My Daddy’s Naughty Girl

Excerpt

He likes it best when I come in the front door, even though it would be more convenient to enter through the garage. We both feel like there is something symbolic about the formal portal for our home. It is made from a giant solid slab of complicated burlwood salvaged from a nineteenth century barn in Southern Brazil, surrounded by lintels from the same structure. It represents the complex, highly textured nature of our relationship, carefully smoothed and oiled on the surface, but infinitely variegated and rather savage once you get past the civilized patina. He loves how the evening light frames me in the doorway as he savors the long, trim lines of my body that he knows and…well…Masters…so completely.

I always try to dress for his eyes, even when one of us is out of town. It turns the routine selection of underwear and clothing into a mindfully erotic act as I imagine what he would think and feel as he or I removed them. It varies, how we handle that chore that he delights in turning into an unveiling, as though my nakedness were the most precious imaginable artifact. I mean, no one has ever complained about my body. Mother Nature was kind in endowing me with clean, long limbs, a narrow waist, and high, firm B-cup breasts. She also blessed me with a serious need for daily exercise that has kept me fit and trim since girlhood. So even before he and I met, I became used to admiring glances from men and envious ones from women; we are a competitive lot, aren’t we, my fellow bitches? I mean, if we are honest, which of us has not seen in herself the basis for those studies that show when an attractive couple approaches us, we look first at the woman to see if we can compete, before checking out the guy.

But I digress. So sometimes, he likes to make me undress for him. And other times, he wants me to stand very still while he takes his time removing my clothing himself. But in either case, this always happens in the foyer of our home. If he is feeling generous, he will close the door before I am stripped naked. If I am to enjoy the sensation of being rendered nude while it might be possible for an industrious peeping tom to watch, the door stays open. The fact that such an observer would have to mount a periscope to see over our tall peripheral fence, or would have needed to arrange a ladder that wouldn’t be visible to our perimeter security system, is irrelevant. If I am rendered naked in view of the world outside our little domain, it is to remind me of his power over me–to make me have strong feelings in all directions. He delights in granting me the extremes of pleasure and pain, privacy and exposure, embarrassment and pride…

Of course my body is touched by him during the ritual of stripping me. And by the way, this happens in the foyer because it is his rule that once inside our home I am always to be naked. This is so every part of me can be accessible to his eyes, mouth, hands, and cock (as well as the vast array of implements and devices he delights in using to punish or pleasure me) without impediment at all times. But it is an important part of our ritual on rejoining each other that every iota of me be both seen and fondled by him. It is as though it were necessary to repossess me with both his eyes and hands after the world has had its chance to look at me, perhaps even to touch me.

His ownership of my body is a complex issue between us. A part of me loves that atavistic sense of being his woman, the object of his fierce desire and protectiveness, of being his most prized possession. But the feminist ball-buster that everyone sees at work is outraged by this aspect of how it is between us. She is in constant rebellion against that primitive side of both of us, and is almost always the instigator of punishments for bad behavior. Now that type of behavioral modification constitutes a small fraction of the more painful stimulation he visits upon my naked flesh, but it is always the most…thorough…shall we say. He claims to love my ‘spirited nature’, as he calls it, but that adoration is expressed in the most excruciating manner imaginable as far as I’m concerned.

Of course, he also claims that the administration of corporal punishment to my poor quivering buttocks and whatever other parts of me suit his fancy is ‘for my own good’. And I suppose that technically he is right about that: the orgasms he gives me after every spanking are in fact predictably my most soul-shatteringly spectacular. In fact, they seem to be pleasurable in rather direct proportion to how much he has hurt the most vulnerable erotic places of my naked body. He calmly insists that this is just another form of foreplay, and smugly cites my responses as evidence for this fact. The hungry rather traitorous organ between my legs seems to buy that contention with enthusiasm. It delights in gushing with mortifying liquid evidence of its wholehearted approval at even the thought of painful things happening to my most private parts.

And so, the adventure of any homecoming always begins with my ceremonial undressing and fondling. I do adore how carefully and respectfully he strokes and kisses and nuzzles every patch of skin revealed as first my suit jacket, then my skirt, next my blouse, followed by my bra, and at last my panties are removed. He always leaves my breasts, crotch, and ass untouched at the outset, since he and I know they will be the focus of much of our mutual attention once the evening progresses.

When I am naked, I am first to be kissed. And this is the man who holds patent rights on the most amazing kisses I have ever received. It is as if every particle of his attention is focused on every nuance of interaction between our lips, tongues, and teeth. My inaugural kissing can take ten minutes, and never less than five, during which time I am to stand still. I must do this no matter how hungry I am to put my arms around his trim, muscular physique, honed to perfection by several hours in our gym every morning. But being his submissive means I am to receive, not initiate, unless we both agree otherwise. So after a long hard day of making tough decisions and ordering hundreds of people around, once I am in that door, I never have to decide another single thing. I love that freedom…there is a whole literature about decision fatigue, you know. But I’ve never read any studies that the surefire cure is to be a secret sex slave…

Once my kissing is done, it is usually time for my breasts to be awakened. This is done by a careful navigation of fingers and lips down my neck (often detouring via my ears, which give me shivers and goosebumps when they are nuzzled). He prefers my wild brunette locks to be pinned up in a chignon, to be released or not at his pleasure. My collarbones, especially the sensitive hollows above them, are a favorite of his, and he often has me raise my arms so he can enjoy my underarms. This always grosses me out a bit, which makes it more likely that he will linger there, since he so enjoys evoking my discomfort. He especially seems to like and dwell on the parts of my body about which I have an instinctive sense of shame. So my armpits (kinda stinky) and my bottom crack (totally yucky until he taught me otherwise) are always subject to especially thorough attention in his customary greeting of me once I have been stripped after entering our domain.

His message is that I am to be permitted no avoidance of body parts or intimate responses that I might find shameful. So my tears and snotty nose whenever I am spanked, the disgusting animal noises I make when he hurts me or makes me orgasm, the horrifying way my traitorous slutty little pussy always lubricates at even the thought of me being intimately punished, or the way I howl when his gigantic cock invades my back passage…all such indignities are celebrated by him in words and actions. He wants to own every uncontrolled involuntary reaction I have, the more intimate the better it pleases him, exulting in all of them as evidence of his infinite power over me. How horrifying that my cunt is literally gushing even as I write this, deepening the stain it has left on the cool leather of the chair I’m sitting on. When he comes to check on me, he’ll notice this, and I’ll probably be made to lick it clean while he hand spanks me for being such a shameless slut, which will only turn me on more…