Daddy's Ring

Scene 1 -- The Card

My flight out of O'Hare got canceled at the last minute--snowstorm in Denver, or mechanical failure, or some excuse cooked up to sell travel insurance.

Didn't matter. I was grounded.

I wasn't about to spend the night curled up in some airport hotel with a vending machine dinner and Fox News humming through the drywall. So I took the elevator up to the luxury lounge--one of the few perks left from a job that paid well and took more than it gave.

The scotch was decent. The company, not so much.

Until he sat down beside me.

Older. Polished. The kind of man who wore wealth like a second skin. Tailored coat, watch that whispered money, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short.

"Long night?" he asked.

I smirked. "Beats sleeping under a terminal bench."

We got to talking--business, women, the kind of harmless boasting men do when they're stuck between flights and pretending their lives are more exciting than they are.

He asked what I liked. The usual: strippers, college girls, girls who call you Daddy like it's a dare.

He smiled like a man filing that information away.

"You don't strike me as a Marriott guy," he said finally, sliding a card across the table.

Black. Matte. No name. No phone. Just an address in gold lettering:

717 Aurora Ave.

For when you want more than sleep.

Before I could ask what it was, he was gone.

Scene 2 -- Arrival

Curiosity is a drug.

I told myself I'd just go check it out. Worst case, it was a brothel with better branding. Best case? Something worth writing off on the company card.

The rideshare dropped me off in front of a building with no sign. Just black stone, tinted glass, and a gold spotlight that made everything look expensive.

The doorman knew my name before I said it.

"Mr. Mason. They've been expecting you."

I didn't ask how.

Inside, it was all velvet and marble. Soft lighting. Air that smelled like jasmine, honey, and something darker underneath--something more like sin than cologne.

The woman at the desk was dressed like desire incarnate. She didn't ask for my ID.

"Suite 606," she said, sliding a brass key across the desk. "Champagne's waiting. So is your lesson."

I raised a brow. "Lesson?"

Her lips curved. "You'll see, Daddy."

Chapter 4: Discipline Problems

She walked into the suite like she owned it.

Click. Click. Click.

Those clear platform heels struck the marble like punctuation. Her hips swayed with precision--just exaggerated enough to say, this is for you, Daddy. She didn't ask if she could come in. She didn't need to.

Yasmine circled the bed, fingers grazing the edge of the sheets, before turning to face me with a lollipop now in her mouth.

Where the hell did she even get that?

She pulled it free with a loud pop and gave a little pout. "Aren't you gonna tell me I've been a naughty girl?"

I sat back in the leather chair, legs spread just enough to remind her who was watching.

"Why would I?" I asked coolly. "You're already so desperate to prove it."

She laughed. Bratty. Musical. Dangerous.

Then she sauntered over and climbed into my lap like it was her throne.

"I'm not desperate," she said, rolling her hips slightly. "I just like attention."

Her perfume curled around me--sweet, floral, and expensive. Her nails grazed my chest through my shirt as she leaned in, her breath hot against my jaw.

"You look like you need someone to take care of you," she whispered. "Someone to ruin you real gentle."

I grabbed her by the chin--not hard, just enough to get her eyes on mine.

"I don't do gentle."

Her pupils dilated. Just for a second. A flicker of reaction.

Then she smiled again--teasing, like she was winning.

"We'll see."

She pulled away and stood up, swaying back toward the desk. Tossed her hair like a girl in a music video. Picked up the red plaid tie and looped it around her neck, dragging the end down between her breasts.

"You ever fuck a girl while she's still in uniform, Daddy?" she asked. "Or just jerk off to the idea while your wife was out of town?"

That's when something shifted in me.

I stood.

She turned, ready with another line. But I was already on her.

I grabbed her wrist and twisted her against the desk--not rough, but fast. Controlled. Her breath hitched as her chest pressed flat to the wood. I pulled the tie tight around her neck, just enough to make her gasp.

She laughed--still trying to hold the upper hand.

Then I yanked the skirt up around her waist and slapped her ass. Hard.

She jolted. Sucked in air.

The laugh stopped.

"Keep running your mouth," I growled, voice low against her ear. "And I'll make you forget how to use it."

She didn't respond.

I leaned in closer. "You like being in charge, don't you?"

No answer.

Another slap.

"Answer me."

"Yes, Daddy--" she gasped.

I gripped her hair, pulled her head back just enough to whisper, "Then beg me not to take it away."

She moaned--low and real.

"Please, Daddy... don't."

I flipped her over, lifted her onto the desk, and stepped between her thighs.

Her cocky smile was gone now--replaced by parted lips, flushed cheeks, and wide eyes that practically screamed yes.

I pressed my hand to her throat. Not choking. Just claiming.

"You want to be treated like a brat?" I murmured. "Then I'm not stopping until you're a fucking mess."

And then I kissed her--hard. Possessive. Like I owned her now.

Because I did.

Chapter 5: The Lesson

Yasmine was still breathless on the desk, blouse open, skirt bunched at her waist, flushed and waiting.

I didn't ask her permission. That wasn't what this was.

I walked to the mirrored tray beside the bed and picked up the rope--thick, red, silk. Warm from the room. Coiled like it had been used before.

When I turned back, she hadn't moved.

Not out of fear.

Out of obedience.

Good girl.

I stepped behind her, pulled her wrists behind her back, and tied them slow--methodical. No slack. No struggle. Just enough pressure to remind her she wasn't in control anymore.

"You're quiet now," I said, leaning in, knotting the final wrap near her lower back. "What happened to all that attitude?"

She arched against the rope, lips parted. "Still here," she whispered.

That earned her a slap from the paddle I'd picked up--smooth, black leather, heart-shaped cutout at the center. It made a clean crack against her ass.

She gasped--loud and beautiful.

Another slap.

The paddle left a red imprint. A mark.

A memory.

I spun her around and pressed her knees apart, laying her back on the desk.

Then I reached into the small black drawer beside the bed--open, unlocked, waiting--and found the ball gag.

Red. Silicone. Leather straps. New.

I held it up to her lips.

She smiled. "Scared I'll talk back, Daddy?"

"No," I said, tightening the strap behind her head. "I just want to hear you try to moan through this."

She moaned before I even touched her.

I dragged her to the edge of the desk again. Ropes digging into her skin. Legs spread wide. Wrists bound behind her back. Gag muffling every desperate sound that tried to escape.

I didn't go gentle.

She didn't want gentle.

I grabbed her hips and buried myself inside her in one brutal thrust. Her scream hit the gag like a prayer slammed into a wall.

She clenched around me--tight, pulsing, grateful.

Her heels clattered to the floor. Her thighs trembled with each snap of my hips. I reached up and wrapped her tie around my fist like reins, yanking her closer with every thrust.

"You wanted Daddy's attention," I growled. "Now fucking take it."

She tried. God, she tried.

But she was shaking, eyes glassy, lips stretched around the ball gag like a girl being taught her place one inch at a time.

She gagged on her own moans, struggling to breathe between pleasure and punishment. Every time I slowed, her hips chased me.

Every time I sped up, she sobbed like she loved it.

Because she did.

Because this wasn't about pain.

It was about possession.

About knowing what she wanted better than she could say it.

I reached up, undid the gag slowly. Her mouth stayed open, panting.

"Say it," I ordered.

"I'm yours, Daddy," she gasped.

"Good girl," I said, and kissed her--deep, filthy, proud.

Because she was.

Chapter 6: Still Here

The ropes were undone now.

They lay in loose coils beside the bed, half-fallen from the tray, still faintly warm. The ball gag was gone, the paddle forgotten on the floor. The mirror on the ceiling reflected candlelight and the slow rise and fall of her breath.

Yasmine was curled into me, her cheek against my chest, one leg draped over mine like she belonged there. No bratty smirk. No gum. No teasing.

Just quiet. Just soft.

Her eyes were closed, lashes long, lips slightly parted. Her hair--dark and wild from where I'd pulled it--fanned out across the silk pillow.

I didn't move.

Not because I couldn't.

Because I didn't want to.

Her arm was slung across my stomach like an anchor. The weight of her body said more than any thank you ever could.

She wasn't performing.

She was resting.

She trusted me.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like just a man with a craving--I felt like someone worth being touched like this. Worth being held.

I looked down at her.

She wasn't pretending.

There were no cameras. No audience. No checklist.

Just Yasmine.

Still wrapped in pieces of her schoolgirl costume. Her thigh still bore a faint pink imprint from where I'd pinned her. The silk sheet barely covered us, but the heat between our bodies was enough.

My hand moved without thinking--gentle, reverent--tracing along her spine. I felt her sigh more than I heard it.

A pause.

Then, without opening her eyes, she whispered, "You stayed."

I blinked. "Of course I did."

She nestled closer.

"No one ever does."

The words were simple. Flat. But heavy.

I didn't know what to say to that.

So I said what I meant.

"I'm still here."

Her fingers curled against my ribs. She didn't speak again. Just drifted. Letting the silence fill in what words couldn't.

I stared at the ceiling again.

Not to look at myself this time.

But to memorize this.

Her body against mine.

The jasmine in the air.

The ache in my chest I hadn't felt in years.

Something had changed.

Maybe her. Maybe me.

Maybe both.

All I knew was... I wasn't going to L. A. without saying goodbye.

And I wasn't sure I wanted to say goodbye at all.

Chapter 7: Aftercare

The paddle was on the floor.

The ropes were slack beside the bed.

But neither of us moved.

Yasmine still lay with her head against my chest, her hand tracing slow, absent circles across my ribs. Every few seconds her thumb would graze the same scar just below my collarbone. She didn't ask about it. Just... memorized it.

I didn't stop her.

The room had gone still, save for the whisper of silk shifting beneath our skin and the faint sound of jazz bleeding from somewhere down the hall.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

Then she whispered, "You okay?"

I laughed under my breath. "That's my line."

She propped her chin up on my chest, smirking just a little. "We're not doing the whole macho aftercare avoidance thing, are we?"

"No," I said. "Just... enjoying the moment."

She dropped her head again, and I felt her smile against my skin.

"I don't usually cuddle," she murmured.

"That so?"

"Usually they either leave or I do."

I didn't answer. Didn't need to.

We both knew I wasn't going anywhere.

After a beat, she said, "You're not what I expected."

"Was that before or after you tied me to the desk?"

She laughed--a real laugh this time, unfiltered and light.

"I figured you'd be cockier. The kind of guy who only calls me 'baby' and only texts after midnight."

"And instead, I stayed."

"Yeah," she said. "You stayed."

Silence again. This time warmer.

I shifted slightly, brushing her hair back from her face.

"You always stay here?" I asked.

She nodded into my chest. "When I need to."

"That code for when life gets too loud?"

She shrugged. "Code for when I want to feel... seen."

I exhaled slowly, running my fingers along her spine. "Same."

She looked up again. Her eyes were softer now. Less performative. There was something in her gaze that didn't ask for anything--it just held me there.

"I'm Yasmine," she said.

I blinked. "Took you long enough."

"You never asked."

I smirked. "Johnny."

"I know," she whispered. "They told me."

We stayed like that for a while. Talking. Swapping little pieces of ourselves like poker chips neither of us wanted to cash in just yet.

She told me about her favorite places to dance in Paris.

I told her about a house in the woods I almost bought, but didn't.

She hated slow music. Loved scotch. Owned more heels than underwear.

I hated flying. Loved bourbon. Had been divorced for three years and hadn't spent the night with anyone since.

And then... we just stopped talking.

Not because we were out of things to say.

Because the quiet felt like enough.

Yasmine curled tighter against me, her fingers laced with mine now. I could feel the heat of her breath on my chest, slower now. Steadier.

She was falling asleep again.

So was I.

But not before I whispered, mostly to myself:

"Goodnight, baby girl."

She didn't answer.

But I swear I felt her smile.

Chapter 8: Her Name in Gold

The smell of coffee pulled me out of sleep.

That, and the fact that I wasn't alone.

Yasmine was already out of bed, wearing nothing but one of the hotel's silk robes--crimson, same as mine, stitched with a black "G. P." over the heart. Her legs were bare. Her hair was tied up in a messy knot that somehow looked intentional. She was sitting cross-legged in one of the velvet chairs, sipping coffee and scrolling on a phone that wasn't hers.

Room service had been delivered on a gold-trimmed tray--croissants, eggs, fruit, some kind of soft white cheese, and two steaming mugs. The morning light came through the thick curtains like molasses. It felt like we were in a dream someone forgot to end.

She looked up.

"Good morning, Daddy," she said with a smirk, but her voice was warm. Tired. Softer than last night.

"You let me sleep?"

"You needed it. You looked... real."

I pulled myself upright, rubbing the back of my neck. "That good or bad?"

She sipped again. "Good. Too many men in this place want to pretend they're someone else."

I sat at the edge of the bed, taking the second mug she held out. "You always order this much food?"

She shrugged. "Never know when someone's gonna earn their appetite back."

I chuckled, sipping the coffee. Black. Strong. Perfect.

For a few minutes, we ate in silence. The kind of silence that didn't feel awkward. The kind that made room for something else to speak.

When I looked up again, her expression had changed. Not guarded. Not playful. Just... distant.

She set down her cup.

"My name's not really Yasmine."

I raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"It is," she said quickly. "I mean--it is. But not like... just Yasmine."

She stood, walked to the window, pushed the curtain back slightly and stared out.

"Yasmine Al-Hariri."

The name hit the air like a match.

I knew it. I didn't know why--but I did. Somewhere in the back of my mind. A headline. A gossip article. Something international.

"My father," she continued, voice flat, "is one of the richest men in the Middle East. Oil. Steel. Politics, when it suits him. He thinks kings are born, not elected."

I stayed quiet. Let her talk.

"He wanted me married off at nineteen. Some deal. A Saudi banker with dead eyes and a fifty-year plan. I told him no."

She turned toward me.

"So he told me I was dead to him."

The robe slipped slightly off her shoulder, but she didn't fix it. Her vulnerability was intentional now--strategic. Honest.

"But the money?" I asked gently.

Her smile returned, but this time it was bitter. "Can't kill a trust fund. And he didn't want the press knowing we were at war. So I still get it. Every quarter. Like clockwork."

"You use it?"

She nodded. "I burn it like gasoline. Clubs. Flights. Silk ropes and champagne. I use his money to live a life he'd burn in hell before acknowledging."

I set my coffee down.

"And this place?"

She smiled again. Softer this time.

"This place lets me be whoever the hell I want to be. No last names. No headlines. Just..." She shrugged. "Play."

"And last night?" I asked.

Her eyes met mine.

"That wasn't play, Johnny."

A beat passed.

"I didn't think anyone would stay," she added, voice quieter now. "I didn't think I'd want them to."

I stood up and walked toward her. Took her hand.

"I didn't think I'd care," I said honestly.

"But you do?"

"I don't know what the hell this is," I admitted. "But I'm not done finding out."

She leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

"Good," she whispered. "Because I'm not done either."

Chapter 9: Earned Punishment

By the time dinner was done, Johnny figured they'd earned a quiet night in.

Yasmine had other plans.

She'd been acting innocent all evening--silk robe cinched just right, lips glossed, hair curled like she hadn't just been bent over a desk twenty-four hours earlier. But there was that look in her eyes--sparkling with challenge, heavy with heat.

She was up to something.

It started when she knocked over her wine glass.

Not an accident.

It was full.

She didn't flinch.

"Oops," she said, biting her bottom lip. "My hands are slippery, Daddy."

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

She nodded, eyes wide and fake-sweet. "Maybe you should come punish me."

He didn't move.

Not yet.

So she tried again.

On the way back to the bed, she bent over way too far to pick up the fallen napkin from the floor. No underwear. Just skin. And a deliberate wiggle of her hips.

Johnny kept sipping his drink. Slow. Controlled.

"You trying to get spanked, princess?"

She straightened, turning with a pout. "Trying?"

She strutted to the bed, climbed onto the center of it on all fours, and looked over her shoulder.

"I thought I earned that already."

That was the moment.

Something snapped behind Johnny's eyes--like a door she kept kicking finally burst open.

He set his glass down, stood up, and walked toward her in silence.

She turned, about to say something bratty, but froze when she saw his face.

Serious. Cold. Focused.

He grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over onto her back. The smirk was gone. Replaced by a sharp breath.

"Color?" he asked, voice low.

"Green," she whispered, instantly.

He didn't wait.

He grabbed the red silk rope from the tray and bound her wrists fast, tight, efficient. She moaned as the pressure settled into her skin.

He climbed over her, one hand wrapped in her hair, the other pressed to her jaw.

"You wanna act like a brat?" he said, staring straight into her. "Fine. But you will earn your punishment."

She squirmed, loving every second of it. "Yes, Daddy--please."

He reached for the paddle--the same heart-shaped leather one from the night before--and dragged it slowly down her stomach, letting the cool leather contrast the heat of her skin.

"How many do you think you've earned?" he asked.

She grinned. "All of them."

Crack.

The first slap came without warning, flush against the inside of her thigh.

She gasped.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

He alternated cheeks, each strike more precise than the last, each one timed with her breathing until she was whimpering, shaking, soaked with need.

Her bratty armor cracked.

Her eyes grew glassy.

"You gonna behave now?" he asked, voice right in her ear.

She nodded fast. "Yes, Daddy."

"No lies."

"No lies."

"You done testing me?"

She moaned. "You passed."

He chuckled darkly. "No, baby. You did."

And then he kissed her--rough and claiming. While her wrists stayed bound, her thighs stayed open, and her bratty little smirk gave way to a moan that echoed off the velvet walls.

Chapter 10: Not Just a Game

It was almost noon, and the suite smelled like coffee, strawberries, and her perfume--jasmine and heat.

Johnny was in the shower.

Yasmine had been lazing in bed, flipping through the room service menu for something she wouldn't eat, humming along to the soft jazz playing overhead, when she noticed the duffel bag sitting by the armchair.

She wasn't nosy. Not really.

She was curious.

Brat curious.

She padded over barefoot, his silk shirt draped off one shoulder, and unzipped it halfway.

Laptop. Chargers. A beat-up paperback. Toothbrush in a case.

And something small. Black. Velvet.

Her fingers froze.

No.

You're not supposed to look.

That's a boundary.

She looked.

It was a ring box.

Simple. Elegant. New.

She didn't open it. Didn't have to.

The weight of it was enough.

A dozen thoughts hit her at once:

Was it for her?

Was it a backup gift for someone else?

Was he that stupid?

Was she that blind?

The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out. Johnny stepped out with a towel around his waist, rubbing his hair dry.

He looked up.

Stopped.

Saw her.

And the ring box in her hand.

The silence hit like a gunshot.

"... Yas," he started.

She held it up--not accusatory. Just... holding it. Like it was radioactive.

"Johnny," she said, voice careful. "What the hell is this?"

He dropped the towel onto the back of the chair and crossed to her slowly.

"I wasn't gonna give it to you like that."

She arched a brow. "Like what? Accidentally?"

"No. Like this," he said, gently taking the box from her hand and setting it on the desk.

She folded her arms. "So what, you were gonna pull some kinky proposal move mid-spanking?"

He smiled faintly. "Tempting."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not."

She stared at him. "We've known each other a week."

"I know."

"You don't know me."

"I know that too."

"Then why the fuck do you have a ring?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

"Because I haven't felt this real in years," he said quietly. "And I didn't buy it to lock you down. I bought it to say... I see you. All of you. And I don't want this to end when I board a flight."

She blinked. Her throat tightened. "You thought a ring would fix that?"

"No," he said, stepping closer. "But it's a start."

She didn't move.

Didn't speak.

She just stood there--messy hair, long legs, Johnny's shirt half-buttoned and clinging to her thighs--looking like the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen.

And for the first time since they met... she didn't have a comeback.

She looked down at the ring box again. Then back up at him.

"I'm not good at permanent, Johnny."

"I'm not asking for permanent," he said softly. "I'm asking for honest."

A beat.

Then another.

She walked to the desk, picked up the box, and slid it open.

The ring inside wasn't flashy.

It was elegant. Sharp. Silver band, black diamond, no frills.

Dark. Beautiful. Different.

Just like her.

She snapped the box shut.

Tossed it back to him.

He caught it, silent.

"I'm not saying yes," she said, finally.

"Wasn't a proposal."

"But I'm not saying no either."

She turned, headed back to the bed, then looked over her shoulder.

"You bring that with you when you leave..."

"And I might let you put it on next time."

Chapter 11: The Offer

It was their last night.

The champagne had been poured. The ropes sat untouched. The lights were dimmed, as always--but this time the atmosphere wasn't charged with lust.

It was heavier than that.

Yasmine sat at the edge of the bed, barefoot, silk robe half open, sipping from her glass without looking at him.

"You're quiet," she said.

"So are you."

She shrugged. "I get like this when something's about to end."

Johnny stood near the window, hands in his pockets, watching the city lights shimmer through the tinted glass. The same way the whole damn week shimmered in his head--unreal, like a dream that refused to fade.

"You ever think about what happens after this?" he asked.

Yasmine didn't answer.

Not right away.

She looked down into her glass. "I try not to."

He turned to face her. "Well... I do."

She blinked. Slowly. Like she knew what was coming. Like she was daring him to say it out loud.

So he did.

He crossed the room, dropped to one knee in front of her, and pulled out the box.

Again.

But this time, he opened it.

Held it up like it meant something.

Because it did.

"I'm not asking for a perfect fairytale, Yasmine."

"I'm not even asking for forever."

"I'm asking for next."

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"This hotel," he said, voice steady, "was the best mistake of my life. Because I walked in here looking for trouble, and I found you. The most dangerous, impossible, bratty thing that ever happened to me."

A pause. A breath.

"And I want to keep happening to you. Over and over again."

Yasmine said nothing.

But her lips parted.

Her fingers trembled on the glass.

Johnny offered the ring without pressure. Without a command.

"Say yes," he said softly. "Or say no. But don't run."

She didn't.

She didn't smirk.

Didn't tease.

She leaned forward, cradled his jaw in her hands, and whispered:

"I hate you."

He grinned. "That's not a no."

"No," she said, kissing him--hard and deep and trembling--"it's a yes."