Carolyn Faulkner's Backside

A spanking blog about the intimate Ageplay and disciplinary adventures of spanking romance author Carolyn Faulkner and her Dom/husband/Daddy, Unka Bobby.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Sometimes my Daddy . . .


. . . asks me very loudly, in a store, if I need to tinkle, or if I need help tinkling.


. . . makes me wear a butt plug all afternoon, as a reminderer. It's awful hard to sit down with that big purple thing inside me, and it sure does remind me that my body is not my own.

. . . will tease my kitty for a long time, with his hands and his mouth , but won't let her sneeze.

. . . puts clothes pins on my nipples for big girl training.

. . . spanks me in the van . . . where there might be people around. Like that pond up on MDI.

. . . carries a red ping pong paddle in his kit, which goes everywhere with him. Well, actually, this is more an "always" . . . I wonder how many people wonder if he thinks a rogue ping pong game is going to break out somewhere nearby . . .

. . . takes my temperature, even when I'm feelin' fine. We have VERY separate thermometers, because *MINE* doesn't go in my mouth.

. . . gives me tail-training just before bed, then makes me go to sleep without . . . um . . . making kitty sneeze, even though tail-training . . .um . . . makes kitty *very* . . . uh . . . interested.

. . . Daddy puts nipple clamps on me then takes me out shopping.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Tendered to . . .

Several days ago, Daddy said in that low, rumbly tone of his, "We have some things to catch up on, Pipsqueak, my love."

(delicate shiver)

The shaver he uses to keep kitty clean as a whistle sat close at hand, along, of course, with the the blue nylon tending kit and the red enema bag hanging just above our heads.

Some very important things had been postponed because of work and neither of us feeling very well.


Well, no longer.

(another, less delicate shudder)

I know I frowned, because, quite honestly, sometimes I really don't want him to "tend to" me. And not for any particular reason. I wasn't sick, I wasn't hurting . . . It was just because of an innerchild's petulance.
Not that I ever have a choice, and this time was no different.

He helped me along the way, as he always does - by his mere presence, but also by the soft words of encouragement he always murmurs when we do something that I still, naturally, find embarrassing.

I know by the heat it's suffused with that my entire body is an unbecoming shade of pink as I am required to lie before him, naked, with my wings spread open.

Bound by word, if not deed, to be stripped bare and touched and probed . . .

Caught up with, in the most elemental of manners.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Hard and Fast

Usually he slips into me with exquisite care for my comfort - but thats not the way it is sometimes, when it's more urgent - more dominant and unyielding - and much less gentle.

Daddy is almost always gentle with me.


Almost.

Occasionally, though, that's not quite enough. For either of us.

The way we live - the fact that I am always - and in all ways - submissive to him - keeps me constantly on the edge of fulfillment. Sometimes I swear that all I would have to do is call to mind some of our steamier encounters - and they're all pretty steamy - and I'd be thrown into that ultimate abyss of pleasure without his ever having to touch me. But he'd probably count that as masturbation, which I'm not allowed to do without permission and him as an eager witness, and I'd get spanked for it - in front and back, as an object lesson.

Occasionally, he comes home in that rarest of moods, and I can tell from the gleam in his eye when I greet him that things aren't going to go easy as he bends me over his arm and kisses the breath out of me. Bras aren't allowed in his household and little girl panties are so easily disposed of . . . he has me nude in seconds, laying me out on my grandmother's solid oak dining room table like some lewd, all he can eat buffet, pressing himself inside me hard and fast as he gathers my legs onto his shoulders and leans into me, filling me completely . . . stretching me open . . drinking in my soft whimpers as I almost fight not to enjoy the way my body is forced to adjust to his masculine invasion, forced to a pleasure I don't want to want, but crave none the less.

But it doesn't matter how impromptu he is, how sudden his relentless demand. He knows - as I do - that whenever he decides to claim that place we both want him most to be - it will be lush and wet and ready and waiting.

Always, and in all ways.

Just for him.

What Daddy's Adult Little Girl Has Learned

What Daddy’s Adult Little Girl Has Learned (sometimes the very hard way): A Reference

. . . To back off quickly when she starts to hear Daddy using phrases like “missy”, “young lady”, and “you know better than that” in his “I’m not going to put up with this behavior” voice. If he uses her full name – first, middle, and last, it’s almost always going to be followed by “get over my lap” or “pull down your panties and bend over that couch right now!”, and is sometimes accompanied – much to the little girl’s horror – by phrases like “and bring me the paddle” or “go get your hairbrush on your way”. But the worst is seeing him start to unbuckle his belt as she’s walking towards him . . the slight jangle of the buckle is enough to send tentacles of fear up her spine and make her bottom tingle in warning.

. . . That she will be spanked every Sunday evening at six and will be tucked into bed (on her tummy, of course) with a very sore bottom by seven, clutching a crumpled Kleenex and still sobbing brokenly as Daddy rubs her back to help her slip into sleep.

. . . That she will be spanked any other time he deems it necessary to correct her behavior or attitude, but it will be a spontaneous thing, with little ritual beyond the fact that any and all spankings are delivered to her bare white bottom.

. . . That her Daddy loves her enough to be very strict, and not listen to her cries and tearful pleas for mercy. He knows that to go easy on her would be a much worse thing in the long run for her than blistering her little bottom right now, when she needs it, thus helping her to learn to be a better person. Daddy is strict and stern, but most of all, consistent. He doesn’t spank her for something then let it slip the next time. Daddy knows that his unfailing attention to her discipline is something that she craves, something she desperately needs and wants, even though she might never really admit it. It is her anchor in a constantly changing world, one of the few things, besides his rock solid love, that she can always count on.

. . . If there’s a rule about a behavior, it’s because Daddy thinks that’s what’s best for her. Daddy doesn’t make stupid, unnecessary rules to try to trick her into getting a punishment. He knows his little girl doesn’t need any help in that area, and he’s a very fair and honorable man.

. . . See heading Daddy Knows Best, which states: . . . Daddy knows best, in almost everything, and that is why he sets up important rules for his girl to follow and chores for her to do, and he’s not fond of hearing excuses about why she didn’t pay attention to them.

. . . Bad language will always result in a good hard spanking, with whatever implement happens to be handy at the time or his big callused hand, and Daddy’s definition of bad language is very broad. He also doesn’t like his sweetie to use the Lord’s name in vain, or to put herself down as she is sometimes likely to do. Even words like “hell” and “damn” and “shit” are not allowed, so she has to use “heck” and “darn” and “gosh”, like the little girl she is.

. . . That pissing Daddy off while he is bathing her is not a smart thing to do, as spankings hurt a gazillion times worse when one’s bottom (and/or one’s Daddy ) is soaking wet!

. . . That for her, there will never be an oral or “in the ear” thermometer, an aspirin pill (Daddy buys the children’s suppositories of Tylenol), or a week without an enema. Daddy is a firm believer in making sure she’s clean inside and out, even though he knows how hard it is for her to accept the enemas because she doesn’t like them. . . . She also knows that an enema is much harder to take while you’re crying over Daddy’s lap from the hairbrushing he just administered because you were arguing with him about getting an enema. . . . But he always praises her lavishly when she’s brave and takes her medicine with barely a whimper.

. . . Paychecks aren’t just for spending – Daddy gives her a very generous allowance, only part of which can she use as she pleases. Half of her allowance goes into her savings account, a quarter goes to the charity of her choice (always the area animal shelter), and she gets the rest to spend any way she wants – within reason – or to save for something bigger that she wants.

. . . Footie pajamas aren’t just for kids. Daddy found a couple of different pairs of them for adult little girls in a clothing catalogue she was going to throw away . . . His little girl loves how warm they are on cold winter nights; she just wishes the blasted things didn’t have a drop seat! How humiliating it is to be told to get ready for bed (they’re her only pajamas for winter – in summer, Daddy has her wear short little baby dolls with no undies (for easier access to her naughty bottom) and have to come back to the living room sometimes and lie over Daddy’s strong, hard legs while he undoes the flap to reveal her bare little rump – sometimes for a spanking or paddling, sometimes to take her temp if she’s been fussy, sometimes to give her a few glycerin suppositories if he’s noticed that she’s not quite regular.

. . . Little girls never tire of hearing that their Daddies are proud of them, of being complimented when they look especially nice, or when they’ve behaved in an exemplary fashion. Daddy knows how important it is, especially when his little girl gets spanked regularly at home for misbehavior, that there be a counterbalance to that – promotions at work, getting an A in a class, or sticking her neck out to learn or do something new are all cause for celebration. Daddies always like to indulge their little girls when they’ve done well, with care not to spoil them.

. . . Wooden spoons and rubber spatulas are the devil’s implements, and should never be too readily accessible in anyone’s kitchen.

. . . How to choke down oatmeal, or granola, or Wheaties or orange juice for breakfast, when none of those things are what she would ever voluntarily choose to eat. But Daddy insists she eat a good, healthy breakfast, and not just grab something at Micky D’s on her way to work, or, worse, eat a Pop Tart. Daddy says Pop Tarts are empty calories and has stopped buying
altogether, except as a special treat.


. . . That there are other things in the world to drink besides Diet Coke, like the milk he requires her to drink at breakfast and dinnertime. All of it, at least one glass, then she may have something else.

. . . That Daddy’s hand spankings hurt way too much on their own. You don’t ever want him to reach for the paddle, or your very own hairbrush that you will have to use to brush your hair out the next morning after it’s been used to set fire to your poor rump. Little girls’ eyes go wide and they blanch white as a sheet when they see their Daddy’s taking off their belts in the middle of the day.

. . . As stubborn as she could be, Daddy can always put an end to his baby’s rebellion with the hard palm of his hand (and does) or, sometimes, with even just a look from across the room that says she knows better than to behave that way.

. . . See subheading “B” – The Battle of the Broccoli*, where the little girl found out that when he said she needed to try new foods and put a disgusting clump of bushy green stuff on her plate, that he meant for her to eat at least a bite of it before she could get up from the table. A half hour later, when she was daydreaming happily in her chair, swinging her feet and trying to find animals in the stucco patterns on the ceiling, he ended her siege by tipping her over his lap and paddling her little bottom until it was a bright, shiny red, kind of like her eyes from crying.

. . . * Paragraph C: broccoli is still found under the list of foods she wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole, along with nearly every other green vegetable and any food not found in a McDonald’s value meal.

. . . That Daddy gives the best massages in the world, especially when she’s not feeling well, or has the flu and every muscle she owns hurts. Daddy is the best caretaker in the world, because he cares the most. Article III On Being a Sick Little Punkin’: Daddy’s rules require that his little one stay in bed when she’s sick with a tummy ache or the sniffles . . . or worse than that, bronchitis. He makes the best chicken soup in the world, makes sure she takes all seven days of her antibiotic, and keeps her amused (and is much less likely to spank so she can get away with just the teensiest bit more – but not much), but also makes her take long naps and rest as much as possible until she feels better.

. . . Article III, subsection B On Taking Care of Yourself While Daddy’s Away: Although Daddy will nurse her just as attentively and lovingly as always, if he feels that the reason his little girl got sick in the first place was her tendency to go out without a jacket, or that she ignored the warning signs of an impending URI until it became full-fledged pneumonia, then she will be due a spanking once she’s recovered. And Daddy has a depressingly good memory about these things, too. (Note to self: hide Daddy’s ginko . . . )

. . . Being tired and cranky, sick, or just PMS-y is no excuse to be disrespectful, to yell, or throw a tantrum. PMS may be a defense against murder in the eyes of the law, but Daddy’s law says that kind of behavior buys you a trip to the corner to stand with your hands on top of your head, panties around your knees or ankles, while you itch to rub your still throbbing bottom but know that if he catches you, you’ll get a repeat dose of what you just got, applied to an already swollen butt.

. . . Stomping your foot, slamming a door, or sticking your tongue out are NOT good ideas, although they seem that way at the time.

. . . The same goes for: answering back, muttering under your breath, and making faces behind Daddy’s back (This little girl thinks her Daddy’s from Twylo, 'cept for the fact that he hates walnuts and still has his thumbs).

. . . Daddy’s Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not whine under any circumstances.

. . . INDISPUTABLE FACT # 3: Corner time lasts FOREVER. She knows Daddy usually uses the kitchen timer and sets it for fifteen minutes, or maybe a half an hour. She can even hear it ticking on the bureau behind her. But time warps into infinity when you’re standing with your nose pressed into the corner of your bedroom, frilly panties around your ankles or bottom flap down, sticking your sore, swollen red bottom out into the middle of the room embarrassingly,
praying you can resist the urge to sneak a quick rub.


. . . Fuzzy chests with big pads of muscle are surprisingly comfortable to fall asleep on.

. . . Sitting in Daddy’s arms, on his lap (instead of being face down over it) with your head tucked beneath his chin while he rocks you quietly is one of the bestest things in the whole wide world. *Annex – Mystery of Life: How can hands that wreak such havoc on a naughty girl’s bottom be so exquisitely gentle and loving afterwards? How can a man who is as big as her Daddy be so careful of her, even when he’s spanking her? **Annex – Mystery of Life, answer: A Daddy’s love is a wondrous thing.

. . . NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER lie to your Daddy, no matter how naughty you were. . . . any further questions or concerns, see above.

. . . Daddy’s two strong arms are a refuge, a safe haven for his little girl when she’s had a bad day, when the world has been cruel to her, or when she just needs a good cry. Daddy always understands and would never turn his girl away. . . . This even holds true when she’s been naughty and will be getting a spanking in the very near future. Daddy’s arms are always open to his little girl.

. . . Daddy’s little girl shouldn’t try to hide the new clothes she bought in the back of the closet, either, because Daddy knows that old trick, darn it! . . . Sub-paragraph S: No matter how smart he is, Daddies never understand the simple economic principle of buying stuff on sale to save money.

. . . Daddies are like Santa – they know who’s been naughty or nice. Unfailingly. Unerringly. They always know. It’s another Great Mystery of Life (or not so great, depending on which end of the paddle you’re on . . .)

. . . No matter how it might look (or feel), the old adage about “this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you” is very true for Daddies. They don’t want to have to blister their little one’s bottom, especially if she was just spanked just a few hours ago, but the good ones won’t hesitate to do it if it’s earned. His little girl's sobs make a Daddy’s heart ache, because he knows she can behave better and he wants her to be the best person she can, always. He can’t settle for less with out shortchanging her.

. . . “Daddy’s little night owl” has a strict bedtime during the week – in bed by ten, lights out by eleven – because he knows her well enough to know that she would stay up all night and be late for work and cranky if he didn’t lay down the law.

. . . Cross referenced with Naptime: any time Daddy thinks his baby is fussy and/or is overtired or overstressed, he will undress her and put her in her jammies, then tuck her into bed for a nap. Daddy will pull the shades to make it dark in their bedroom, and turn up the heat, then leave the door open just enough so that he can hear her when she wakes. A smart little girl will stay where she’s put and lie there quietly, even if she’s not that tired.

. . . Seeing Daddy’s disappointed face as he walks toward her with the mean old paddle in his hand is almost as bad as the paddling itself. Little girls hate to let their daddies down.

. . . Scoldings and stern lectures are an important part of any punishment but muttering them under your breath along with him is not a very good idea.

. . . When it’s over, it’s over. From that first warning look, to the scolding that has her in tears before he’s even touched her, through the lecture and the spanking or strapping or paddling, to the interminable corner time afterwards to consider her sins – once she hears Daddy’s voice calling her into his loving embrace, she knows she is forgiven, becauseDaddy knows how important that is to his little girl. Forever, always, completely forgiven. Daddy never holds a grudge no matter what she’s done, and will never bring the incident up again, unless she is disobedient in the same way again.

. . . see also: Making the Same Mistake Twice. Daddies don’t like to repeat themselves (talking or spanking) – for some strange reason, it makes them think that they don’t have their little darling’s complete attention, or worse than that, even, she is being deliberately defiant.

. . . Don’t ever make Daddy call you over to him more than once, even if he’s already unbuckling his belt . And little girls don’t even want to THINK about making him come get you, or making him hunt for you because you’ve run and hid from him in the back of the closet. Surrender as gracefully as possible, and remember: this is your Daddy and he loves you, no matter how many welts and weals he raises on your bottom.


. . . see also: Comforting After the Punishment Daddy recognizes that the holding and cuddling and butterfly kisses while she’s still sobbing and trying to get her breathing under control afterwards are almost as important as the actual spanking itself. His little one needs to know that he still loves her, needs the reassurance of being held close against him, of having her tears dried and her back rubbed slowly, as if he’s cuddling the most precious thing he has in his arms. And he is.

. . . A Daddy’s love isn’t just for the moment or for a few days, or only when his angel is behaving or when she looks her absolute best. A Daddy’s love is forever - even when she’s been sick and has a terminal case of bedhead and a nose as red as her bottom usually is - and there’s nothing his little girl can do to stop him from loving and thus disciplining her. Nothing she could do would make him stop loving her, and his love is THE BESTEST THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Anniversary spanking, anyone?

My Daddy and I had our first anniversary on Sunday. We're going to a very special, pretty posh place to celebrate (a bit later in the month due to business and health considerations), and while he was holding me tight in his arms on that special day, he whispered something into my ear:

"When we get there, I'm going to spank you in our suite. Just because I can."

It made me shudder. In a good way. Sort of.

Daddy rarely spanks me just because. I'm not a brat (although there are some that would definitely disagree with that statement . . . :) ) and I don't do bratty things to get attention, because I get more than enough of it as it is - almost all positive. I'm counting the spankings as negative because they friggin' hurt, although they should really be counted in both categories.

But beyond being his grown up little girl, I'm also his sub (and his domestically disciplined wife), and if that's what he wants to do, then I will submit.

It's the submitting that makes me shudder. Not the spanking. Just like it's the remembering that makes me wet, not the spanking.

Punishment spankings - which are the only type I get - hurt. There's no way around it.

But the memories . . . of being tugged over his lap. Of having to lie there while he hitches his fingers under my panties, having already given me several rounds of "warm up" swats that feel a helluva lot more like good old fashioned hard smacks than any kind of toned down precursor . . . until he begins the "real" spanking . . .


Those are the lusty gold of this type of relationship, for us. It's in the intent, and consistency, and the history of all of the time we've spent together in such intimate situations, sharing that butterflies-in-my-tummy knowledge that he can - and will - spank me any time he wants to.

YUM.

I hope the rooms are well-insulated . . .

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Squishing

Several nights ago, my Daddy and I were cuddling in bed, in the wee hours of the evening, and he rolled over to get something out of the tending bag he keeps next to him, almost at all times (even when we’re traveling in the van, he always has what he calls his “portable tending kit” readily at hand – and it contains the most embarrassing of things! Rectal thermometers, a slick jelly for lubricating it, gloves for more intimate inspections . . . all manner of awful stuff!).

He produced a tube of lube, and squeezed some out onto my finger, saying in a soft but nonetheless firm tone, “I want you to make kitty sneeze, baby.”

Now, this is his gentle, Daddyish way of telling me that he wants me to masturbate in front of him. Just the thought of it is enough to make me clench right now, where I sit. The idea of having no control over decisions as basic as when, where, and how I reach my own sexual pleasure is unbearably exciting to me. As the fact that he can tenderly order me to do something so intimate while he watches – especially since he has the power to limit the length of time I have to reach my . . . uh . . . goal by flipping me over and spank my bottom if I don’t comply within that time frame.

Which he’s done. But only once.

Once was much more than enough, believe me!

I’ll never forget it – we were playing in bed one morning, and things became sexual, and he was loving me with his mouth. I’m not allowed to come without his permission, so I have to tread a very fine line between being incredibly stimulated on one hand - with his lips and tongue and fingers doing their best to make me writhe and ache - and having to recite multiplication tables in my head to keep from succumbing to all of that stimulation. And sometimes, when he says I can finally burst with all of the incredible feelings he’s conjured, I’ve stuffed it down so much that it doesn’t come back instantaneously.

Oh, it’s always right there, and it’s not as if I’m not incredibly excited – I am! And that was the problem, up to that point. I’d had to tuck it away, almost put it to the back of my mind so that I didn’t end up getting a punishment for coming when I wasn’t supposed to.

So when he’d told me that I could squish that morning, I’d crammed my culmination too far away, and he’d kept warning me that, if I didn’t come, he’d flip me over and paddle my bottom. And eventually, he decided that he’d waited quite long enough for me to do as I was told.
And I learned – yet again – that he was as good as his word.

One of our (many) implements is an oval-headed wooden bath brush, with a relatively short handle – as bath brushes go. It’s maybe eighteen inches long, or so. That thing is evil incarnate. I had never felt such awful thuds against my poor butt!! It was one of those punishments where – at the first stroke - you involuntarily draw in a toes-deep breath, and you don’t expel it until, say, twelve hefty swats later, when you’re beginning to seriously reconsider the lifestyle you’ve chosen, and counting how many fluffy pillows you own, wondering if they’ll be enough to let you sit down ever again.

He’s never done that to me again, but then, he doesn’t need to. He’s already more than proven his point.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Remindered

(sitting very gingerly this morning, even in my plush recliner)

Last night’s spanking was for one small thing and one bigger one. The small thing was that I didn't put the strainer thingie in the sink drain that leads to our garbage disposal, which we've already had problems with foreign objects ending up in, so Daddy bought the strainer thingie to prevent it.

Only I forgot to put it in. For some strange reason, it doesn’t work if you don’t use it. Fancy that. But it annoys me, because it catches all sorts of grody stuff and I hate dealing with that kind of thing. I have to get a fork to pick it out of the drain . . . ugh. It's just gross.

But I guess I better get over it, because I don’t want another spanking like the one I got.

The second thing was much bigger. When we played Tripoli with our friends last weekend (and Daddy won BIG), I was sitting next to my sister and, of course, we were bugging each other (despite the fact that I’m 42 and she’s 52; some things will never change) while we were waiting for the cards to be dealt. She was flicking my arm with her finger, and it hurt, so I did it back to her. I heard Daddy saying in that warning tone of his “Pipsqueak . . . ” and . . . well . . I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t imagine that he really wanted me to stop doing something that comes so naturally to me. Not even when he did it again, saying “Pipsqueak, stop that.”

So, oblivious me just smiled at him and continued to flick, poke, and smack my sister until whoever was finished dealing.

Daddy says I forgot who I was, and how old I was, and that, regardless of who we’re with or what we’re doing, that when he tells me to do something – or not to do something - I’m to say, “Yes, Sir,” and obey him.

And he’s right.

I just . . . I’m not the type to be openly defiant. I guess I just wasn’t thinking, and I know that’s not right.

So I got what I deserved last night, and boy did it hurt! I knew it was going to be very bad when he had me close the bedroom door, then, before I could come back to our bed, he told me to get my blue paddle out of my underwear drawer .

As always, he cuddled me before hand, and whispered into my ear why I was being punished, making sure that I understood that he wasn’t at all mad at me, but that these were things he couldn’t – wouldn’t – just let slide.

He made sure he had everything either of us would need laid out on a towel to my left, where my head is always turned towards him, except he always holds my inhaler himself, so it doesn’t get lost in the energetic shuffle that is me, trying to avoid his God-awful swats. But there’s also a lot of Kleenex available always and a scrunchie for my hair . . .

As well as whatever implements he’s going to use . . .

He lectures before, during, and after, although he never, ever raises his voice. I don’t think he’s ever raised his voice to me in the three years we’ve been together. He lectures in between swats, too.

This time, he spanked me a lot over my blue panties with the pink hearts – not that they were any help at all. My bottom was well and truly roasted long before he slipped his fingers under their waistband and tugged them down to my knees.

By the time he reached for the paddle, which I had to watch him do through tear filled eyes, my butt was already throbbing horribly, and he’d had to throw his leg and four or so arms over my own legs, because they were definitely trying (with only a modicum of success) to interfere.

When he spanks me, I am completely regressed. I am nothing more than what he wants me to be – a well punished little girl in a woman’s body, kicking and screaming and crying and begging. The transformation has always amazed me. I don’t even think about my reactions. Frankly, I can’t. They’re just about as pure as they’re ever going to get when I’m lying over his lap . . . or in a couple of other positions that have nothing to do with spanking . . .

He spanks so hard, and I cry so much that it often induces an asthma attack, which he is very mindful of. This one wasn’t quite that bad. The problem is that that the first thing I need to do after a punishment is sit on my butt and use my inhaler!!! YEOW!!!

Daddy held me for a very long time afterwards, making sure I was okay, rocking and stroking me and helping me calm down. I fell asleep in his arms, my bottom still aglow, but nowhere near as much as my heart.

I love you, Daddy.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Peekin' in my drawers


My underwear drawer is full of things other than undies . . .
things like a depressingly solid blue plastic cutting board that my
Daddy/husband decorated one side of for me.
And the remains of a surgically dissected, thick leather belt that he cut down to “just the right size" for reddening my poor vulnerable rear.

Is it any wonder I don’t keep my undies there any more? I hate to be
sent there, and I always am. He could, you know, just as easily keep
all those things in his own dam – darned drawers, instead of sending me
for them all the time. But he knows I know that once I’ve given them
to him I’m going to be face down, bare-bottom-up over his lap,
screaming and crying and wailing and trying desperately to twist out of
his hold while he spanks every inch of my derriere and down the backs
of my legs. I swear that man’s hand is made of pure redwood!

And there's a method to his madness that I don't like to consider any
too closely.

The whole house is full of reminders of the way we live: the cane (and
a big red enema bag, but we won't talk about that now) perches
ominously above our bed, or rather it did until it fell down behind the
bed. By accident, of course . . . (batting my eyelashes innocently) The
dining room table has been christened with copious salty tears on more
than one occasion, as have the kitchen counters. And that’s not even
taking the van into consideration!

And what well-equipped kitchen doesn’t harbor myriad double entendre
utensils that are outwardly so vanilla as to be considered boring –
wooden spoons, rubber spatulas – but which, in the right hands (or
wrong hands, depending on who’s doing the receiving) can ensure good
behavior from the most recalcitrant of submissives – innerkid, slave,
and/or disobedient wife?
(shuddering, thinking there are alot of things I need to make "disappear" when we move the next time we move . . . )

Carolyn "Pipsqueak" Faulkner