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.