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'The term Zero Waste refers to waste management strategies that avoid sending garbage to landfills or incinerators. Reusable resources are recycled while…’

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Ugh. God. Fuck. FUCK.

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‘...biodegradable materials are composted and used for fertilizer. At home, sorting and sending off trash…’

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No. No more. I can’t. Not one more second of this. I CAN’T.

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“I can’t FUCKING do this anymore!”

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You walk over from the kitchen after hearing me slam my laptop shut. Leaning against the door frame, you cross your arms and raise your eyebrows.

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“Is that any way to talk to your Daddy, young lady?”

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I’m fuming, breathing fire like a tiny dragon, lump rising in my throat. My lower lip quivers because I’m wrong. I shouldn’t be mad at you. You’re trying to help me.

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I shoot you daggers and you wait, giving me a chance to redeem myself. I don’t take it. I drop my gaze and sneer instead.

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Footsteps. You leave the room. I know where you’re going.

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Shit.

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I asked you for this. We both know I’m a horrible procrastinator. If I don’t make this deadline tonight, I could lose this client and fuck up my own career out of sheer, pathetic laziness.

 

Somehow, that’s not enough motivation. The urge to chat with my friends or dick around online is all-consuming. Anything, ANYTHING but work.

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But you’ve shut off the WiFi. Took my phone. Hid the remote. No Netflix for me. No anything until I get this done. I’m so disgustingly restless and bored, trapped inside my body, ready to tear my own skin off. I hate myself. Why can’t I get my shit together?

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I turn my head as you stroll back into the room, round wooden paddle dangling from your fingers. That mean thing. Of course you’d choose it.

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My heart beats out of my chest and I stand as you approach, backing away and balling my fists, shaking my head like you’re some sort of enemy.

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You come to a stop a few feet away, looking down at me, calm and controlled as ever. Placid.

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“Shall we start with 40?”

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“NO!” I shout, aiming to wound you with my fury. The tears brim and spill over, bringing all the ugliness in my soul out along with them.

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You observe, immovable. You don’t even take it personally.

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“Fifty, then.”

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Squeezing my eyes shut, I screech through clenched teeth and sink to the floor on drama-queen mode.

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“Sixty. Want to keep going?” A smirk quirks your lips. “I can do this all day.”

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A full-on meltdown overtakes me. I writhe and wail and whine like a child, pressing my face into my forearms and yanking at my hair in exasperation. How fucking embarrassing. I love you so much. Why do you put up with me?

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Towering from above, you shake your head, pressing your tongue against your cheek to stifle a laugh while I carry on.

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“My goodness.”

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Something snaps in my gut and I roll over, making my way toward the front door. I gotta get out of here, away from you, away from all the problems I create for myself. Not sure where I’ll go. Doesn’t matter. Leave. Escape.

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I reach for the handle and your low voice cuts through all the noise in my head.

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“Think very carefully about what you’re doing, honey.”

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I stop short, pausing, breathing rapidly through my nose.

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“You walk out that door and this’ll get a whole lot worse.”

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You’re right. I’ll just waste more time and insult you more than I already have. Submission is part of discipline. I’m supposed to trust your judgment. If I can’t afford you that, why even call you Daddy? I wouldn’t deserve your guidance. Maybe I don’t.

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I’m being an asshole.

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I turn as you go to sit on the sofa, setting the paddle aside and clasping your hands in your lap. Weeping, I stand there and waver. I want you to do the work for me. Grab me and get rough and yank me over your knee by force, but you won’t. You’re not violent. You love me.

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You shrug sympathetically, regarding my struggle.

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“I’ve got all the time in the world tonight, honey, but you don’t. I’d like to nip this in the bud. It’s clearly become a problem.”

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I don’t want to fight you or talk about this. Holding steady with your gaze, I start to drift sideways toward my laptop on the floor.

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“Okay…” I tell you, shaky and meek. “I’ll work. I’ll get it done.”

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“You certainly will, right after I spank you.”

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My stomach’s on fire. What a mess I’ve made. “... I’m sorry.”

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“It’s too late.” You hold firm, beckoning. “Come here.”

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I’m defeated, all out of options. Shuffling toward you in tears, I finally give into the fate I unquestionably deserve.

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Nodding slowly, you watch, eyeing my capitulation. “There we go.”

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This is the worst.

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Your large hands settle around my hips and you hook your thumbs into the elastic waist of my sweatpants, which you make me wear when I’m at home. Or dresses. Or nothing. Whatever makes spanking me easier for you.

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You slide them to my thighs but are nice enough to leave my panties on, for now. Gently taking me by the wrist, you guide me down over your knee and adjust until I’m settled in place for you.

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My hand reaches back in search of yours and I’m awash with relief as you encircle my wrist, holding it at my lower back to keep me from interfering. You’re here with me, connected. Not even angry. I wish you would be. I deserve cruelty after that display.

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Firm and sharp, the first swats land one after the other, but it’s your hand. Again, you’re being nice, providing a warm-up I don’t want or deserve. I want you to beat my ass, but I’m not in charge and that’s the point. You decide how I’m punished. What I need.

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Miserable, I pout and whimper into the upholstery, resisting the urge to ask for it harder. It hurts, but not as badly as the barbed wire coiling in my chest. I’m a bad girl.

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Finally you pause and pull at my cotton panties, peeling them down over my hot skin with so much tenderness that I lift my hips, offering myself further. I turn my head and rest my cheek on the sofa to get you in my peripheral vision.

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Your left hand releases my wrist to interlace with my fingers with a delicate squeeze at the small of my back. The other smooths in a circle over my ass.

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“I want you to calm down,” you whisper. “Okay?”

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I nod quickly, taking in a ragged breath and setting it free in a long, slow stream. The silence of our house seeps in around me. It’s so quiet. So still. This is our home. I’m safe here with you. Why did I get so upset?

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Your hand leaves my butt to reach for the paddle.

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“Sixty.”

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The blows are hard and slow. Steady. Like drops of water falling from a leaky faucet. There’s a moment in between to focus on each, one at a time, and absorb the lesson. The pain is exacting, commanding my attention, and the fragments of thoughts that don’t matter fade away. That’s what I need.

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Halfway through I’m sobbing, squeezing your hand desperately, overwhelmed by how perfect you are. You knew. You always do.

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When you’re done I push myself up to burrow against your neck and cry.

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“I feel so stupid. I’m so sorry.”

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You smile and I hear it warming your voice. “It’s okay.”

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The torrent of tears becomes a stream… then a trickle… then it’s gone. You wait, kissing my forehead, holding me in your arms, and caressing my swollen, purpled cheeks.

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“Shhhhh…”

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Eventually it’s time to face up and show you I’ve learned something. You sit me on the floor between your legs, lift the screen of my computer, and stroke my arm gently as I confront my task, resigning myself. Right. This is my life. Time to be a goddamn adult.

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“I hate working.”

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“I know.” You kiss behind my ear. “Daddy hates working too.”

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With a few pats to my hip, you’re up and off, back to the kitchen. Sighing, I dive in and my fingers clack along the keyboard, writing one word after the other, like footsteps in sand. On we go.