Cover image photo: cottonbro from Pexels. (Thanks again, bro!)

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“I’m scared, Daddy.”

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“Scared of what?”

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“I’m scared it’ll hurt.”

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“It will, baby,” you whisper, rubbing my back with your broad, warm hand. “Spankings are meant to.”

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I’m sitting in your lap, resting my head in the crook of your neck, kissing lightly as I try to talk you out of it.

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“I won’t do it again.”

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“You sure won’t. Not after I’m done with you.”

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I pout, jutting my lower lip. “Papa…”

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“I warned you, baby.”

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Your mind’s made up, I can tell. The world’s a haze of chaos, but if there’s one thing I can rely on, it’s you spanking me for things I’ve been warned not to do.

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You got so mad this afternoon. I shouldn’t have turned up the bass in your car. You swatted my hand away, chastising and yelling that I’d blow out the speakers. I did it again immediately, of course, giggling and rebellious. I just wanted to play, Papa, but you gave me that look— the one that says I need a reminder. I’d gone too far.

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You pulled over into a mall parking lot, took the paddle from the glove compartment, and ordered me into the back seat. There, you stripped my leggings to my knees, followed by my panties. Laying 50 swats per cheek into my chubby, bouncing bottom, I was made a sorry girl. Sorry-ish? Enough to pretend I didn’t love it.

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“Daah-aah-addy! I didn’t mean to!” I wailed.

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You shook your head and clicked your tongue, tsk-tsking. “You know very well you did it on purpose.”

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You made me sit in the back seat with my butt bared for the remainder of the drive, pink skin raw on the scratchy upholstery. I crossed my arms in a huff and scowled at you. Eyeing me in the rear-view mirror, you said I’d get more swats at home and being a brat wouldn’t help my case. What a mean, mean man.

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So here we are on your sofa, trading kisses before you make me cry. You’ve grabbed the bath brush along with your black leather belt. You like the thick, mean marks it makes. I like it ‘cause you like it.

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Spanking is our ritual, more intimate than sex or gallant declarations. Not a desire, but an aching, endless, lascivious need. I melt each time you put me over your knee, drunk on the radiance of your power. All is aligned in this space between us, for the animal inside me was made to receive. To bend when you command it. To take my place on my hands and knees when you’re ready to fill me with cock. To welcome your discipline and absorb it as part of myself.

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You always start with your hands. Strong and firm, they become my world. They hold me in place, caress my skin, pull my hair, and deliver those first smarting smacks that get my attention. I fear and adore every inch of those hands. I feel them in my dreams.

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The pain stings and burns and I kick limply, whimpering and struggling against you, but you’re a patient man built to outlast my resistance. You relish, rather than shy from, the challenge of taming me to a place of quiet docility. This is our language of love.

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It’s over when you’re confident I’ve learned my lesson. Never before. Peace envelopes me as your embrace lures me back to solid ground. Papa. I think you worry sometimes that I’ll cheat out of boredom. Why would I stray when you’ve become home?

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I’m not what they all want me to be. Not easily explained. Not fit for anyone’s brand or talk show. Not quite feminist or un-feminist enough. I’m a masochist with feral, heinous desires. I like when it hurts, and I like saying no. When they shake their heads in disdain of me, I wish I could show them this perfect tranquility.

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But you assure me, Daddy, that life and love go beyond platitudes. I needn’t settle for polite sexual intercourse and cookie-cutter small talk and nights getting fat on the couch watching Netflix. It’s okay, you say, to crave fear and pain and the villain inside you.

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You see me in all the ways I’m alive. How I hope to see you in return.