Friday, September 22, 2006

School Girl Daydreams

Is it wrong to fill my drudgery with thoughts of my Daddy’s cock slammed into my ass? Is it wrong to glare at the girl who pulls me away from my fantasy wincing and lip biting? I think about him all the time. I think about being fucked all the time. Daddy pushing me to my knees. Daddy bending me in half. Daddy splitting my thighs apart. I want my Daddy’s cum all over my skin, bubbling hot and foamy sweet.

I sometimes touch my pussy when I think about him. I rub my cunt lips, tap and pinch, my hips anxious and eager for him. It’s all I can do not to fuck myself in those in-between moments…in traffic or at lunchtime. Nothing will scratch this itch like proper fucking. Except maybe a beating.

I think about getting a call in the middle of the day.

It’s him at work saying that it’s urgent, to pack up everything, clock out and wait for him outside my school. He knows what I’ve done, he knows and he’s furious. Punishment can’t wait. It has to be now. Make no excuses; if I’m asked, say, “I’ve been a bad girl and I have to go home; I’m being punished.” Humiliation; especially in front of all those girls who have so much respect for me.

Tell them. Do not make him wait. Be prompt and repentant. Attitude, rebellion, flippancy will not be tolerated. Feel the knots in my stomach when he pulls up, gets out, slams the door on his side, the wide glass windows framing the scene. Wait for him to pull open the door and throw my books and supplies into the backseat, wait for him to open my door, slap my face, shove me into the car. Press my body against the door, far as I can from his merciless thrashing, every light, every pause, smacking my legs and thighs, pushing me onto my hip and catching my ass when he can.

Whining and apologizing, thinking about opening the car door and bolting at every opportunity. Home. The way my heart hammers my chest when he cuts the engine, pulls me across the seat and strips me on the way up the stairs, pushing me and hitting me, holding on tight to my hair and dragging me, my shins and knees scraping the pavement, my face streaked with tears.

Being kicked through the door, being bound, my wrists over my head, having my legs spread and my delicate inner thighs whipped with whatever he can get his hands on—wire hangers, cords, extra rope. Screaming until my throat bleeds and my chest is soaked with drool. Raping my cunt and ass with degrading things—thick markers, kitchen tools, candlesticks, flashlights, punching into my sopping holes. Making me tell him how much it hurts, thanking him for punishing me, telling him how much I like it.

Being pushed face-first onto the ground, begging him to forgive, feeling his hot piss on my back and ass, dripping between my aching cheeks past whatever he left in my dirty asshole, splattering into my hair, behind my ears, running down my ribs. Listening to him tell me that I am filthy, that I smell like his toilet, that I am no better than it. Being dragged to the bathroom and having my head pushed into the bowl, holding my breath so long while I twist under the cool water, pulled up only to tell him gaspingly that I am his cunt, his worthless whore, dirty cumslut and stupid bitch. Feeling my face pushed hard against the porcelain, my throat crushed by the rim, his grip furious and strong, holding me there.

Being unbound and told to lower my useless cunt onto his cock, being pushed forward when I am too slow or too fast, catching myself on the cold tile and being hammered into the ground, fucked until my cunt is scraped and shredded, gritty with cum and stinking of sex.

Finally being pushed over the edge of the tub, my face streaked with tears and trails of mascara, my stomach sick from being fucked for so deep, for so long. Hearing him run water in the sink, splash a wet towel into the basin, ring it out loosely and then feel the explosion of pain as my skin peels fire, as the heavy, twisted-rough cloth smashes down across my ass. Wet cool water droplets spraying madly around the tub, bouncing off my skin and hair, the walls, the fixtures. Wailing as the towel scrapes my flesh, whips and laps and descends with sickening slurps across my fire-red ass. Breath gone, fingers curling, teeth grinding.

Slow beating, long. Losing consciousness for brief moments of relief only to be shaken back into the torturous present where I am being flayed alive by a stretch of wrung flannel. Being left in piss and blood and tears and white-hot pain. Still, looking up at him from the dark room floor just before he shuts the door on me to say, “I love you, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy.”

Fuck, I’m wet.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Night Night, Daddy

Little Bunny Foo Foo

Little Bunny Foo Foo,
Hopping through the forest
Scooping up the field mice
And boppin' 'em on the head

Down came the good fairy and she said:

“Little Bunny Foo Foo,
I don't want to see you
Scooping up the field mice
And boppin' 'em on the head.
I'll give you three chances,
And if you don't behave
I'll turn you into a goon!”


“I gave you three chances
And you didn't behave
Now you're a goon! POOF!!”

The moral of the story is:

Ten Little Monkeys

Ten little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
"No more monkeys jumping on the bed!"…

The Donut Song

Well, I walked around the corner
And I walked around the block
And I walked right into a donut shop
And I picked up a donut, right out of the case
And I handed the lady my five cent piece.

Well, she looked at the donut
And she looked at me
And she said, “This nickel won’t do, you see
There’s a hole in this nickel
I can see right through…”

I said, “Maam, there’s a hole in the donut too!
Thanks for the donut! So long!!”

Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle lives here in our town. She is very small and has a hump on her back. When children ask her about the hump, she says, "Oh that's a big lump of magic. Sometimes it turns me into a witch; other times into a dwarf or a fairy, and on special occasions it makes me into a queen." The children are all very envious of the hump because, besides being magic, it is such a convenient fastening place for wings.

Mary Had a Little Lamb

Mary had a little lamb,
Little lamb, little lamb.
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow.

And everywhere that Mary went,
Mary went, Mary went,
Everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

It followed her to school one day
School one day, school one day.
It followed her to school one day
Which was against the rules.

It made the children laugh and play,
Laugh and play, laugh and play.
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.

Night Night, Daddy. Your macaroon loves you the most. I want to be cuddled up in your arms when I fall asleep for the rest of my life. I am very much in love with you.

Sweet dreams,

Thursday, September 14, 2006

No. No no no.


Wednesday, September 13, 2006

500 Words

Daddy said it's naughty to be disobedient and to touch myself without permission. He does not think I learned my lesson in the corner. The following is my punishment. He said to write 500 words on (1) why it's unacceptable to be disobedient, (2) why touching my cunt when I'm not allowed is wrong, and (3) why I love my Daddy. I have pulled from a Higher Authority. SMIRK.


There is an abundance of literary support for my obligation to obedience, dating back to even biblical times. God told Timothy, “A woman must receive instruction silently and under complete control. I do not permit a woman to teach or have authority over a man. She must be quiet.” (1 Timothy 2: 11-12.) Silently, and under complete control. God Himself condones and encourages Daddy’s ownership over my mind, body, and will. I should not presume authority over Daddy by way of presuming authority over what is his to do with as he wishes. I should not have the audacity to suggest that my preference or opinion has any significance or importance to Daddy. God instructs me to exercise self-control; and furthermore, Daddy says I must, and his directive, if I were a good girl, should be all I need. I am weak and wicked for my disobedience and deserve to be punished. I forget that every natural right is a privilege he allows me. I do not show my obedience when I am ungrateful.


In that I, and all that was mine, belongs to Daddy, I must show only respect for his belongings. God said, “You shall not covet your neighbors’…ass, nor anything that belongs to him.” (Exodus 20:17.) Grin. Like THAT quote, Daddy? When I want to touch myself, when I succumb to those impulses, I am most literally going against God and Daddy. The tenth commandment demands that I do not want for what belongs to Daddy; I am lucky to belong to him, to be allowed pleasure, to be given pain, to be controlled and cared for by him. The eighth commandment says: “You shall not steal.” Touching my body—my mouth, my tits, my cunt, ass, thighs and throat—a body that I have given freely to him, breaks not only Daddy’s rules, but God’s law. It is wrong to steal from Daddy. I am no longer entitled to dominion over my own person; I have given my body to him. There is no “my own” anymore. I belong to him and every stolen touch and pleasure is an act of direct defiance and makes me unworthy of him. It does not demonstrate my desire to be owned, submissive, and given wholly to him.


And I want to give myself wholly to Daddy because I love him and I trust him. He has been, from the beginning, attentive, nurturing, intense, and consistent. He gives me what I need over what I want because he knows me better than I know myself. I am lucky to be loved and cared for, lucky to be used when he wants, to get pleasure or pain when he decides. Daddy attaches himself to my secret self and loves me anyway, but if he didn’t I would still love him because God said, “Slaves, be subject to your masters with all reverence, not only to those who are good and equitable, but also to those who are perverse.” (1 Peter 3:18.) I am his slave; and I love his perversions, as I love his caress. And if they are at once, I love him twice over and I am luckier than I deserve.

I love you, Daddy. I'm sorry. I'll try to be a good girl,

On What I Get

There are many reasons why this relationship is to the benefit of my personal growth.

I’ve already illustrated how a very real part of me needs to be needed, and will default to a maternal role of protector and shelter, of taking on my other’s baggage as my own, above my own even. To be in a relationship where I feel needed—but not primarily for what I can do for someone else in my typical pattern—it’s already half of the solution. Daddy needs me, but differently than other people have needed me. If I tried to take control of his life, subtle or otherwise, he would not have it. We reflect each other, that is truth, but my reflection is something new for me. I am grateful to be vulnerable and open and dependent on him.

I have needed the kink my whole life. Every relationship was missing this. I looked for it; I looked for what I thought it was in my adolescence, and I ended up with men willing to take advantage of control, of my confused sexuality, users and abuse. I kept thinking there was something wrong with me. There is something wrong with me. Well, maybe not wrong, but different surely.

My mother never talked about sex with me, not when it counted. Much later and to the effect of encouraging me not to get pregnant. But pregnancy was not in the front of my mind when I was nine, when I obsessed over spanking and imaginary fantasies of being controlled, used, forced. I can’t ask my mom about this even now. She won’t even watch the action scenes on CSI. And here I was, fucking disturbed. I would dog-ear pages in books with spanking vignettes, classic Daddy images, teachers, Masters, uncles, wicked stepmothers, loving grandfathers, lessons taught, incidents of abuse. It was all the same in my head. Please someone tell me why I wanted to know what serial killers were capable of? Why I read compulsively about the debauchery in witch craft, the Mafia and the Holocaust (yes, I know how fucked up it is to draw a parallel to this sort of thing, and I promise not everyone in the kink is like this, to any vanilla readers)?

I felt dirty and wicked. Ultimately dirty and wicked for going to the classics and the Bible for my filth. The olden world held much more potential for my twisted appetite. I wanted it, all of it. The sex, the sadism, the pain and violence, the submission of will. My fantasies of spanking became inappropriate displays of sexuality, from a loving punishment from Daddy to a disturbing scene of degradation, humiliation and exploited sexuality. Daddy touching me between my legs after a particularly vigorous thrashing, unable to control his lust for his sweet, young baby, untainted, innocent, frightened.

And to move jarringly into a place that no kinko wants to go, but every vanilla is now entirely keyed into—no, I was never raped or abused as a child. I was never handled harshly or in a sexual manner. My parents were married until my mother was widowed and my father was a good man. I am not a pedophile, and I don’t approve or condone pedophilic behavior; I find it disgusting and repugnant. Though there are some silmilar-looking traits, these are not the same things. Bottom line is still consent. And I consent. Boy, do I ever.

In short, I need this, have always needed this, and will continue to need it until I don’t anymore, which, as of now, will be the day I die. And so, where does Daddy fit in to this? Well, mostly, he has been able to tap into that place in me more comprehensively and more acutely than anyone I have ever known. He has accepted and welcomed the fantasies of bondage and submission that I have been open about, but he has pushed past this to my under-levels, ideas like cumslut, puppybitch, worthless object, venue for exploitation, harsher, grittier, angrier, more twisted, baby doll, toilet, slave, and the most hidden of all hidden: Daddy's little girl.

It is not in me to want that, to need that. I am autonomous. I am strong. I have been for everyone their everything. Rock, pillar, hollow, without feeling. I don’t need; I am needed. And to be a little girl, his little girl...simply, I need. I am dependent and inconvenient and loud and obnoxious. But I am safe and bound, beholden and heard. He knows all of this, all of this real. I am real, and he still loves me and wants me. It’s okay for me to want, to need, to be cuddled and coddled and pampered. And it’s okay to push and feel something push back. I don’t have to "do it myself or it won’t get done." I don't have to be lonely and solitary and responsible; I can be a burden. He can see me in a way that I believed, not only that no one could see, but that there was nothing to see. I have worth to him.

Worth is a valuable thing.

Arrogance. Despite my attempts to be courteous and humble, I am arrogant. If even in my head, I am. Perhaps on paper or in words, too. Perhaps you're thinking that now. It's a funny thing to think so little of yourself and simultaneously, so much of yourself. It's a joke, isn't it? But in any case, who is going to challenge that? Especially in someone who can feel so threatening, can appear so confident and composed and able. Who would say, you’re not so brilliant, you’re not so talented? No one has. Hardly anyone has. Except Daddy. And often. No, you’re wrong. Even when its right in his face that I am not, I am. Because he says I am. Have you any idea how infuriating that is? Have you any idea what it’s like to be bested by an equal? Moreover, to have no chance at equality, moreover, to have equality meaningless? It is humbling because it is meant to be. Bested. Full stop. Because he says so.

I am what the says I am: right, wrong, backward, forward, obedient, disobedient, pretty, ugly, grammatically incorrect, mouthy, silent, stupid, useless. And it doesn’t matter what I think, or even if I think, because it’s not my job. It’s not my right, nor my privilege. I need that from him. It makes me a better person to be humbled and wrong and useless. He says it all the time: We already know that there is no equality; You do what you're told because you're told. Perhaps not so eloquently, but then, it makes no difference. Profound lecturing about my position and relevance is on par with more directly: Shut up now, cunt.

Belonging. I have never felt the dog on the leash, but the tethered stake in the ground. I was the source and the rock, and so they all belonged to me. And I opened my arms to them and shaded them from all of life’s misery. I forfeited my will and whims for theirs. And this is somehow different; we are different. In that I still submit regularly, I am the dog and this is the leash, and he is the source. (And yes, it is all very homosexual and flowery, and really rather Buddhist.) I belong to him; I have a place and that place is his and I know that I can return to it, am grateful to return, to kneel and accept anything he chooses to give—pain, pleasure, water, piss.

Servant. Child. Slave. Owned. I belong. I have never belonged. Not once. To anything. To anyone. Sure, I have been loved, but I have loved in return like a shepard or a mother, removed but vigilant. And I love this way, because I do not know any other, most fundamentally—but then, I love anew, as underfoot and mindlessly devoted. And I find strength here. I find hope and power and I can carve out what I want and need from this source. I can ask, expect, dream, want. I am alive with it.

Silence. Mindlessness. I can be obsessive in my interpersonal relationships; I want to understand and adapt and please and mirror. I want to be what the other needs, because in reflection, there is beauty found. We are said to love ourselves most of all. It is something else for me. I have struggled with knowing myself, and I have sought to know myself through others. The difference with him has been that in a bigger way, more subtle than even I could have foreseen, he has reflected me in return. And to do so, he has seen me.

And I am quiet as a result of this. I don’t always feel tense and anticipatory. It can be hard, as these things are always hard, but sometimes, I can turn it all off and listen to the spaces between. These things are so intangible and I am trying to catch butterflies with a lawn mower, so to speak. Forgive this butchery. But there are times, between his, as he calls it, waffle, where I have nothing to say. I think so many things about how I love this, I want this, I could discuss it forever, but I have no words. I can just feel it like a sunny window. And when we talk again, I’ll want that silence forever. I want to keep it. I want to have it. And it is hard to have now at this distance, but it is so fucking precious. I wait for it. It’s that high before the high. It’s pure existence.

There is so much more. But it is all so vague. I will always know how very special this is. I will want his name on my skin forever; proof that it happens, has happened. Fate alive.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Three(ish) Things on My Mind

1. Should I go to Taco Tuesday tonight? I missed last week, but this has been a hard week for people so it might be really depressing. On the other hand, a girl sure does like to hear that she's pretty!! Oh, I'm SO shallow. Sigh.

1a. Will Daddy make me wear this thing to Taco Tuesday? I don't know if I can do a whole day like this. My butt still hurts from last night. :P

2. Should I wear two pairs of panties even though Daddy said no? I really want to. I'm sort of nervous.

3. Why does Daddy NEVER write anything on this blog? I mean, he reads it. (I know cause there was talk of new rules regarding my last post about punishable offenses.) But never says even like, "Hi. You're gay. I love you though." I would tell HIM he's gay. I think that's just cause I'm better than he is. Yeah, that MUST be it.

3a. Daddy, you're gay. Grin.

Daddy, I'm better than you.

3c. Daddy, it makes sense that the better person should make the rules. So, in conclusion, I vote yes on two layers of panties. And so No. 2 is now off my mind!! Hooray!

Monday, September 11, 2006

Of Note:

I want to be punished.

I'm Always Wrong

He opened the door and tugged me through, his fingers laced tightly around my wrist. It was my room. Not our room, but my room. A little half room in the loft. Small. Low ceiling slopes. It was meant for storage, but we had made it my space.

There was a trundle daybed with soft white bedding, lacy shams and throws, pink striped pillows, pink polka-dotted pillows, spongy and warm and made for one, though often he laid with me here when he was putting me to sleep. It was short for him, but cozy for me. All my stuffed animals, and the ones I had designated for him, live on and around my bed. There is twinkle lights twisted through the wrought iron headboard and all along the perimeter of the room.

There is a small bureau on the opposite wall with mirror above it. The furniture is white, and pink, and collaged with butterflies and fairies. I had decorated it myself one day when I was sent here to think about how it was naughty to talk back to Daddy. There were hair ribbons and barrettes, colored pencils and crayons and Playdoh, and doll brushes and nail polish and little teacups scattered across the surface. Daddy would periodically come in and tell me to clean my room, but only if I had been a good girl for too long or if he crashed into something or stepped on stuff.

I had one window opposite the door, which I left open as much as I could to get breeze into my room. It was sucked up through the wisteria on the side of the house and made it feel fresh in here. The door to my room is called a DUTCH DOOR, and Daddy put it on special for me. He liked to be able to shut me in but still come by and peek at how I was behaving. It is good for ventilation too, but I like it cause I can pretend my room is a barn or a library or a prison or a help desk or lots of things.

The floor is hardwood, but there is a soft rug across the center. It is plush and white and I love lying on my belly on it, digging my nails into the deep strands and leaving finger holes like fairy craters. The hardwood part around the edges is cold and hurts my knees when Daddy makes me kneel in the corner for misbehaving.

The walls have lots of pretty prints on them. Daddy won't let me put up the posters I want cause he says that they are "too mature for a little girl" like me, but I like the fairy ones and the ballet shoes and the tiara he had framed. I have a big Hoobs poster that is my favorite cause Daddy likes to watch with me, letting me sit on his lap and snuggle him. We always watch television in the front room or our bedroom, cause he won't let me have a television in here. I have begged and begged, trust me, but he is being ridiculous!!

He has let me have a stereo though and given me lots of CDs with Disney songs and nursery rhymes and mixed tapes that have some of our special songs on them, like Death Cab for Cutie, The Offspring, and Margot and the Nuclear So and So's. And when I am very good, he will sing to me before I go to sleep.

I have a collection of fairy houses under my window, some that he has brought back to me when he has been away or given to me for birthday or Christmas presents, and some that I have made myself out of glittery craft supplies and things I find on walks. I have a music box and four beautiful snow globes. I have a collection of makeup and dress up clothes in a trunk in the closet, and a tea set with little blue rosettes all over it. I have a dollhouse with a family inside, which even has a little dog and cat. I have a shelf of books that I have arranged over and over, by author and title and size and height. And I have a rocking chair for Daddy to sit in when he visits my room. It's still a small room though, so you can see why Daddy can get so frustrated when it's messy.

There are some parts of the room that I am leaving out. I don't like those parts as much. There's the naughty chair, which is this small white stool Daddy keeps in the corner for when he thinks I need a time-out. There is the last drawer of my bureau which is filled with things he uses to punish me when I am a bad girl, things like paddles and hairbrushes and rulers and little plugs for my bottom. And there is a belt hung beside my door to remind me to be good whenever I leave the room. Punishments outside this room can be much more severe.

"Daddy, wait!" I whined, trying to pry his fingers off my wrist. He turned quickly and pulled my hand to his chest, leaning down and narrowing his eyes. He was very close and I was scared already. He is quite tall, taller than me, and has dark, intense eyes and strong hands.

"What is it? Do you have something you want to say to me?" he asked, curling his fingers tighter around my hand. It wasn't fair. It wasn't my fault. He was being stubborn. But try telling Daddy that. You see, it's not always easy to know that even when you're right, you're wrong if Daddy says you're wrong. But I wasn't wrong!

I glared back at him, "Nope."

He growled quietly and his eyes pierced mine. Then he straightened and let go of my hand, "You have three seconds to answer me properly."

I drew my lips into a tight line. He wasn't playing fair. He didn't deserve my proper answer.

"Three. Two. One," he counted down before SLAP! I gasped when his palm struck my cheek hard. My teeth hurt, my eyes watered. I grabbed my face and glared back at him.

"You have three seconds to answer me properly," he repeated, uncompromisingly. I gritted my teeth.

"Three. Tw—"

"NO DADDY, I don't have anything to say to you," I hissed, rubbing my cheek miserably.

He nodded. Then he looked around, eyeing the mess all over the bed and the pieces of the dollhouse lined up one-by-one on the floor beside it, the tea set filled with Playdoh. His jaw clenched.

"Well, looks like you'll have time to clean your room while you think about it, won't you?" he said, turning back to me.

"But Daddy, you said we were going to see a movie today!" I cried, bouncing angrily, "YOU PROMISED. YOU LIAR!"

Daddy was pissed. He grabbed my face and slammed me against the wall behind me. I whimpered loudly, my body wracked with waves of pain. The belt hung in my periphery now and his nails dug in to my throat. I caught his hand in mine and held on, shaking my head and gasping.

"That was so disrespectful, cunt," he said, not looking at me but pressing his mouth to my ear. He was not loud, but it was so close it hurt to hear him, "You need to drop this brat behavior. You are not entitled to a damn thing. I don't need to tell you anything twice, is that clear?"

I nodded.

"If I tell you that you are wrong, what should your response be?" he continued, his thumb sliding over my jaw.

"SorryDaddy," I whispered, biting my lip.

"If I tell you to go to your room, what should your response be?" he asked, his hand loosening from my neck.

"YesDaddy," I said, taking a deep breath.

"Good. Take off your skirt and your panties and give them to me now," he said, letting go of me completely. It was delayed, a second. It might have been confusion or maybe shock, easily as these, disobedience. He grabbed my hair and yanked it down hard, until I was bent double with my head at his lap.

"NOW," he said, loudly, twisting the strands of my hair in his fist.

"YesDaddy," I breathed, reaching for the button of my skirt and sliding it down quickly, then my panties, and holding them up for him. He let go of my hair and I stood.

"Stupid girl," he said, quietly taking both and dropping them on the bureau, "You're going to clean this room up. You have an hour. When I come back, I want to see it done, do you understand?"

"YesSir," I said, nodding. The room was a mess and I was sighing in my head.

"I also want a full apology for this morning AND I want you to come up with your punishment," he added.

Before I could protest, he said, "You think that being sent to your room makes up for your behavior, miss?"

I scowled, thinking that yes, indeed it had. I was missing the movie he promised me and having to clean too!!

"It doesn't," he confirmed, "Your total lack of obedience and respect for me is unacceptable. I am your Daddy. You do what I tell you, when I tell you, for whatever reason I give, even if that is no reason at all, understand?"

I understood, but I sure didn't like it, so I nodded, "Mm hm."

He slapped my face without pause and I yelped, to which he replied, "I thought we'd discussed how you are to answer your Daddy, little girl."

"YESDADDY," I shouted, rubbing my face. He looked ready to explode. I go too far sometimes. Way too far. It was one of those times.

"You stupid cunt," he seethed, looking mad enough to yank me from the room and hold me down in the room outside, punch me, bite me, rape me until I bled. What the fuck did I do?

"Sorry Daddy, I'm sorry," I stammered, apologizing as fast as I could, "Sorry, I'm sorry. I was wrong. That was disrespectful, I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry."

I was wringing my hands and pleading apologies, chewing my lip as he considered how to teach me what I had done to displease him.

He took a step back, his demeanor becoming more aloof, removed. I hated that. He turned and pulled open the bottom drawer to the bureau. Part of me—the part that always suspected some of my behavior would eventually be too much for him and he would give up, leave, abandon me—sighed a little. He was planning to punish me. He still wanted to keep me.

He rummaged through the drawer and selected a medium-sized green plug. It was short and thick and hurt if there was no warm up. He moved to the bed and sat down, looking out the window for a bit. I was uneasy. It was very clear what he was planning. It was not going to feel good, but I deserved it. I tugged my shirt down over my legs, as far as it would go.

He turned to me then, and I couldn't read his face. He said, "Come here."

I walked over to him, twisting a lock of hair at my shoulder, watching him. If I could hear his thoughts, they would have sounded like this: Stupid fucking cunt bitch, how dare she show me such disobedience and disrespect. I should fuck you until you bleed so you know who owns everything you think and do, every part of that body you call your own. I should tie you up and leave you in the bathtub, piss on you all day long. I should leave you in the backyard naked, gagged, with my name on every part of your skin, you stupid whore. Ungrateful cunt, you're just a hole for me to fuck, don't you get that? Everything you think is because I allow it. And when I stop allowing it, you're wrong, do you understand? I could make you understand, you dirty cum slut. I SHOULD make you understand.

I touched his face gently, trembling, "I'm sorry, Daddy. Please punish me."

He was silent. I continued, "I'm a stupid cunt, Daddy. I am ungrateful and spoiled and disrespectful. Please punish me, Daddy. I need it."

He pulled away from my hand and motioned for me to sit on his lap. I slid my butt up onto his thighs and leaned back against his chest, he wrapped one arm around my waist and traced the plug across my lips with the other.

"You're very close to getting something I can promise you that you don't want, little girl," he said softly, dragging the smooth cold plastic along my lower lip. I nodded slightly, feeling my body settling into his.

"Kiss it," he instructed, tapping it against my mouth. I puckered up my lips and kissed it, my cunt pulsing between my legs. I could feel my thighs twitching.

"Good girl, very good," he said, shifting his hips under my ass. My pussy throbbed and I moaned softly.

He slid his hand from my belly to my thigh and grabbed the soft flesh inside my lap between insistant, but gentle, fingers, pulling open my naked slit. He ran the plug along my upper lip, then said, "Suck on it, baby girl."

I was melting, my cunt swelling open when I parted my lips. He slid it into my mouth much easier than it would enter my ass, and I closed my teeth around it, caressing the rubbery knob with my tongue, sucking it like I might my Daddy's cock, if I were lucky enough to have it between my lips. His thumb grazed my cunt, warm on my damp folds. I could feel him getting hard under my ass and I shifted so that his bulge could nestle right between my bare cheeks. Both of my hands were on his thighs and I slurped the plug a little more noisily.

"Good girl, get it nice and wet for your tight little hole, cause I'm just going to push it in," he murmured, nodding when I pouted. The idea of stretching me wider than I could handle seemed to make him harder. I could hear it in his voice, in his breath, how he was considering using my body for his own whims. It thrilled me, my stomach dancing with electricity.

His fingers tapped my pussy lips and I squealed, moaning at him. I could feel him press his cock against me and I ground my hips down on his lap, eagerly. And then his fingers slid into my slippery slit, curling up into my cunt and holding me tight; he said, "Can you feel how wet you are, slut? I did this. This is why you will do what I say, when I say. I allow this when it pleases me, understand?"

I nodded, mumbling around the plug that suddenly felt so large in my open mouth. If Daddy wanted it, I might never cum again. If he wanted, my cunt might remain untouched, unopened, unlicked, unfisted, unfucked. I was wrong. I was reckless and stupid. I must always do what my Daddy tells me; I am wrong when he says I'm wrong. And I am stupid for needing this reminder.

"Good girl," he hissed, slipping his wet fingers from my pussy and pushing me forward until my fingertips brushed the ground. My legs were still on either side of his lap and my ass was open wide to him. He leaned down and held open his palm. I spit the plug into it and felt him sit back up, hold my back with his empty hand. His fingers skated down across my ass and he found my hole with his fingers. I whimpered.

"Shut your mouth, cunt," he instructed, pressing roughly against my taut pucker. I bit my lip and closed my eyes tight, trying to breathe, to relax, though my lungs were cramped up in this position. Then I felt him settle the wet little tip against my asshole and press, burrowing deeper and deeper. I squeaked, then whined, loudly, and as it pushed farther and wider, gasped, wanting to beg my Daddy to pleasestoppleasestop. It hurt, felt like it was going to rip me open. Daddy didn't care.

If I could have heard his thoughts, they would have sounded like this: Shut your stupid mouth, you dirty bitch. You're so fucking lucky today. If you ask me to stop, I'm going to make you bleed. Go ahead, cunt, ask me. Ask me! I want to rape you. Can you feel that, baby? Can you feel how much I want to dig my nails into your shoulder blades and carve open your back while I fuck you into submission? What's stopping me? Not you. Never you. Your luck. My self-control. My self-control IS your luck. You WILL be drinking Daddy's piss tonight though. You WILL be sucking my dick under the table at dinner. And you will ask for every single freedom in the weeks to come, at home, on the phone, when we're out, no matter who is around. I WILL hear you call me Daddy when you ask to use the bathroom at school. I WILL hear you call me Daddy when you ask to have a glass of water. You won't continue to forget who owns you, will you, cunt?

And he shoved it all the way in, fast, wide, while I screamed. His hand was heavy on my back and he held me down, my ass so hot, so abused, so open. I could feel his hips, his grin, his nails in my skin as I choked and begged. I was crying and writhing. Sometimes I could get used to the feel, but it hurt so much. So much.

He reached beneath my legs and slid three fingers into my tight cunt. I was gasping through gritted teeth and crying, but he shushed and grabbed my hair.

"DAAAADDY!" I yelped, twisting against the growing pain in my hole, "Pleeeeeease DADDY! Owwwch, mmm owww. Daddydaddydaddy, nonononono."

"Yes, baby," he said, then pulled my hair up and reached between his legs, brushing the plug as he unzipped his pants. I groaned, wanting it removed more than anything. He had his dick out was sliding it against my pussy. I tried to ignore the pain, but it throbbed fire.

"I liked how that plug looked in your mouth, little girl," he said, standing up and pushing me off of him, "I want my dick in there now. Open."

I opened and he placed his hand on my head and shoved me down to my knees, sliding his veined bulge into my hungry mouth. I suckled him, tasting my pussy on his foreskin, but his hand wove into my hair and he slammed his cock into my throat.

"You don't get to enjoy this, cunt," he said cruelly, "In fact, if you're wet when I'm done here, I'm going to spank your slutty cunt, understand?"

It wasn't fair, I was already wet. He knew that. I groaned, frowning, so he growled, "Wrong answer."

He pulled me off his cock and dragged me over to the wall on my knees. He pressed me against the wall and stepped around my thighs, his knees slapping against the wall. He smacked my face until I opened my mouth, then jammed his cock inside while I coughed and sucked. He braced himself against the wall and told me not to move, not to breath. Then, he fucked my face, his hips slapping the back of my head against the pretty pink paint.

Faster, harder. I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore and I was grunting, moaning while he used my throat, the pain in my ass pulsing up my spine and colliding with the ache in my head.

He grabbed my head and pushed it down his cock, grunting, "Swallow, bitch, swallow, swallow."

I couldn't breathe, I swallowed, coughing and spitting, cum leaking from my lips while he slapped against my face, grunting loudly.

He leaned against the wall, breathing hard and holding the back of my head, gasping, "What the fuck are you waiting for? Clean up, now."

"YesDaddy," I said, sucking air harder, my chest rising and falling, "Thank you Daddy."

I licked the cum from my mouth, then from his balls and cock, gently. He watched me as he caught his breath, in a way that I suspected was fraught with criticism. He had taught me well though. I did it exactly as he liked it.

When I was finished, he said, "Get up, sit on your bed and lay back with your legs over the edge."

"YesDaddy," I whispered, wanting to rub the back of my head.

"Open your legs. Wide, baby," he said when I was in position. He leaned over me, one hand next to my head, watching me, while the other snuck between my legs, two fingers sawing between my pussy lips and finding me stupidly wet. I trembled when he touched me, shaking visibly, wanting him to suck my clit until I came on his face.

I screamed. He had slapped my open cunt. Then slapped my thighs, opened my legs and slapped my pussy lips, harder, holding my legs apart when I tried to close against him.

"Dirty girl," he said as he spanked my pussy, the wet slippery slaps making me squeal and twist, hiccup pain, moan, "Look at how wet you are, you stupid bitch. I told you no. You don't listen do you?"

"SorryDaddy, sorrrrrry, sorrysorry," I apologized absurdly, groaning and wincing, "I'm a dirty slut, Daddy. I'm sorry. I'm disobedient and spoiled, sorrysorry Daddy!"

"Good girl," he said, smiling brutally to himself as he slapped at my tender clit. I grabbed him and howled, begging.

"Daddy!! DADDY! Pleaseowwwch, please Daddy!" I was sobbing, trying desperately to close my thighs.

"Stop," he said quietly. I wailed, trying to relax. I felt his hand on the plug, tapping it hard, and I gasped, looking at him, quiet as I could.

He let go of my legs, "You're getting two more, baby—"

I nodded, so grateful that it was going to end, "Yes Daddy, thankyouDaddy."

"—with my belt," he continued, watching my face. I was crumpling inside. Screaming and protesting and hot with frustration. I belong to my Daddy. My body belongs to my Daddy. I am wrong, I chanted in my head.

"Yes Daddy," I whispered, leaning back on the bed and covering my face.

He walked to the wall and took the belt off the hook, doubled it and made some loud cracking noises, snapping it together to warm up the leather. I swallowed as much as I could.

"Ask me properly," he said, the tension heavy in the small room. Tears were leaking from the corners of my eyes and I couldn't look at him.

"Please spank my pussy with y-your belt, Daddy," I said quietly, tensing hard around the plug, my stomach knotted.

"Good girl, baby," he said, then, "Hands above your head. No closing your legs, no shielding yourself. You will thank me after each, you understand?"

"Yes Daddy," I said, quickly, like he was expecting. I raised my hands above my head and felt the hem of my shirt rise, exposing the bottom of my tummy. I felt so vulnerable. I had to concentrate on keeping my legs open when I knew what blinding pain was about to lick my slutwet cunt.

It seemed to move through the air forever, the whistle so very long until it cracked sickeningly along the middle of my body, electric on my cunt, whitehot and exploding showers of tart pain. I could taste metal in my mouth. And then I screamed.

My body shook, my hips coiling. He waited, and without a full breath, I said, "ThankyouDaddy."

He let the pain sink in, far into my hips, my back. I could only think of how that was going to happen again. My fingers twitched. I was crying. Then he lifted the belt again and slapped it down on my bright red cunt, swelling the puffed strip of flesh with searing pain. I couldn't scream this time, no sound but a hoarse exhale. Then I wailed, crying hard.

"Th-thank you, Daddy," I sobbed, my body convulsing. My pussy hurt so much. I wanted a cold towel, soft petting. He wasn't having it, though he put the belt down.

He went to the door. Then turned back around and said, "You will leave that plug in until I take it out. You will clean this room. You have an hour. You will not touch your cunt, you will not put on any more clothes. You will get this done efficiently. If I find any of this shit out or any of my rules broken when I return, I will make you cry for days. I will spank your ass, your cunt, I will tie you up and beat you, rape your ass, and choke you with my cock. Got it?"

My eyes were big, real big, I breathed, "YesSir."

And then he shut the door. If I could have heard his thoughts, they would have sounded like this: When I come back, that collar is going on. I'm going to drag that puppy bitch down to the front room and make her drink my piss. I'm going to choke her with her chain and beat her with that horsehair whip. I'm going to stretch her ass with the biggest plug, I'm going to fist her dirty cunt. I'm going to make her scream all night long, and if she if still breathing easy tonight, I'm going to sleep with my cock in her mouth.

Bad girl. My bad, bad girl.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Little Slut

I got to have a nap with my Daddy this afternoon. I love those kinds of moments. His breathing makes me feel so relaxed.

I've been a good girl lately. Or at least, grin, more manipulative than he's willing to deal with. That works for me too since I skipped school today!! I laid around, played games with Daddy, watched TV, dyed my hair ma(ca)roon and read more of my book.

I have been alternating, or maybe alternating is the wrong word, but simultaneously existing in a state of littleness and a state of voracious sexual desire. I want to fuck all the time. I want to think about my Daddy using every part of my body for disgusting things. I want him to rape me and slap me and make me bleed and make me scream; I want him to fuck me, and fuck me, and fuck me until my pussy never stops throbbing. I want to suck him like an automaton, follow him around the house on my hands and knees, opening my mouth to be used at every chance I get.

I want to be his little girl and sit on his lap and have him talk to me like a child, explain things to me, praise me, tell me stories and give me kisses and pats. When I'm naughty, I want him to lecture me and ask me condescending questions and punish me like a child, send me to the naughty step, to bed early, spank me where ever we are, just quick little smacks to keep me obedient. I want him to put me to bed and turn off the light and tell me only bad girls pet themselves under the covers, to kiss my forehead and my teddy's forehead, to leave me water and a nightlight.

And this is mortifying.

And only anonymously can I say all of this. Even to him, I can't say how much I want it. It's conflicted and yes, disturbed. I am disturbed.

I could break it down intellectually...because I am educated and insightful. I could bring up the schism between having lived independently, as a mother-figure, shouldering responsibilities of education and careers, and now having to return to my childhood home temporarily. I could suggest that mentally attempting to balance those drastically different lifestyles, whilst simultaneously fighting familial control and craving Daddy's, is wrecking havoc on my already fragile psyche. I could say that the shift from a relationship fraught with maternal demands and personal sacrifice to one of submission of will and power to the benefit of my personal growth is both confusing and overwhelming. I could say that the opportunity to absolve my past and exorcise memories of other men by replacing them with my Daddy's sound, smell, cum and command is devilishly tempting. I could say that for once, someone has enthusiastically met my sexual appetite with one of his own, at times darker, dirtier, and more compelling.

But, in the end, I just want to be cuddled and raped, and no amount of psychobabble or litigious rationalization, as flowery as it might be, can stamp that out. Simply, I am disturbed.

I am lucky, however, to have someone who loves me despite this. And so...

Daddy, I need to be punished. Here is a short list of things that I have done to merit consequences:
  • three nights of teeth grinding
  • going to school very late yesterday
  • knowing that I did poorly on my Chem test, but still skipping all my homework for Trichology
  • a list of profanity and vulgarity both longer than me and scathingly impolite
  • being argumentative and resistant when I am told to go to sleep
  • lots of chocolate
  • touching myself all the time without permission
  • cheating on my timecard (grin, clever girl)
  • saying mean things to my loving Daddy and calling him names

Anyway, I will regret posting this, and perhaps I will get a chance to remove this last portion before you see it.

Adoringly yours,