But quite a bit more often, there is another, much darker, route that I seem to need to choose for how the beginning of our weeknights must go. I still don’t entirely understand why I feel compelled to answer his question with the code that all of us submissives know in our deepest hearts when a dom asks us what kind of girl or boy we’ve been. I guess this urge arises from the part of me that believed my wicked Mother’s oft repeated cant. She insisted that the pain she was inflicting on my poor girlish buttocks was deserved because I had been so bad, just as she declared over and over as she blistered my behind. Then I had no alternative but to endure her depredations. Now, my Daddy makes it clear that it is always entirely my choice if my bottom is to be spanked.
Perhaps this is it. When I stand there in my infinitely vulnerable naked straddle, totally turned on by more than half an hour of the most exquisite kind attention to every bit of my body save my pussy and anus, I am prepped to take back control of painful things happening to my most vulnerable private parts. And that is accomplished at least three nights out of five each week by me responding to my Daddy’s careful question by saying: “I’ve been a bad girl.” This means, as we both well know, that I must be punished corporally, and always quite severely. My stern Daddy believes that behavioral modification of naughty girls must be delivered with focused intensity that leaves no doubt in either of our minds that my lesson has been drilled into the parts of me that must be spanked.
This leads into another level of the psychodrama we play out each night. If I admit to having been bad (and Lord knows, if I’m at all honest I’ve always been naughty, since my mind is often full of wicked thoughts, especially sexual ones) then he must explore exactly how I’ve sinned. So he will ask: “Tell Daddy exactly how you’ve been a bad girl, so he can know just the right kind of punishment that will burn the sin out of you and make things all better.”
Here is another place where the decision about what kind of delicious torment I am to undergo is left entirely in my hands. We both know that the kinds of sins I inveterately commit are always entirely in my mind, with a few exceptions. If I admit to laziness, or meanness to a subordinate, or workaholism, or being too aggressive in traffic (peccadilloes we both know I commit daily), I am asking for my spanking to be limited to my buttocks and perhaps my thighs if Daddy is feeling a bit frisky. He will of course reserve the right to pick which implement will be employed to, as he puts it, have a little chat with my rear end. As well, the number of spanks, their intensity, and the number of doses I am to receive will be his choice. He will of course explain his rationale to me as my painful medicine is being administered, but I’m often too distracted to entirely grasp his logic at those moments.
But we also both know that whether I admit it or not, I will have committed numerous sexual sins in the course of any day. This is in part my nature; I am a lusty bitch by temperament, given to sexual thoughts about co-workers of both genders ever since adolescence. This natural tendency is enhanced by the supercharged erotic nature of my home life, in which some kind of sex almost always has just taken place or is about to. Plus, Daddy is always asking me about my fantasies, and egging me on to take them in ever more outre directions which he can then incorporate into our private games.
Now the worst sexual sin will be to have touched myself...down there, if you know what I mean. My Daddy is quite covetous of the right to give me pleasure. If I choose to get myself off, I can count on a very thorough consequence, since he claims absolute ownership of all my orgasms. He happily gives me at least a dozen each day, but if I steal one for myself, there will be hell to pay. And since he is a big believer in punishments fitting crimes, you can guess just which part of me is in for its own very special spanking if I decide to defy him that flagrantly.
That logic applies to a different sort of punishment as well. My Daddy’s rules about self-stimulation don’t just involve my pussy. I’ve always been a girl who found particular erotic pleasure in my tits, ever since they started growing and I would find comfort in them after Mother had spanked me. They have always been exquisitely sensitive, but rather contradictorily have enjoyed being treated roughly. Especially the nipples, which seem to have a mainline wire going right to my clit. The more severely they are pinched, the stronger the turn-on. Well, in the course of my erotic wanderings before I found my Daddy, I read a lot of mainstream erotica, including the Story of O. And it got me totally hot when her cruel Master arranged to have her breasts punished every morning. I of course was made to confess this to my Daddy, who promptly incorporated tit-spanking into our erotic repertoire. So if I report having touched myself there, it means I am in the mood to have that part of me subjected to the same painful treatment that my ass receives almost every day. Of course, it is much more terrifying to have your tits spanked...especially by a dom as meticulously cruel as my Daddy.
But let’s say on this occasion that I’m not in the mood for one of our more out-there BDSM sessions. Perhaps I want the nice solid feeling of a good long spanking on my bottom, just like I would have if I were a very naughty girl getting just what she deserved from a strict but fair male authority. Then I would respond to his question by saying something like: “I’ve been too aggressive on the road, cutting off a guy whose driving pissed me off on the way to work and making him have to honk and flip me off...and I guess I kinda flipped him off back, which seemed to make him even madder. I think he would have rammed my car if I hadn’t sped off in a hurry...”
Now this wouldn’t be an invented scenario. It’s important to the integrity of our relationship that I never admit to something that isn’t true in order to earn a spanking. In a way, this kind of gives me a certain permission to misbehave, which is, I guess, the opposite of what behavioral conditioning is supposed to do. The knowledge that I can go home to my strong, handsome Daddy and tell him how naughty I’ve been and get just the right punishment for my crime seems to liberate me from being quite so buttoned down. One of the things I like best about our relationship is that I’m no longer under some compulsion to be so fucking good all the time. Now I can be bad, admit it, get spanked until I’m genuinely contrite, and then have that outcome reinforced by orgasms far exceeding anything I’d even imagined before I met my Daddy. But I’m afraid this cycle isn’t doing much to discourage my tendency towards naughtiness. I just never feel guilty about it anymore.
So my very stern but understanding Daddy would sigh as he sat between my legs, leaving me hanging on the edge of orgasm quite intentionally. Now he would be at his most patient, in no hurry whatsoever to do anything but thoroughly investigate my wrongdoing, assign a careful penance, and deliver said consequence to the very same rear end every single nerve ending of which he had just quite thoroughly sensitized. So I would be very painstakingly walked through the possible negative consequences for me of baiting some stranger into a state of road rage, all the way to my possible murder if he happened to have a handgun. Then the results of that outcome for all those who love and depend upon me would be enumerated in gruesome detail. All this as the region about to experience the immediate consequences of my actions was tenderly stroked. Next, I would be asked to prescribe my own medicine:
“So, naughty one, what kind of lesson do you think is necessary to get through to a girl who thoughtlessly placed herself in such a dangerous position?”
I pondered this ominous question, savoring his soothing touch on the very place where my answer to it was likely to be enacted. If I recommended too light a punishment, that would send the message I was not taking the infraction seriously enough. This would mean my very strict Daddy would need to up the ante. The coinage with which that increase would be paid would be additional doses of painful attention to my backside, often with much more terrifying implements than the one I originally prescribed. On the other hand, if I overshot the mark and recommended a more severe spanking than he had in mind, he would never reduce the toll about to be exacted on my trembling naked buttocks. So every time I was queried in this manner, this was the dilemma I faced.
This time, I actually felt guilty enough about the traffic incident (and horny enough for the killer orgasms that I knew would accompany my punishment) that I decided not to try to game the system. I sighed as his maddeningly sexy stroking of my splayed rear end continued and replied: “I think this is a very serious offence, Daddy, and that I need to be spanked extra long and hard. I’d say a dose with a wooden paddle, then another one with a strap ought to remind me not to drive like a narcissistic prick.”
He smiled, reaching down to tenderly stroke my inverted face in approval of my sentencing decision. Then he rumbled in his sexy bass voice: “I’m glad to see my naughty girl and I are thinking alike about how bad she has been and how much her poor bottom will need to suffer in order to wipe the slate clean. We’ll just be sure that she’s gotten the message by giving her a double dose of each implement, so she won’t be able to sit in the car for the next few days without feeling a direct reminder of the consequences of giving in to her more primitive side...”
I moaned in genuine dismay. A double dose meant that each spanking would go on far longer than I had hoped. You see, my Daddy has a peculiar sense of irony that is most poignantly demonstrated in little quirks like what he decrees must determine a dose of corrective rear end pain when I’ve been bad. He is a big fan of irony, of all of the little ambiguities that make up the dance between dom and sub in our own strange version of that time-honored relationship. Thus, I must always volunteer for treatment that we both know I will hate (until I love it). My sexual pleasure must often be contingent on long interludes of erotic pain. And my agonizing loss of control is often contingent on an exercise of conscious will, and so on. Perhaps his favorite is to make my prescribed aliquot of punishment contingent on my orgasm.
Now I doubt that many of my faithful readers will have the rather confusing experience of being spanked to orgasm. For the vast majority of women, receiving painful attention to their bare buttocks would feel like (and undoubtedly be) abuse. Such would be the antithesis of sexual pleasure and totally inconsistent with arousal, let alone sexual climax. But there are a small minority of us (and a fair number of men too, I’ve heard) who feel quite differently. We may even achieve our greatest pleasure followed by, or even accompanying, the reception of erotic pain.
The psychology of us masochists involves a wire getting crossed between pain and pleasure. That usually happens when we are children, which is why any honest exploration of the origins of our kink can look dangerously like kiddie porn. A British psychoanalyst did a huge study of sexual fantasies, and concluded that they almost all have their roots in traumatic experiences, usually in early life. The good news for aficionados of erotic pain is that our particular perversity takes something that was in fact purely traumatic and out of control in our distant past and converts it to something in our control (at least with doms like my Daddy) and leading to the ultimate pleasure in our present. Thus, for me, every time I am spanked to orgasm, a little part of what my bitch Mother did to me is healed. Unfortunately, she did enough that many erotic punishments per day for the rest of my life might still fall short of getting the job done. But a girl could die trying...
How can you tell if you are one of us? Well, it’s not exactly rocket science. If reading about my adventures causes certain reactions between your legs (different for men and women, of course, but I’m sure you get the idea), that would be a clue. Even more so if images of painful things happening to naughty bottoms seems to accompany your own self-pleasuring activities or your go-to fantasies when you’re trying to become aroused or get off. Before I found my Daddy I don’t think I had a single orgasm either solo or with a partner that was not facilitated at least at the very end by the image of having my buttocks soundly spanked as the final fillip that could be relied upon to get me over the top.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, our heroine was about to receive her just desserts for taking unconscionable risks with her precious life and limb. Good Daddies like mine are particularly stern about such transgressions. I suspect a part of me knew this when I ‘volunteered’ for this outcome by giving in to my more aggressive self. For the rest of the day, I knew damn well that my backside was in for an especially thorough confrontation with the consequences of such lapses of good judgment. And I am both ashamed and a bit excited to admit that this thought kept the crotch of my panties in a steady state of dampness for my entire workday and ride home.
But now the time had come to pay the piper. As he led me firmly by the arm to the venue he had decided for my spanking, I was trembling as usual in my anticipatory terror of my rear end’s impending ordeal. He always hurt it the worst when his protectiveness of me was piqued. So this was not going to be a playful encounter between vulnerable buttock flesh and implacable wood and leather. Every stable BDSM couple develops their own culture around their shared passion for the administration and reception of erotic pain, and we are no exception. While there was no hard and fast rule, different venues tended to correspond to different implements and positions to be used for my spanking, varying forms of restraint, and alternatives for the sexual stimulation that my Daddy liked to combine with my punishment.
Here’s how our games tended to sort out by the place in which they were conducted. Sometimes I would be spanked right there in the foyer, which would often be the case when he found me particularly ravishable but not in need of serious corrective attention. In those cases, I would have confessed to being bad but just admit to being turned on by the thought of him all day, a circumstance he often found more than a bit touching. In that case his hard right palm might be the implement used to warm my bottom. I would be left standing naked and bent over and splayed as I always would be for his welcoming of my naked body. Daddy would kneel to my left and reach his left hand in to take my pussy in a well-practiced grip with index and middle fingers inside working my G spot as his thumb gently encircled my clit. Then his large warm right hand would spank away on my buttocks and thighs as his left milked however many orgasms out of me as he thought sufficient. If I was punished there, his preference tended to be to take me vaginally in the same position. This always felt like the sweetest, most low key of our venues and often led to an evening of gentle cuddling and basking in the mutual warmth of our love.
Sometimes I would be led to the kitchen. There my chastisement would be by one or more of the wide variety of wooden or metal culinary implements that did double duty in preparing the gourmet meals he always cooked for us. Wooden spatulas and oven shovels delivered a fierce kiss to my bottom and thighs, and wooden spoons were a particular favorite to use to spank my breasts. Of course, the metal versions of these tools could be counted on to much more painfully impact sensitive skin if I had been deemed to be particularly bad. If I was punished in the kitchen, Daddy almost always took me afterward in my ass, delighting to use butter or olive oil to lubricate my back passage so his challengingly large cock did my tender anal tissues no harm.
If his office was chosen, I could count on being spanked bent over his large hardwood desk. There I would be restrained by Velcro ties binding my wrists to the sides of his desk chair. Two leather paddles dwelt inconspicuously on brass hooks at either side of his desk, one solid and the other pierced by a hundred drilled holes. I called that one ‘the Whistler’ because of the sound it made on its journey to kiss my quivering bottom flesh. It hurt twice as much as its solid mate, because, as he explained, the holes allowed the trapped air that would otherwise cushion each spank to escape. Wooden and metal rulers also resided in his desk drawer, and could be counted on to deliver a fearsome linear swath of disciplinary pain to my ass and thighs. Usually, in his office I would receive one dose with legs unrestrained, and then would have the frightening experience of having my ankles drawn fiercely apart to be tied to eyebolts concealed beneath the desktop on either end. This position meant my inner thighs would be in for meticulous attention, which they learned to fear. In this venue, especially once my legs were separated, he liked to eat my flagrantly exposed pussy to administer the orgasms that he enjoyed using to separate the doses of my erotic punishment.
In the great room of our home, I would be escorted to one of two venues to receive my just desserts. There were two plush leather chairs in front of the fireplace, each fronted by a large firm ottoman for us to rest our feet as we enjoyed the flames. Daddy liked to have me kneel atop one of the plush footrests with my legs spread as wide as possible and my ankles hooked over its edge where a soft cord had been sewn into a crease in the leather that could be used to bind my feet in place. I would rest my breasts on the cool leather and drape my hands down on the carpet next to the far corners of the ottoman. Two more cords were conveniently sewn in place there to secure my wrists so I wouldn’t be tempted to interfere with all of the rather intense things that were then going to happen to my conveniently splayed and displayed bottom cheeks, thighs, and pussy.
The other possibility in the great room was the giant couch in the same beige leather as the armchairs. It fronted the video screen, but perhaps the most entertaining activities that took place on it transpired with my naked body bent over its back. It was low enough that my legs needed to be spread at least four feet in order to rest comfortably on the floor, where there just happened to be conveniently sited tie-downs to secure my ankles. Similar thoughtfully positioned ropes existed on the front of the couch where my wrists could be prevented from giving in to the temptation to interfere with the painful things taking place on my backside. In the living room, in a drawer in a table between the chairs there dwelt two wooden paddles, one pierced and the other solid. As well, there was a pair of straps, one a simple razor strop and the other much wider and divided into three separate strips. My Daddy explained that it was called a Scotch tawse, and had a long history of disciplining the backsides of unhappy bairns. He loves giving me little history lessons during my spankings, since such didactic activity reinforces the fiction that our interaction is educational rather than purely erotic.
If he chooses to punish me al fresco, this would happen only in the summertime when it’s warm enough to be comfortably naked outdoors. After all, as he teases, he wouldn’t want me to be subjected to any unnecessary discomforts while he is inflicting the worst imaginable pain to my most sensitive erogenous zones. If I’m escorted into our back yard, this means I am to be switched. This is a particularly un-favorite implement to be spanked with from my perspective. There is something about the horrible whooshing sound it makes going through the air before that sickening thwick as it connects with its trembling targets. These auditory preambles are followed a fraction of a second later by the sensory part of being switched. The initial lightning bolt of superficial agony always makes me scream, but a second or two later comes the second act of switch pain, which is a deep dull ache as the force of the blow filters down to the tissues underlying my skin, always making me moan. Daddy cultivates a birch thicket from which he makes me pick the implement for my spanking if I’m to be bent over the back of the porch swing.
If in our outdoor perambulations he walks me to the potting shed, then I will be switched with one of the green bamboo sticks that our gardener uses to stake up plants. He finds the quiet little hut to be quite inspiring, especially when he bends me over the sawhorse used for handyman projects and ties my wrists and ankles to its legs. That position always seems to seduce him to follow up my spanking by taking advantage of my available back passage. He enjoys lubricating his massive cock with a jar of Bag Balm kept handy on the potting bench to soothe the inevitable scrapes that come with working outdoors. Some of my best orgasms seem to come as he pumps his spend into my well-switched ass in the still, quiet air of the potting shed. There my screams of pain and both of our moans of passion can be heard only by us.
Now these are far from the only places in our home where I am punished. But the remaining ones, our bedroom, the master bathroom suite, and our special BDSM playroom, are all reserved for other specific activities not included in my routine welcome-home spankings. I am looking forward to telling you about what happens to me in those places in much more detail than the little survey above. Since I will be very wet between my legs for a very long time as I describe those incidents. But I digress yet again, as observant readers are no doubt noticing I am prone to do when lost in my driving fascination with the connection between painful things being done to my erogenous zones and unimaginable pinnacles of sexual pleasure...
So meanwhile, back at our story of how it is when I come home to my Daddy, he has informed me of the punishment my bottom must suffer to help me learn not to drive in such a risky manner. The strap and the wooden paddle were my prescription for myself, and he has thoughtfully upped the ante by letting me know that I must endure a double dose of each. His concept of a dose of corrective attention to errant buttocks (or anywhere else he deems) is worth taking some time to explain. It reflects his belief that punishment and reward, pain and pleasure, must be inextricably entwined in all of our scenes. He has literally never punished me without pleasuring me in our entire relationship. As a result of this almost daily patterning, just the thought of being spanked immediately sends my telltale pussy into a riot of engorgement and lubrication, every single time, without any exception.
So once I’m restrained for discipline, he makes arrangements to stimulate my erotic core. This starts most basically as I described for foyer spankings, with his left hand in its well-grooved grip with two fingers inside to stimulate my G spot while his thumb maddeningly encircles my clit. On the occasions when we play with one of my girlfriends from the BDSM scene, as you will see, my partner in crime will be engaged in various conformations to get me off (and vice versa, of course). But most often it’s just the two of us, and Daddy likes to have both of his hands free to use in delivering the exact sort of stimulation he desires to whatever sensitive vulnerable part of me he is targeting.
So modern technology comes to the rescue, as an ingenious little device called the WeVibe is brought into play. It is powered by a remarkably long-lasting battery, has a remote control, and consists of an innocuous looking distorted U-shaped two-inch long and one-inch-wide lump of soft plastic. The larger arm of the U spreads out like a broadened tongue and is designed to rest against the wearer’s G spot. The shorter arm is designed to abut her clitoris, and there is just enough space between and give in the plastic that the device stays in place on its own even in the most rambunctious of movements she might be stimulated to engage in. And by the way, the reason the inner arm spreads out is so it can coexist with a penis inside the wearer’s vagina. Imagine the possibilities...
So it would not be uncommon for my Daddy to greet me in the foyer with said gadget tucked into a pocket of the flowing silk drawstring pants or kimono style robe that he preferred to wear around the house. If I declared my state of wickedness as warranting a spanking, then once I was escorted to the venue for my punishment and secured into the position in which my bottom was to receive its prescribed dose of painful medicine, the Wevibe would be tucked into place. On the evening in question, my own choice of the wooden paddle and the strap dictated that I would be spanked in the living room, since that was where both of those implements resided together. The only question to be clarified before the fun could begin was whether I would receive my just desserts bent over the back of the couch or on my knees and chest on the ottoman.
Those two venues made for a very different experience for the penitent, in my rather vast experience. Doubled tightly over the ottoman, I felt like my head and its attendant awarenesses were very much in the game of what was transpiring at my opposite end. There was even a conveniently sited full-length mirror on the wall beside the ottoman, placed there to enable me to watch myself during whatever Daddy decided to do to me once I was bound in place. There is a certain intimacy in being an observer of one’s own punishment and ravishment. It allows me a fascinating possibility of dissociating somewhat from the intensity of experience of my nether regions and getting a bit lost in the visuals. I mean, they were hot, if you like that sort of thing. Think of a big muscular man with a huge erection bulging his pants fiercely spanking a beautiful naked woman who keeps rather demonstratively having orgasms while she’s being punished and then sodomized.
But this evening that I’m being so long-winded in describing Daddy elected to bend me over the couch for my spanking. His choice of this option usually indicated he was at least a little angry with me for the offense that warranted my discipline. That’s because being splayed over the back of the sofa spread my thighs quite wide, offering up their most sensitive inner aspects to be punished much more flagrantly than being tucked over the ottoman. When he secured me into position in this venue, I would be trembling in anticipation that far more than just my buttocks, so inured to painful treatment, was about to come under his fiercely friendly fire.
And as far as my head’s involvement, bent over the couch it would be as though I were blindfolded, since I could see nothing of what was going on behind me. Being spanked in this position was an exercise in closing my eyes and giving myself over totally to the sensory experiences my strict Daddy chose to administer to me. In this case, I had named the wooden paddle and strap as the weapons of ass destruction to have a long and painful conversation with my nether parts. Once he bound me with legs wide apart, I knew with a sinking sensation in my belly that I was going to be spanked with the pierced paddle and the tawse, the two most severe implements in the classes I had prescribed.
And even worse, once the Wevibe was inserted and triggered, my solemn Daddy did not briskly begin my paddling when he triggered the vibrations whose effects would end my spanking with my orgasm. Instead, he gently stroked my ass and thighs while lecturing me on how ill-advised it had been to antagonize a stranger who was already acting aggressively on the road. In this manner, he was taunting me by sensitizing the places he was soon to torment, as well as prolonging their agony once it began. This was because, as we both well knew, it takes me at least twice as long to come a second time. So when he was of a mind to spank me long and hard, he made it a point to get me off right beforehand. His lecture was a total turn-on itself since it made me feel like a rebellious teenager about to ‘get it’ from a sexy older man. Soon his delicious stroking of my ass and inner thighs combined with the vibrator to have me making my usual very undignified piggy noises of sexual culmination.
And then my spanking at last began. The pierced paddle is the worst, delivering an unforgiving sting unmitigated by the trapped air that at least partially cushions the impact of any solid paddle. He had apparently decided my buttocks were to be the primary targets of this first dose, and he attacked them with a vengeance, all the while chiding me for my poor judgment. I was soon agreeing with him quite vociferously, yelling with each blow as was my wont. All thoughts of taking my medicine with dignity worthy of a corporate overlord long since fled from my awareness. I was a bad girl being punished, and I squirmed and screamed and clenched like any other chastised miscreant. My poor bottom cheeks were brought to a terrifying heat, throbbing with each beat of my racing heart, but there was no respite for them until a hundred and fifty spanks had fallen. It always surprised me, even after more than a thousand such experiences, the sudden transition from unbearable pain to equally overwhelming pleasure as I came ten times as hard as the orgasm he’d given me less than twenty minutes earlier.
As often happened in such circumstances, my diligent punisher found himself seduced by the place he was chastising. He saw no reason to restrain himself in such cases, and I had barely finished coming when I felt his cock nosing my nether lips, gathering their moisture. Then he pushed inside, his big cock insistently sharing the space with the Wevibe. The additional stretch of my pelvic floor always seemed to trigger a different sort of arousal in me. Soon I was coming again, over and over, as his large muscular hands grabbed my throbbing ass as he drove into me. He saw no reason to prolong my fucking, and within five minutes I could feel his spend pulsing into my welcoming vagina just as I reached about my half-dozenth orgasm.
But my wonderful, terrible ordeal was only half complete. I still had a strapping coming, and my careful Daddy was not the sort of man to fail to make good on such a promise. So he pulled out of me and declared: “I’ll be lenient and not make you come again before I start your second dose of medicine, young lady. But I’m going to be particularly hard on those inner thighs, in hopes of getting the message through to you that you need to be more careful in the world.”
I moaned, both at the sad feeling my cunt always had when he withdrew his wonderful cock from it, and at the prospect of even more painful times to come for my poor backside. And soon, that forecast was coming to pass in spades. The tawse curled ideally (from his perspective) around my thighs to deliver a fearsome spank deep into every single nerve ending of that most sensitive region. I yelled and pleaded and begged and squirmed as much as I could within the tight constraints of my bondage. But my fiercest efforts failed to deter a single blow from landing exactly where it was aimed. After fifty spanks to each thigh, Daddy decided that my buttocks could use some strapping, and soon my entire backside was coming under the fearsome fire of the Scotch tawse. Each stinging blow now landed randomly, so I had barely absorbed the horrible pain of the last when another already screaming patch of tender skin was spanked. I was approaching the frantic state that he always sought before ending a chastisement, his victim reduced to blubbering chaos by the cauldron of seemingly endless pain to her most vulnerable regions. This time a full two hundred spanks reduced my thighs and ass to a throbbing mass of agony before I came like a freight train. My pleasure was directly proportionate to my pain as always seemed to be the case.
Of course my Daddy was seduced once again by the gyrations of his favorite part of me, even though he’d just roared like a lion while spending himself in my pussy. As was his wont, he preferred to take his reward for spanking me in the same place where he’d performed his labors. Knowing there was at least a fifty-fifty chance each day of me being sodomized, I administered an enema to myself each morning before showering for work. Not that he was averse to conducting that procedure himself, which he found quite sexy, always insisting on spanking me to orgasm over his lap in order to properly agitate the fluids once instilled. But if he was going to fuck me in my ass, I wanted it to be squeaky clean for the proceedings, especially since that same cock could be going (or should I say, coming) in my mouth at almost any time.
Now taking his enormous cock in my ass is far from easy. But as I hope you have realized if you’ve read this far, I’m the weird sort of girl who gets more turned on the more uncomfortably invasive a sexual act becomes. So even though I’d never come close to giving my ass to anyone before Daddy and I met, I love it when he takes my soundly spanked bottom. I was lost in my usual post-punishment and post-orgasmic narcosis when I felt his finger anointing that orifice with Vaseline. Soon his cock nosed against it, and I moaned at the impending discomfort I always experienced until my anal ring once again got used to being dilated to such a challenging degree. I always screamed on the first penetration, and he always paused once his dick head was fully inside me.
Daddy claims that initial spasming of my poor stretched sphincter is the sexiest imaginable sensation around his prepuce, and who am I to argue? It usually takes about five minutes for that part of me to accommodate its intruder, during which he holds my hips very tight and sighs periodically in pleasure as my moans of pain gradually subside. Once we’re both calm, he proceeds to drive all the way into me. Now, I don’t know how many of my readers have taken an eight-inch cock up their back passages, but I can assure you it is a challenging experience. But once you get used to it, especially if you have the weird sort of nervous system in your pelvic floor as I do that reacts very strongly to being stretched, it is the sexiest thing imaginable. I have what I call ‘rolling thunder’ orgasms while being butt-fucked by my Daddy, even if the Wevibe is not busily stimulating my cunt. And if he’s already come once in my pussy, then I’m in for a good half hour of steady sodomization. I stopped counting orgasms at ten this particular night, and the state of bliss I’d achieved when he finally roared his delight and spent himself in my well-spanked ass was second to none. Can you understand now why I’m so in love with the guy?