Cover image photo: Hoa Luu from Pixabay

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No thank you, Papa. I don’t want patience. I want that cock.

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I’m on the floor by the table, grabbing at your jeans with my fingers. I need it I NEED IT. I wanna lap up beads of your precum like Dippin’ Dots.

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You capture my wrists in one hand.

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“NO. I just got home and I’m fucking starving. Go sit down and eat your dinner.”

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Fat chance. I’m ravenous, and not for food.

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Drooling, I giggle again and reach for your zipper. Your length stiffens and strains against the crotch of your pants, begging me to set it free and make it mine mine MINE. It’s mine, Daddy. Gimme that dick.

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You slap my hand away and point right in my face. “You do NOT have my consent.”

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A fiendish laugh bubbles from within me and I nip at your finger. “Better call the cops, Papa.”

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You wipe your mouth with your napkin and throw it on the table.

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“All right,”

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Uh oh...

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“If you can’t behave yourself,”

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I’ve done it…

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“You’re getting a spanking.”

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My smile melts into a pout, but that familiar, tingling sparkle sings to life in the tight core of my warmth. I try to play coy.

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“Daddy, why?”

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Your fingers drift to your belt and the buckle clinks open. Loop by loop, the brown leather sweeps through with a shoop.

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“‘Cause only Daddy decides when you get to have dick.”

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You take me in hand, making me kneel on the chair where you just sat, facing backward. Skirt comes up, panties come down, and you seize the hood of my clit in a firm pinch. Shocked, I squeak.

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Your voice is a low growl in my ear.

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“This needs to learn that there’s a time and a place. You can’t always have what you want.”

You release me and start running your hand over my butt, but I know what’s next.

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SMACK SMACK SMACK...

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Fuck. I wrinkle my nose and try to stay still, but you always spank me harder when you’re mad. Squirming, I grip at the back of the chair, trying not to cry out yet. Gonna make you earn that shit, Daddy.

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God, I love pissing you off.

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CRACK!

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“Owwch!”

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My bravado vanishes with a lick of the belt. Fire burns a thick line across my ass and around my hip. You’re not fucking around tonight.

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You give me 30… then 20 more across my thighs. I fight you. I lose. I sob.

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Calmly settling in to eat again, you sit me in your lap and pull me to your chest. You kiss my forehead, sip your wine, and pour me a glass too.

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“That’s better.”

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Sniffling and sorry, I stroke my fingers over the fabric of your shirt, grateful for you. My peace. My king. No one wears your bruises but me.

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You eat your dinner and feed me too. Eyelids heavy, I bathe in your smell. Whatever you want, Papa. Anytime.

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Later on the sofa, watching TV, you stroke your fingers over the marks you made, dipping in and out of my shy folds, velvety slick with my awe of you. I close my eyes and soften, taking what you give me and gasping lightly.

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Look at me, Daddy. I’m being patient.

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“That’s a good girl.”

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When you’re ready, you guide me to the floor between your legs, giving me what I wanted all along because you love me. Zoning out, I lick and slobber, messy and meditative. Hungry yet fulfilled. It’s an act of reverence. A means of respect. If you don’t stop me, I never will.