. The room felt smaller with the door closed, the air thicker, like stepping into a different era.
"Your mother told me about your little disappearing act," he said, finally lowering the book. His voice was steady, but there was something coiled beneath it, a tension she recognized.
Kim swallowed. "I was handling it."
"Were you." He thumbed the edge of the book’s cover, then set it aside with deliberate care. "Because from where I sit, it sounds like you went off-mission, ignored protocol, and let your team worry while you did God-knows-what in some warehouse."
The accusation hung between them, sharp as the edge of his belt. Kim’s fingers twitched at her sides. She knew better than to argue when he was like this—when the weight of his disappointment settled over the room like a fog.
He exhaled, long and slow, then tapped his thigh. "Come here."
Her body moved before her brain caught up, muscle memory from a hundred childhood corrections. She crossed the study, the floorboards creaking under her weight, and stopped just short of his chair.
His eyes flicked over her, unreadable. "Jeans down. Over my lap."
A flush crept up her neck, heat prickling behind her ears. She hesitated—just for a second—but his expression didn’t waver. There was no anger in it, no impatience. Just expectation.
She unbuttoned her jeans with unsteady fingers, the denim sliding down her hips with a whisper of fabric. The air in the study was cool against her bare skin, a contrast to the warmth already pooling low in her stomach.
He guided her forward with a hand on her shoulder, and she went willingly, folding herself over his lap like she had so many times before. The leather of the chair was smooth under her palms, the scent of it mixing with the faint aftershave on his shirt.
His belt hissed as he pulled it free from the loops.
She tensed, waiting.
The first lash came without warning, a crack of leather that split the quiet of the study. Fire licked across her backside, white-hot and immediate, stealing her breath.
"One," he said, his voice calm. "For reckless judgment."
Another, lower this time, overlapping the first. She bit her lip to stifle a gasp.
"Two. For endangering yourself."
The belt fell again, the pain deepening, spreading like ink in water. Her fingers dug into the armrest.
"Three. For making your team doubt you."
Each stroke was measured, precise, landing with the same unflinching certainty as his words. There was no cruelty in it, no indulgence—just intention. A lesson carved into her skin.
She lost count after six. The pain blurred together, a rising tide that pushed her closer to the edge of something she couldn’t name. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t fight them. She never did with him.
The belt paused. His hand rested against the small of her back, warm and steady. "You’re better than this, Kim."
She knew what he meant. Better than the secrecy, the recklessness, the thrill of bending rules—and bending over—for people who didn’t deserve her trust.
The belt tapped against her thigh, a silent question.
She exhaled, shaky. "I know."
"Good."
He folded the belt in half, the leather whispering against itself. "Now, let’s finish this."
The next strike landed with finality, a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence she’d written for herself. She jerked against his lap, a choked sound escaping her throat.
Then it was over.
The belt slid back through the loops of his pants with a soft rasp. His hand moved to her shoulder, squeezing once before helping her up.
She straightened slowly, her jeans still pooled around her ankles, her face damp. He didn’t look away as she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"You’re grounded," he said, matter-of-fact. "Two weeks. No missions. No Shego."
Her breath caught.
He arched a brow. "Did you really think I wouldn’t figure that part out?"
She didn’t answer.
He sighed, standing to pull her into a brief, tight hug. His stubble scraped against her temple. "Go put some aloe on that. And for God’s sake, Kim—next time, just talk to us."
She nodded against his shoulder, the words sticking in her throat.
He released her with a pat to the back, already reaching for his book again. "Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late."
Kim tugged her jeans up, wincing as the fabric brushed fresh welts. She paused at the door, glancing back.
He was already reading, the lamplight catching the silver in his hair.
She slipped out, closing the door behind her. The house was quiet, the way it always was after storms.
The house was quiet, the way it always was after storms. Kim climbed the stairs, each step sending a fresh, bright throb through her backside. She could still smell the leather of his belt, the old paper of his books, mingling with the sharper scent of her own sweat.
Her bedroom door clicked shut, a sound of finality. She leaned against it, eyes closed, breathing in the familiar safety of her space—the faint lemon of polish, the clean cotton of her unmade bed. Then her hands moved, methodical and quick, shucking off her shirt, pushing the denim down her hips.
She let the clothes puddle on the floor. The cool air from the vent raised goosebumps on her skin. One hand drifted to the hot, tight skin of her rear, her fingertips tracing the raised landscape her father’s belt had painted. The touch was a shock, a delicious, painful confirmation.
Her other hand slid between her legs almost of its own accord. There was no conscious thought, just a deep, magnetic pull toward the ache there, a different heat altogether. The spankings had created a pressure, a strange kinetic energy that hummed just under her skin.
It wasn’t sexual, not in any way she could name. It was a chemical dump, a primal unlocking. Her breath hitched as her fingers found a frantic rhythm, chasing the knot of sensation her father had somehow both ignited and soothed.
A sharp, silent gasp ripped through her as the first wave broke, her knees buckling slightly as she braced against the door. The release was visceral, a sudden draining of tension that left her trembling. It wasn’t enough.
She pushed harder, chasing the echo, needing to obliterate the last of the coiled wire inside her. The second climax came faster, a shorter, sharper punch that wrung a choked sound from her throat. Her forehead pressed against the cool wood of the door.
For a long moment, she just stood there, empty and buzzing. The heat in her backside had softened into a pervasive, glowing warmth. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a hollow, clean fatigue.
“Well,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice rough. “That’s one way to decompress.”
She pushed off the door and walked stiffly to her connected bathroom. Avoiding the mirror, she turned the shower to cold and stepped in. The water needled her skin, shocking away the last vapors of the strange episode.
As she stood there shivering, her mind, clear now and ruthlessly analytical, replayed his final words. No Shego. He knew. Of course he knew. He always did.
A different kind of heat flushed her cheeks then—embarrassment, sharp and biting. She turned her face into the spray. The mission had been a mess, the confrontation with her mom a predictable disaster, the session with her dad a painful necessity. And now this… this private, unexplainable aftermath.
She toweled off, moving with a subdued efficiency. Pulling on soft cotton shorts and a tank top was an act of normalcy that felt like a lie. The dull ache when she sat carefully on the edge of her bed was a grounding truth.
From her nightstand, her encrypted communicator lit up with a soft, persistent pulse. A single line of text glowed on the screen.
Heard you got benched. My place. 10 PM. Bring your own ice pack. - S
Kim stared at the message, a slow, defiant smirk finally touching her lips. The momentum shifted inside her, the fatigue burning away into something like anticipation. She grounded herself, her father said. He hadn’t said a thing about staying there.