I thought Daddy wouldn’t notice… oops.

Okay but in my defense… the rule is so silly.

“No sweets before dinner, little bunny.”

I mean, come on. What kind of monster says no to strawberry Pocky? Especially when they’re right there in the cupboard, whispering my name like seductive snack demons.

So yes, I snuck one. Or three. Maybe five. And yes, I might have left the empty wrapper in the trash like a very dumb criminal. I should’ve just eaten the evidence.

Daddy found it right after we finished dinner. I was feeling smug, twirling my fork in the last bit of pasta, when his voice dropped low:

“Bunny. What’s this?”

My ears perked up instantly. Literally. I was wearing my pink fuzzy ones, the ones with the soft satin inside that Daddy likes to tug when I’m being a brat. He held up the Pocky wrapper like it was damning evidence in a very serious snack trial.

I tried my innocent face.

Didn’t work.

He just raised an eyebrow.

Ugh. The eyebrow.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in the corner with my hands behind my back, cheeks burning and not from the spankings yet. I could hear Daddy scribbling on the notepad at the desk, occasionally glancing over. His chair creaked. The soft scratch of his pen was torture. My tail twitched.

I hate corner time. It’s not loud like spankings, but it makes me feel every single second. I get fidgety, itchy, bratty-er.

So when Daddy finally called me over, I was halfway between relief and dread. He patted his thigh and I climbed onto his lap without thinking — little bunny autopilot. He pulled me close and whispered:

“You’re going to write: ‘I will not sneak sweets.’ Fifty times. Then we’ll deal with that pouty attitude of yours.”

Cue internal dramatic scream.

I wiggled, whined, tried to barter. He smirked. That wicked little smile that says, you are mine and you know it. He let me fidget, let me be a squirmy little brat on his lap while he wrote “50” at the top of the page in his neat, terrifying handwriting.

After the lines — which, yes, I wrote with lots of little angry bunny doodles in the corners — he pulled me over his knee.

The first spank made me squeak.

They weren’t hard. They were slow. Measured. That kind that makes your legs twitch and your tummy flutter. That kind that makes your brain go all fuzzy and warm until you stop being a brat and just melt.

“Count for me, bunny.”

I did. Between sniffles and whimpers and promises to never eat Pocky again (that’s a lie), I counted.

And when it was done, and my bottom was all pink and my heart was calm and floaty, Daddy pulled me into his chest and stroked my ears.

“You’re my good girl,” he whispered, kissing my temple. “Even when you’re naughty.”

And I might’ve cried a little. Not from the spanking. From that. From feeling safe. Held. Known.