Sweet Girl

Author's note: This is a fictional DDlg series involving consenting partners in their thirties. CWs for the entire series include spanking, humiliation, anal play, ginger play, enema play, nipple play, pussy spanking, belting, and orgasm denial (plus lots of love along the way).

PART 4

My stomach sinks as Daddy's intent becomes clear. I try to rip my hand away but he holds it in place.

"One more squirm out of you and it's the belt," he snaps and I begin to silently cry.

"Daddy, please," I whisper as he finishes smearing a generous dollop of ginger cream onto the pad of my finger. Then he releases it, pushing it gently back down in front of me.

"Rub yourself, little girl. Give your greedy little button the attention she's been begging for, and maybe she'll start behaving so we can finish with your spanks."

I'm frozen, conflicted, genuine fear in my face as I look up at Daddy for help.

His expression softens. "Are you okay, baby? Do you need to use your special word?"

I release a shaky breath. "No, Daddy, but--"

His demeanor changes in an instant. "Then the choice is simple. Touch yourself or get the belt."

"Daddy," I cry and he moves as if he's about to make the decision for me. I shove my finger down to my button, pressing tentatively, and to my relief, he sits back in his chair. Then he grabs the egg timer from the top drawer of his table, setting it to five minutes.

As the timer begins to tick, he looks over my shoulder to check my work, tisking. "Mean it, little girl."

With a choking sob I press harder, feeling the cream slowly start to work its way into my sensitive skin.

"Keep rubbing," he warns. "Don't stop."

All my holes are spasming in pain and Daddy suddenly feels a hell of a lot harder inside me.

He wraps his arms around my tummy and guides me gently down to the floor. Then, once my face is pressed into the carpet, ass high in the air, one hand reluctantly rubbing at my tortured clitty while she shudders in pain, Daddy begins to rock--his cock sliding in and out of me--the strong sensation confusing my button. She fights for the spotlight, pulsing harder, finding pleasure in the pain like she so often does.

I release a low, guttural moan as my finger moves faster while Daddy keeps his pace in my bottom slow and steady.

"I knew it, you naughty girl," he chides. "Now I know where your greedy little button gets it. You've just been pretending to hate your Good Girl Cream so much, haven't you?"

"I hate it, Daddy!" I insist, even as my button taunts me, throbbing with a treacherous ache that says otherwise.

I'm getting close, and so is Daddy--I can feel him growing inside me, hardening, thickening. I'm afraid to tell him how close I am--afraid he'll take it away from me--but I think he knows. He always knows--sometimes even before I do.

"I wonder what else you've been lying about," he says darkly, increasing his pace, ever so slightly. "Maybe the belt? Have you been lying about how much you hate the belt, little girl?"

"No, Daddy!" I whimper, and it's not a lie! But for some reason, my holes spasm at the mere mention of it.

"I think we just need to work you up to it," Daddy says, moving faster. "Just like with your plugs. Every morning...roll over...panties down--" His words are coming out broken and breathless, thoughts of the belt clearly affecting him just as perversely as they are me. "Gentle at first...every morning...then harder...and harder--" He groans, buckling over, arms caging me on either side as he pours into me, shuddering, whispering that I'm such a perfect little girl, with such a perfect little bottom, such a perfect little kitten, such a perfect little body. Every inch of me, just perfect. Just for him.

His praise brings me right up to the edge. My whole body tightens, star clenching around his softening cock, finger moving furiously as my button stiffens, rearing back, ready to explode with pleasure--her first release in three weeks. And then the egg timer goes off, and Daddy wastes no time, grabbing my arms and pinning them roughly behind my back.

"Daddy, no!" I shriek, fighting to pull free--fighting to keep rubbing my button before I lose the impending orgasm. But I'm no match for him--and I come down from the edge quickly this time--the ginger's burn returning with a sobering, searing pain in the absence of the manual stimulation that had twisted it into pleasure. He holds me close as I struggle and--after several frustrated seconds--collapse into him with a hopeless cry.

"Daddy, I was so close," I sob, emotions racking me. "I was so, so close."

"I know, little one. I know."

He holds me until my crying stops, and I nuzzle against him, finding my head again, realizing how ridiculous I must seem to him--sobbing just because I couldn't come.

He pulls out of me, and I feel his milk drip from my crack to my thighs. He tosses a towel on the seat of his chair and walks us both back to it, pulling me gently onto his lap as he sits down--completely unphased by the mess I'm making all over his legs.

"Now little one," he says, rubbing his hands over my tummy in reassuring circles. "Three more spanks until you're my sweet girl. Are you ready?"

I drop my eyes, nodding with a sniff, and he gently pulls my legs--all the way up this time, lewdly displaying all three of my holes to the night.

He wastes no time. The first slap is so hard and so sudden that I scream, stifling it into his bicep as he cradles me.

"Your greedy little button showed me her true colors today, little girl," he says darkly as my breathing returns to normal. "And when my little girl tells me things, I listen. Don't I, baby?"

I nod, terrified to know where this is going as I lay suspended and helpless in his lap.

"But I'm greedy too, aren't I little one? And I miss seeing my little girl come, just for me. So I think I have a compromise."

I wait with bated breath, and then another slap rains down on my pussy. I scream through my clenched teeth, wiggling and spasming as he holds me down.

"Tomorrow," he says, giving my inner thigh a series of light taps. "While you're on my lap for confession time, we're going to try again."

I'm breathing hard, having a feeling I know where this is going--hoping to whatever the hell is up there that I'm wrong.

"I'm going to give you another dose of cream, and you're going to rub it on your greedy little button for five minutes, until you come."

"Daddy-y," I quietly sob but he ignores me, running a finger along my sopping kitten, as if to make sure she's still on his side.

"And if you don't come, we'll keep trying, night after night, until you do."

I writhe miserably in his lap, terribly conflicted.

"Now, are you ready for your last spank little girl? Are you ready to be my sweet girl again?"

I nod, sniffling. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl. Go grab the belt."

I suck in a sharp breath. "Daddy!"

"This one has to hurt, little one. The sooner we do this, the sooner it will be over."

I shake my head, panicking, scrambling up higher on his lap, and he wraps his arms tightly around me.

"I know you're scared, my love, but I also know you're curious. You nearly came imagining me spanking you with my belt, remember?"

"Yeah, on my bottom!"

"I know, baby. And we'll get to experiment some more with that, too. But for now we need to give you one last spank, right on your little button, to remind her to never tempt you into being a bad girl again. Can you be Daddy's brave little girl and take one last spank? Then this mean business can be over and we can snuggle all night? Doesn't that sound nice?"

My eyes flutter closed. "Yes, Daddy."

"Okay," he says, gently pushing me off his lap. "Top drawer of my dresser. Go." With a light pop on my bottom I scamper across the room to his chest of drawers, finding the belt exactly where he'd said it would be.

I hold it in my hands, soft and patinaed now because he wears it everyday. I bought it for him last fall, for his 35th birthday--I'd been masturbating to the idea of being belted for over a decade by that point and--at my shy request--Daddy was more than happy to explore it with me using his new implement. Considering how hard he just came at the thought of strapping me, I think he'd have been happy to keep exploring it, too, if I hadn't had such a negative response.

I knead at the belt, feeling its flexibility. It was stiff and sterile when I first bought it. A generic department store strip of leather. But it's Daddy's belt, now, and it's going to feel different than that first time. Better or worse, I don't know, but I'm about to find out.

I walk slowly back to him, holding the belt behind my back, and he gives me the softest smile as his eyes rove my naked body, followed by an almost shy study of my face.

Daddy has never hesitated to tell me how pretty I am--something that took me some convincing, considering I'd spent much of my life believing myself to be the definition of plain. I'd had features I considered pretty--a cute nose, long, blonde hair, full lips, petite yet curvy body--but I'd always felt they weren't arranged quite right. Like I could trick people into thinking I was beautiful from a distance, but they always learned the truth when they looked up close.

Daddy had thought this was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard when I confessed it about a year into our relationship, when we were still just Mark and Sadie. He spent the following weeks making my lie naked with him every night, while he--in mortifying detail--studied every part of me and told me what he found so beautiful about it. Then he'd make love to me, sometimes for hours, until I was reduced to trembling, sobbing orgasm on his cock, or his finger, or his tongue. And then, if neither of us were sleepy yet, he'd shoot me a mischievous smile, pin me back down, and do it all again. It was the most erotic period of our relationship. That is, until we began our current chapter.

"There's my pretty girl," he says softly now, patting his thigh--having slipped back into his sweatpants. "Up on my lap, just like before."

With a rattly breath I climb up, letting him twist me around--prying the belt from my trembling fingers in the process. He pulls me against his chest, legs wide, bent up at the knees, scooting me down until all three holes are facing up, just like before.

He strokes gently up the back of my thighs with his free hand while his other folds the belt over to shorten its length. "Do you remember the day you asked me to start punishing you, little girl?"

I'm embarrassed but shamelessly turned on by the memory. We'd been together for five years, married for a month. Sure, we did some fairly aggressive nipple play and some brisk slaps on the ass in the heat of the moment, but I'd been harboring a dirty secret since my early twenties. Since my teens, really, but the specifics of my interests had sharpened once I was on my own in the real world--once I'd spent enough time in it to understand all the lifestyles out there.

Our sex life in the first month of our marriage had been uncharacteristically dry. Mark had known something was wrong--before we'd been married, we'd had long, intense sessions at least several times a week. But I'd clammed up in that first month. He came to me with his concerns, and mentioned that over the last year, he'd noticed that I'd slowly begun to seem less and less present.

I'd hung my head with guilt because I knew exactly what he meant. What he didn't know was that, for as long as I'd been sexually active, I'd been running dark, twisted scenes in my mind during even the most innocuous sexual encounter. I had to imagine filthy things to get off. And it worked--I'd get fucked from behind and pretend it was in my ass. I'd hear my partner panting as he pounded me and I'd pretend he was calling me embarrassing names and threatening to punish me if I came. I'd give my partner a blow job and pretend I was tied down while he was punishing my mouth.

After a while, it had become exhausting to keep up the charade. Exhausting to conjure these detailed and emotionally draining scenarios everytime we had vanilla sex. But it was a cycle I couldn't escape, because I found--had known, since early on--that if I couldn't conjure the perfect filthy thought, I couldn't come.

With Mark coming to me a mere month into our marriage, expressing his sexual dissatisfaction, I felt horrible, and I knew something had to change. I tried watching more vanilla-leaning porn. I tried buying new toys. Wigs, lingerie, hotels in new cities, roleplays of the universally accepted doctor-patient, professor-school girl, boss-secretary variety. I even tentatively suggested introducing a third, who I let Mark pick--but the novelty wore off quickly. None of it made much of a difference, and I came back to the same fantasies, over and over. What I wanted was a daddy dom--to make me feel safe and treasured, but also powerless and controlled and, most importantly, punished, using my two biggest turn ons against me: embarrassment and pain.

It wasn't until I turned to an online relationship advice forum that I had any clue how to move forward. I'd typed out a long winded accounting of my situation, desperate for advice, and a kind user had responded with a suggestion I'd previously thought was out of the question.

Why don't you just tell him what you're really into? I'm not particularly kinky but if it got my girl off, I think I could get into just about anything.

I was stunned. Not only did this random internet stranger not see me as some twisted freak, he reminded me that the issue wasn't that our interests weren't compatible. The issue was I hadn't even given Mark a chance to enter my world. It was just the nudge I needed to accept what was, in retrospect, the most obvious solution to the problem. I had to tell Mark about my fantasies. I had to let him decide for himself whether it was something he was interested in exploring.

That very night, when he got home from work, I was waiting for him at the kitchen table with a box of his favorite Chicago-style pizza and a bottle of his favorite whiskey. He'd been touched by the gesture, and listened patiently to my lengthy, somewhat scattered confession. He passed no judgement--to an almost concerning degree. He didn't seem the least bit scandalized, but he did seem unsure about what to do next. He asked me a couple clarifying questions. Ate. Sipped. Thought. Another question. Sipped. Thought. It was like the slowest game of twenty questions ever played, and I was desperate to know what he was thinking--but terrified to ask. After he ran out of questions, he stood and held his arms out to me. I went to him, holding him tight, and he pressed a kiss on the top of my head.

"I'm so proud of you for telling me all this," he whispered into my hair. "I know it wasn't easy."

Looking back on it, I see now that he already had the natural makings of a daddy dom. Him holding me in his arms and giving me loving praises was nothing new. Neither was him getting annoyed when I was squirmy during movies or reminding me to pay attention when he was speaking because he knew my mind easily wandered. He naturally had a loving yet authoritative way about him. And I naturally had an anxious, hyperactive way about me. We had the foundation for the kink--but as he kissed me good night and took the rest of his whiskey into his home office, the doubt began to set in. The regret.

I began to worry about what he was thinking in there--was he wondering what the hell was wrong with me? Was he looking up local therapists? Divorce attorneys?

I'd never felt as alone as I did that night when he finally came to bed and acted like our conversation hadn't even happened. We watched some stand up comedy special, and he tucked me under his arm and let me try his whiskey. He laughed when I scrunched my nose and told him it tasted like ass. Then, at ten on the dot, he rolled over and slept, totally unbothered, all night.

I, on the other hand, tossed and turned and dreamed about horrid things like waking up to find he'd texted all our friends and family about my dirty secret. And when I finally did drift into some real sleep, waking up at eight the next morning, he was already gone.

Off to work early,

according to a text on my phone. I'd learn later that he had gone to a local coffee shop to continue the research he'd begun in his office the night before. But that morning, in the moment, I felt utterly alone and betrayed.

I called out sick to work and spent the day wondering how I could be so stupid. What was wrong with me. Convinced, without a doubt, that he would leave me.

When I finally got home--at nearly eight that night--he was waiting in the chair in the living room. The very chair that would later be moved upstairs to be his special chair.

"Where have you been?" Mark asked over a sip of the whiskey I'd bought him. He was calm, like he didn't really care one way or the other. But my emotions were running high--I was a sleep deprived, frazzled mess.

"I called out sick," I began, unable to hide the panicked edge in my voice. "And I spent the entire day wondering how, after everything I told you last night, you can just... I don't know. Act like nothing happened..."

He knitted his brows. "Nothing

did

happen--"

"I told you the most fucked up thing about me and you're just acting like everything's normal and I know you've got to be thinking terrible things. Wondering who you married. Wondering how I could be so messed up. So just tell me to my face, okay? Please, Mark. I'm freaking out."

He took another long sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving mine. Then he set his glass on the side table, sitting back in his chair, patting his leg. "Come here, little girl."

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5