Tears, a Story

“I’ve been a bad girl, Daddy.” This isn’t a role I have played before, and I am a little uncertain of the rules, of myself. But being unsure of myself, feeling needy and insecure, has brought me here. I know what I need, I know what I want. I’m just not sure how to get it.
He looks over at me. He had a little girl once. He told me how powerful the relationship was for him, the meting out of punishment, or reward. Tonight, I want punishment.
I am standing in the doorway, dressed in a short plaid skirt and white blouse, white knee-socks, patten leather Mary Janes. My hair is in two ponytails, curling at my ears. Cliche, I think, he’ll laugh…
But he gives me a long look, head-to-toe. Slowly, he lowers the book he is reading. “Maybe you should come here and tell me what you did,” he says.
I step over to his side hesitantly. What do I say? What would be “bad girl” behavior? “I…I pulled down my panties and showed a boy my privates, Daddy,” I say. And suddenly a memory floods me, of being that girl, and doing just that, behind a bush. The heat and embarrassment I feel is suddenly not put-on.
He looks very stern. “Oh Jenna,” he says, “that is very, very bad.”
“I know, Daddy,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“You know sorry isn’t good enough, don’t you Jenna? We have to atone for our bad behavior.” He reaches one hand up and lifts my chin, looks me in the eyes. “What else did you do?”
I know I am blushing scarlet now, can feel the heat in my ears. Tears gather in my eyes. “I didn’t mean to, Daddy! I didn’t want to, but those boys–”
“Boys? Was there more than one?!”
I swallow. “Yes, Daddy. There were three. They said…they said if I showed them mine they’d show me theirs.”
He raises his eyebrows. “And did they?”
“Yes, Daddy, they did.” I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips.
He frowns. “You find that amusing, Jenna?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Because…because I liked showing them my privates, Daddy. I didn’t care if they showed me theirs.”
He smiles, and shakes his head. “I think I need to teach you a lesson, little girl.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I say.
He takes me by the hand and pulls me down, over his knee. Gently he pushes my skirt up to my waist. I am wearing white frilly panties. He can’t stifle a huff of laughter. “You really, really want this, don’t you?” he says.
I twist around on his lap and look over my shoulder at him. “Yes,” I say. “Please, please punish me, Daddy.”
“You realize that once I start, I am not going to stop until I believe you have learned your lesson, don’t you? I am not going to stop until I am satisfied.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, my voice a husky whisper. He nods and pushes my head down.
“Stay still,” he commands. “If you move, I’ll have to start over.”
“Yes Daddy,” I say again.
And then he starts. These are not the warm-up slaps that he usually starts with. The first one is hard, and deep, and drives my breath from me in a surprised “oof.” But he doesn’t let me catch my breath. He hits me again, and again, and again. Over and over his hand comes down, harder than I have ever felt, from my thighs to the roundness of my cheeks and back down again, until I am gasping, squirming, putting my feet up and hands back to cover my ass involuntarily.
“Jenna!” he says sternly, stopping suddenly.
“Ye-e-s,” I gasp.
“You’re moving. I have to start over now.”
“No!” I say, pulling away instinctively.
He clamps down on me, holds me down with his arm. Immovable. “Yes,” he says.
He lets me get my breath, and then, when I still myself, he starts again. This time I already warmed up, so it’s not quite the shock, but soon his blows grow intense again, and I can’t keep myself still, I know I will move, but I try, I try to stay still…
I am gasping, I can’t take it anymore, I start begging, pleading as the blows rain down. But not crying. Not crying, because I am still fighting. And he doesn’t stop.
I have never cried when we have scened. I have been broken, I have begged, I have pleaded, but I have never cried. I want that release now, and I know that only this will bring me there, because this is so much more than just a scene, this is memory. Memory pulled out of me, ripped out of me.
And suddenly…suddenly I am there. I surrender. Not to him, but to myself. I give in, and inside me something breaks, and I begin to cry. The blows slow, and then stop, and gently he lifts me up and turns me, cradles me against his chest. I continue for a while more, great gulping sobs, as though my heart was breaking, instead of what it is really doing, which is healing.

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