Fantasy

Before Daddy and I moved in together, we often wrote back and forth to each other. One day, he asked me to make a list of some of my darker fantasies for him. I am working on another post right now but decided to share this while it's in progress.



1. You've got my back against the wall and are right up in my face and I laugh at you, which infuriates you and you slap me several times. My eyes well up and you laugh at me, grabbing my arm and twisting it up behind my back. (Note: my arms are double-jointed so you can pretty much put them how you want them.) You throw me on the bed, face-down, yank my pants off, and poise yourself to fuck me with your cock...and stop with the head juuuust inside me. You growl in my ear until I begin thrusting my hips up against you, trying to get you inside me, but you maddeningly remain still. You wait until I'm crying and begging for you to fill me, and instead you roll me over and make me suck you off. And then we go to sleep.

2. You make me kneel on a chair before you, facing the back of it, and you stand just up against me with one arm across my neck and the front of my shoulders. Holding me tightly, you tell me not to move, not even to twitch, and not to make the slightest sound. Then you begin to cut me like you did the last time we were together, only this time there are many, many more. I remain still but whimper inadvertently as my wetness runs down my thighs. This infuriates you: you gag me, throw me over your lap and spank me. No matter how hard I cry into the gag, my pleas never make it to your ears.

3. We are at a club and I am naked from the waist up. You are fully clothed, all in black, and you are binding me to a cross, my back to you. I have the impression of people gathering to watch us, and you smile cruelly at me as my eyes widen -- I prefer our scenes to be between us, but that doesn't matter. You tell me I may scream but I may not speak, and I nod. Then, after what seems like hours, you begin to whip my back and shoulders, starting with something not TOO horrible, but ending with a signal whip that makes me bleed. I cry and scream...but I don't speak, and you tell me you are proud of me as you take me down and hold me in your lap until the world comes back into focus.

4. We are in a strange house and I have done *something* that makes you furious, much more cruel than usual. Something in your eyes brings out the fear in me -- terror, really -- and I drop what I'm doing and run. I don't know where I'm going and I can feel you just behind me, so I drop to the floor and try to hide in a convenient closet. The door is partially open; I hear your footsteps pause as you pass the room I'm in. I'm going to be caught, I know it, and I curl myself into a ball and hide my face in my arms. But you throw the door open, grab me by my hair, and haul me out to the living room with me fighting you every step of the way. You throw me into the middle of the room on the floor; I regain my feet only to find you with a knife strapped to your belt and a predatory look in your eyes. I run again but it's futile; you corner me easily. You are shouting at me, calling me all kinds of names, I am slapping at you and in a frenzy of panic -- and you grab me by the throat and pin me against the wall. I can't breathe, I can barely see...and I lift one hand to my lips, kiss it, and place it on your lips because suddenly I am so turned on I think I may die. You use my throat to force me to my knees and slice my clothes from me. Then you run the tip of the blade over my body -- my cheeks, my lips, my throat, down to my nipples, over my belly, down my thighs and between them, prodding my clit, and then you shove me onto my back and roughly spread my legs. I am perfectly still when you trace my lips with the knife, and when you stop at my cunt, you take my chin in your hand and force me to look at you. I have no idea whether or not you'll actually do it, and a wild part of me wishes that you would.

5. You are fucking me and choking me at the same time, so much so that the room is black around the edges and I feel as if I'm on another plane of reality.

6. You play-pierce my back, corset-style, and lace me up. I shiver the entire time but you don't seem to mind.

7. This one is simple: put me in a corset (a real one) for the first time and lace me into it. Be rough.

8. We go to dinner and you don't give me a single choice about anything: where we go, when we go, what I eat, what I drink. We go out dancing and you make every decision there, too, up to and including deciding when we are going to go fuck in the back and how many times I am going to make you come. And wherever we go, you lead me by the wrist.

9. You leave me unrestrained and whip me until I collapse from sheer exhaustion. Then you punish me anyway for moving without permission.

10. This one makes me feel guilty because it's so selfish: we go away together for a weekend and you decide that I am finally going to come for you. So you spend the entire day teasing me while we're out, talking to me cruelly, telling me that if I don't come I am being especially bad, making it into something that I need to do for you, for us. You stroke my nipples and my lips through my clothes in public, but never touch my clit. Later, when we're alone again, you spank me with your hand and with your belt, and finally I manage to come with your hands bruising my hips as you bite my clit and I sob in agony. (and who knows if that would do it...but in my fantasy, it does.)

11. We are at a secluded cabin in a forest -- the kind with beams in the ceiling. You throw a length of rope over one of them and tie my wrists to it, pulling me up onto my toes. Then you whip me until you're exhausted: my back, my ass, my thighs, my stomach, my breasts, all over until I am a mass of welts. Then you let me down and I kneel before you, my entire body pulsing with agony, and fuck you with my fingers and tongue until we both pass out.

I could go on forever. These are just the first few I thought of...

Why I Hate Drumsticks

There are twin bruises on my ass, disc-shaped, one at the apex of each cheek. They are a rich, dark purple, and the flesh beneath each is slightly swollen. My Daddy gave them to me, and though I take pride in them now, I hated their making. And I also loved it, and this, for me, is the dichotomy of what we do.

Daddy is a drummer, and one day, when I had been especially petulant with him (I admit that I do this far more often than I should; it's one of the best ways to get his full attention), he stripped me and stood me before his drummer's stool. "Stay still," he said, his hands cradling my hips as he faced me away from him and took his seat. He cued up a playlist and I winced, guessing at what was to come.

He began tapping out the rhythm of the music on his thighs with his drumsticks and I wrapped my arms around my belly and breasts, shivering away from the expected blows. But they did not fall; the music swelled and I closed my eyes, the better to hear what he was doing. When I let my guard down just a little, just enough to shift my stance slightly...that's when he hit me.

It was just one drumstick per cheek and it doesn't sound like it would hurt much, or possibly even at all, but my Daddy has a heavy hand, and he takes his drumming very seriously. This means that every beat is tightly controlled, from the speed at which the stick strikes the surface on which he is drumming (in this case, me) to the precise spot upon which the stick lands. It's always the same spot, you see, and the stick always lands with a certain oomph which, over time, becomes annoying, then painful, then unbearable. And he didn't begin with lighter blows -- no, he warmed up on his own legs -- so after five or six strokes I was already biting back sobs and trying not to twist out of his way. (I failed in this; I always fail in this.)

I am not at my best with real pain or even with extreme discomfort. I cry, I whine, I protest, I don't take it gracefully. I fight it, and I fight him. I'm trying to learn to control these impulses but the truth is that I think he likes the fight in me. He likes to force submission from me...and I like for it to be wrested from me. The thing is, the more it hurts, the more I cry, the harder he is on me, the wetter I get and the better the sex is.

So yes, the bruises on my ass are deep and precise, but they came from a beating that my Daddy gave me and I accepted from him and though I cried at the time, I am grateful to him. I am never more peaceful than when we are laying together after a wild, passionate, angry, tender period like this; it's something we both need and it brings us closer. That's what the bruises show me: how much we love each other.