pussy spanking – Not A Real Doctor

He could tell as soon as he walked in the door, the way she blushed and darted her eyes around, toe of one shoe twisting on the floor.

He didn’t ask at first. He took his time, removing his jacket and hanging it up, setting his briefcase on the table, unlacing his shoes. He let the silence lengthen. He let it build until she had to break it herself.

“Daddy?”

He didn’t look up at her yet. “Yes, little one.”

“I have to tell—um, did you have a good day at work?” She caught herself, remembering the protocol.

“It was fine, thank you for asking. And how was your day here?”

“Kinda boring. Um. Daddy.” She took a deep breath.

He pushed a chair out from the table. “Stand here,” he said quietly. “Hands on the back. Good posture. There’s my girl.”

She was shaking a little as she assumed her position. He stood and began to pull her clothes off, calmly, treating her as he would an easily-panicked animal. “Now,” he said, “your confession.”

“I played with your toys today, Daddy,” it tumbled out in a rush. “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry. I know I wasn’t allowed to. But I did almost all my chores, and I was so good, I was waiting for you, but I just got so bored, and then—”

He had her down to her underwear and socks now; he unsnapped her bra and gently tugged it off her shoulders. His hand drifted up her belly to stroke the underside of her breast. “These toys?” he said.

She bit her lip, trembling, and nodded. “And others. Daddy.”

“It’s not your fault, Princess,” he explained, his mouth close to her ear, making her whole body tingle. “My toys should have known better than to help you break the rules. So I have to punish all the toys that you touched. I have to remind them why they don’t disobey Daddy. You understand, don’t you, little one?”

“B-but Daddy, I–I mean they tried so hard, I—”

“Little one,” he murmured, a little growl in his voice, “you’re going to drop your panties to the floor now. You’re going to carry them to your room—in your mouth—and put them in your dirty girl laundry, and come back with the soft cuffs you keep in your special drawer. And then we’re going to play a little game with my toys together. Say, how long that pretty little bottom can keep from lifting off this chair.”

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from going squeaky. “Yes, Daddy!”

“GOOD girl,” he chuckled. “I promise, tomorrow, you’ll all be MUCH better behaved.”

I had a weird thought tonight that I’m trying to work out. It’s like this: I’m not a sadist, not really. I like control during sex, both self-control and control of you, but I don’t have the instinctive, immediate urge to express that through pain. When I do try it, I am usually overcome with concern that I’m doing it wrong, or overdoing it, or will cause actual injury due to inexperience or misjudgment.

Yet I like to watch women being hurt, in certain ways, to some degree. It gets me off. I’ve always tried to reconcile that as “some things are just more fun in imagination,” which is true, but isn’t quite it.

My current hypothesis is that part of my brain wants the fantasy, the novelty, the variety of the tumblr pornstream of faces and bodies.

And another part, almost as strongly, wants to punish them for not being you.

artisticsub:

thesimplestpleasure:

I blush just thinking about this. It’s the examining that gets to me, I think. The closeness, the intimacy, the inspection – the fact that this is a man merely looking at what he owns and doing with it as he sees fit. The fact that I damn well better sit still no matter what his fingertips do because he expects me to be good and let him explore.

So. Mean.

Every inch of you, smooth as velvet, groomed just as he instructed. Your pose picture perfect, legs apart for him, wrists crossed behind your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The slow, calm, methodical humiliation of your naked vulva.

He’s had to wipe you down several times, using the wadded wreck of your own panties to sop up your wetness as the heavy clamp stand keeps the Hitachi in place against you. There’s a dimmer switch on it, of course–you can’t decide whether that’s for kindness or cruelty–which he adjusts occasionally, always a microsecond before you think you’re about to go over the edge. Or lose it.

He likes to keep you here, almost delirious with need, where he can watch you pulse and throb under the gentle brush of his probing finger. It’s almost dissociative. It reminds you that the cunt in question just happens to be attached to you: his property in your helpless, trembling body, to be tested and explored at his leisure. To be subject to pleasure or punishment in precise increments. To come, or not to come, only when he decides as much.

Of course, realistically, you know this is the easy part. Eventually he’s going to get bored and spin that dimmer all the way up. He’s going to paddle that pussy with his hand until it splashes, as is his usual manner. And he’s going to wait for you to start begging, between squeals and gasps, for your orgasm.

Then he’s going to turn on the camera and make you repeat yourself.

You think you’re blushing now?