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Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Daddy, Watch Me Dance by Frisky Papa (friskypapa@yahoo.com) *** Haunted since childhood, Tiffany has spent her entire adult life searching for the sexual satisfaction that only her father's thick calloused hand against her soft resilient bottom could deliver. The one day she believes her search has finally come to an end. (Mdom/F, inc, voy, mast) *** As Tiffany sat on the tub’s edge removing the last silken wisps of curly brown hair from the juncture of her thighs, she felt herself grow moist with anticipation. Her master’s instructions last night were quite explicit; the "hideous tangle" between her legs had to go. She then recalled his final parting words and felt herself grow from moist to slippery wet— "Understand, pet, if you fail to obey, you’ll be punished." She shuddered at the mere possibility, for you see, since childhood she craved the punishment. Closing her eyes, her mind wandered to an earlier time. Once again, she felt the hot sting of a thick calloused palm repeatedly strike her soft, resilient bottom. She remembered the odd tingle and dampness that always seemed to grow within her special place. It was the same feeling as now. After lifting the hand sprayer from the bottom of the tub, she spread her legs wide and directed the water’s stinging spray between her pale, ample thighs. "Ohhhhh." A low moan left her lips as the piercing liquid bathed her now naked swollen sex and pelted her puffy, dark pink folds. The temptation to rotate the head from spray to pulse was almost too much to overcome; however, following his commands to the letter, she reluctantly pushed the thought from her mind. She knew her time would come later. In less than two hours, he would be at her doorstep. Highly excitable and easily aroused, she would normally give herself pleasure daily. Her master knew this fact of course, for each night he orchestrated each move, directing fingers, toys, or anything else his devious mind could fathom, to plunge deep, invading her most secret, intimate places. Over the last few weeks, their late evening video chats became addictive; she craved her nightly physical release as well as the bizarre explicit methods he chose to employ. Her master’s mind was truly the Devil’s workshop. Last night’s cyber session was particularly erotic, bordering on decadent. After she accepted his request to enable voice, he spoke. "Good evening, pet. Turn on your webcam." "Good evening, master." Tiffany clicked the appropriate instant messenger box, allowing her mysterious, dominant guide to view her provocative image. The diaphanous red peignoir she wore did little to hide what lay beneath—generous soft curves cradled in sheer black lace. Knowing his need (some might call a fetish) to view her body displayed in revealing lingerie, she spent a fair amount of time each evening in preparation. Their relationship worked out well, for she had a perverse exhibitionist side, totally fulfilled by her master’s voyeuristic stare. Each served the needs of the other. "Do you approve, sir?" "Stand and turn. Let’s see what you’ve selected for me tonight." Tiffany pushed back the dark oak kitchen chair, now relegated to the bedroom for her computer, stood, and slowly turned. "Mmmmm... very nice, pet. You’ve learned to anticipate my needs, haven’t you? You know exactly what excites me. What a wonderful submissive slut you’ve become. That’s what you are, aren’t you? My whore. My slut." "Thank you, master." She shivered at his choice of words. Being degraded and called names excited her. "I enjoy pleasing you. What would you like tonight? Toys? Fingers? Shall I get my clothespins or nipple clamps?" "No. Lets make tonight special, pet. We’ll save the toys for another time. Perhaps for tomorrow. I want you to dance for me tonight, and if you do well, I have something special planned for tomorrow. Now, please me and dance." Like always, he spoke slowly and precisely. The deep commanding voice emanating from the speakers was all her fertile imagination had to work with. The empty messenger box on the screen did nothing to reveal his appearance. Having met in a bondage chat room, she was instantly attracted to the power and strength of his written words, not his physical presence. It didn’t take long to realize, his masterful intelligence was only surpassed by his aberrant sexual need. In the days and weeks since meeting online, her repeated plea for a photo was denied. "All in good time, my pet. All in good time," was the standard answer. Since she was forced to use her imagination, she chose to visualize the last image she could recall of her father—tall, with wavy dark hair and olive complexion; his broad, muscular chest, covered with a thick mat of dark hair, flared to a taut, narrow waist. She pictured him watching, relaxed in a brown leather office chair, with his eyes glued to her image on the screen. Wearing only tight, black leather pants, she envisioned him stroking his more than adequate erection protruding through his open zipper. She felt herself gush and her nipples grow stiff at the thought. Years ago, her daddy always dressed in leather when riding his Harley—a black leather motorcycle jacket, black leather boots, and of course, tight black leather pants. He would often take her for long rides to the lake where they’d sit, watch the boats, and share a cold drink. Sometimes, on those motorcycle excursions, as she held his hand or sat nestled against him with his arm protectively holding her close, she’d imagine he was her boyfriend instead of her father. Her mother died when she was just a young girl, and with no brothers or sisters, the bond between them grew extremely close, perhaps too close. With her hands gripping him tightly around the waist and her cheek pressed against his back, they would cruise the back roads for hours at a time. She remembered the feel of straddling the Harley’s black leather seat, the scent of her father’s leather jacket, and machine’s powerful throb between her thighs. The rides always left her damp and tingling. It was the same feeling she had when disciplined by her father’s thick calloused palm against her soft, resilient bottom. Rising from her chair, she padded barefoot across the plush white carpet to the opposite side of the room. After removing a well cared for vinyl album from its jacket, she placed it over the spindle of an old antique Victrola As a young girl, her father introduced her to a number of things, one of which was blue’s music—music played on this same Victrola. She would entertain her master tonight by dancing to the sensuous croon of Billie Holiday singing Gershwin’s Summertime. It was a song she chose often for this purpose, for it brought to mind distant images of a young girl standing before a mirror, dancing for an unseen audience, and pretending. The lyrics, memorized long ago as a child, came out easily in a near perfect imitation of the gifted songstress. Summertime, And the livin' is easy Fish are jumpin' And the cotton is high Now, standing before the camera, catlike, she slowly swayed to the music, rolled her hips from side to side, arched her back, and pretended once more. Instead of a forty year old aging spinster, she was once again a young girl living with her stern, doting father, daydreaming, desperately craving his attention. "Watch me, Daddy. Watch me dance," she whispered. That same recurring vision of her master wearing those snug leather pants, just like her daddy’s, came to mind. Her nostrils flared with the imagined aroma of leather, sweat, and sex. As she visualized herself kneeling at his feet, worshiping, just inches from that phantom, rigid phallus she so desperately coveted, reality slipped away. Your daddy's rich And your mamma's good lookin' So hush little baby Don't you cry Lost within the melody, mesmerized by the words, her fingers slowly crept up and down her body, teasing and tormenting an imaginary audience. To the sound of catcalls and whistles, heard only within her mind, her deft fingers then untied the single white satin ribbon holding the front of her sheer, red negligee closed. Creamy pale skin framed by wisps of sheer black lace slowly became visible as her diaphanous silken gown slipped to the floor, pooling at her feet. One of these mornings You're going to rise up singing Then you'll spread your wings And you'll take to the sky Cupping her generous breasts, she lifted and kneaded the lace and silk encased flesh with her fingers. It was like some pagan ritualistic offering for the watchful camera’s eye. She then unsnapped the front clasp of her bra, peeled away the lacy cups, and slipped the thin satin straps from her shoulders. Her once pert breasts sagged and bounced as she undulated side to side. Turning her back to the camera, as she provocatively rolled her hips, she wondered what her co-workers and fourth grade students would think if they saw her now. As a young girl, she dreamed of becoming a dancer—not a ballerina dressed in white crinoline, tip toeing across the Metropolitan Opera stage, but as an exotic dancer wearing sequined pasties and a g-string, straddling a fat brass pole. But till that morning There's a'nothing can harm you With daddy and mamma standing by Every summer, she and her father would visit the county fair. A featured attraction on the midway was the exotic dancer revue. She remembered standing in the crowd out front watching the show’s barker drum up business by touting the beautiful dancers’ spellbinding capabilities. "She shimmies, she shakes, she jiggles like jelly on a plate." After slipping her five dollars for rides and arranging for them to meet later by the merry-go-round, her father went into the show. Once he disappeared within the tent’s open flap, instead of buying ride tickets, she snuck around the back. Through a small tear in the canvas tent, she had a perfect view of the stage. She saw the men whooping and catcalling as the beautiful exotic dancers undulated to the throbbing beat of blues music. She felt a bit jealous, even somewhat threatened, for she knew her father, as well as all the other men, were mesmerized by the near naked women prancing and strutting across the stage. She imagined how it must feel to be watched and adored by all those men, her daddy included, and felt an odd tingle between her thighs. She felt certain, if she learned to dance just like that, it would please her father greatly. Some years later, during her first year away at college, unbeknownst’ to her father, she took a job stripping at a topless bar. Her bizarre exhibitionist side, something she suspected for a long time, was instantly fulfilled. Each night, as the men stuffed dollars within her red satin g-string, touching, groping, hoping for more, she’d pretend. At the far back, where the light didn’t quite reach, she’d imagine one of those blurred faces was that of her father. "Watch me, daddy," she’d whisper to herself. "Watch me dance." She remembered the night her world came crashing down, and the limelight she craved faded to black. Toward the end of her set, clad in nothing but a satin g-string, the front door burst open. A young man, caught in the act of stuffing a dollar bill deep within her skimpy costume, froze in place. As the crazed intruder pushed the bouncer aside, she watched in horror as he strode to the stage, grasped her by the wrist, and dragged her to the car. That night, after a long silent drive home, for the very last time, her father took her over his knee. "I’m so ashamed of you." SMACK! "What were you thinking, letting those men stare at you naked." SMACK! "I saw where that man’s fingers were." SMACK! "How many times must I tell you not to show your body." SMACK! "Why you’re nothing more than a common slut. You hear me? A slut!" SMACK! Once again, she felt the sting of his thick calloused palm repeatedly strike her soft, resilient bottom. As the unyielding corporal punishment continued and that all too familiar tingle began radiating from between her thighs, her deep remorseful sobs soon turned to pleasurable moans. Though she often sought pleasure in the privacy of her room using well practiced fingers, this was her first orgasm at the stinging hand of her father. The following semester, she was enrolled at a nearby all girl’s college. Teaching, her father insisted, would be her future, not stripping. Summertime, And the livin' is easy Fish are jumpin' And the cotton is high With her back still to the camera, she slipped her thumbs under the elastic band of her black lace thong and worked it slowly past her hips. As she bent forward sliding the lacy wisp of silk over her thighs and calves, she arched her back, thrusting her derriere upward. She knew how decadent this looked, with the soft petals of her aroused womanhood in plain sight, for it was a well executed and choreographed motion, one practiced since childhood. She hoped her master would enjoy this view. Now, covered in a sheen of perspiration, as the last few cords of blues wafted across the room from the Victrola’s horn, she turned, spread her legs, tilted back her head, and slipped her right hand between her thighs. Within seconds, as her practiced fingers skillfully parted those delicate, slick folds and worked their magic, she tensed and arched toward the camera. Drowned out by Billie Holiday’s sensuous voice, she cried out in passion to the far distant past. "OHHHHHH... GOD, YES! ... OH, PLEASE... WATCH ME, DADDY!" Your daddy's rich And your mamma's good lookin' So hush little baby Don't you cry Emotionally drained, shaking from the intensity of her sexual release, Tiffany walked back to her computer, sat, and waited for her master’s praise. She desperately hoped her performance aroused him. She craved his approval. "You did well, pet. As usual, I was pleased," he said. "I saw you cry out at the end. Whose name did you call out, pet?" "Why, yours, of course, master," she said, "it’s always your name." She paused thinking back to their earlier conversation. "You said if I pleased you, something special would happen tomorrow, Master. Can you tell me what that is?" "I’ve believe it’s time you put an image to my voice, pet. Since you’ve proven your devotion and obedience, we’ll take this to the next level. I doubt either of us will be disappointed, pet. I expect to be at your home tomorrow at six o’clock. There are, however, certain things you must do for me." Trembling, barely able to speak, she answered. "Yes, master. Anything you ask." "First, that hideous tangle between your thighs... It’s disgusting, I want it gone. I expect you to look like the slut you are." "Y-Y-Yes, master," she stammered. "From now on, you’re not to give yourself pleasure without my permission. Do you understand?" "Yes, master," she whispered. "Good. When I arrive tomorrow, your front door will be unlocked, and you’re to be kneeling in that special position... eyes averted... waiting... naked. Remember, you’re to look like the whore you are." "Yes, master." Barely able to contain her excitement, she trembled. That position, kneeling with legs spread wide, breasts thrust outward, and hands behind her back, was difficult to maintain for long, but was a test of her obedience. Many nights, while she assumed that submissive posture for an hour or more, he’d call her wonderfully vile names. More than once, with her sexual excitement at fever pitch, without so much as a single touch, she was able to reach orgasm with just his voice. She recalled as a young girl, with her hands clasped behind her back, being forced to kneel on dried beans in the corner. When her father punished her and called her naughty, she felt loved. "When you awaken, there will be a package at your doorstep. Just prior to my arriving, you’re to open the box. You’ll know what to do." He then paused. "Oh, one last thing. Understand, pet, if you fail to obey, you’ll be punished." "Yes, master." Gritting her teeth, she tried to conceal the sexual release she felt building then pushing over the edge. She hoped it wasn’t noticeable. True to his word, a small cardboard box rested on her doorstep the next morning. Lifting the small package from the mat, she carried into the living room, placed it gently on her coffee table, sat on the sofa, and stared. The temptation to tear open the package was strong but, like a good submissive, she resisted. The rest of the day dragged for Tiffany. She wanted to be fresh as possible for her master, so she purposely waited until late afternoon to prepare for his arrival. Having finished her long self-indulgent bubble bath, and with the last remnants of her "hideous tangle" swirling down the drain, she was ready to finish primping. She needed to look the perfect little slut to please her master. After stepping from the tub, she gingerly patted herself dry. Gasping aloud, a surge of excitement coursed through her body as the rough textured towel came in contact with her painfully erect nipples. Now, standing naked, staring into the full length bathroom mirror at her freshly shaved womanhood, Tiffany was once again reminded of that young girl, singing, pretending. Summertime, and the livin’ is easy... Dropping her towel to the floor, she imagined hearing a roar of whistles and jeers from her imaginary audience within the mirror. She pursed her lips and lifted her breasts toward the phantom admirers within the glass. Once again, the forty year old matron was a lithe eighteen year old minx luring men to the stage. Her hands trailed down from her breasts, over the paunch of her belly to her now naked sex. As her fingers crept between the slick folds, searching for that special spot, her ardent fans disappeared, replaced by the image of a man dressed only in tight leather pants; his rigid flesh protruded obscenely through the open zipper. "Watch me, daddy," she said with a whimper. "Watch me dance." "Why have you disobeyed me?" Instead of her father’s, the familiar voice of her master answered within her mind. "I thought it was clear, you’re not to give yourself pleasure without my permission." Jerking her fingers from between her legs, she dropped to her knees and averted her eyes. "Forgive me, master." Shivering with excitement, aroused at the thought of her forthcoming punishment, she raised her head, looking deep within the mirror. The fantasy, just moments ago so real, disappeared with the reality of her own image staring back. "I’m sorry, daddy, but if you loved me, you would have spanked me for what I did, but that’s not possible. Is it?" she whispered to the now silent past. "Now, the punishment’s left to my master." So hush little baby, don’t you cry... The afternoon slipped away quickly, and now, with little time remaining, Tiffany hurried to finish. Seated naked at her dressing table, she brushed her long brown hair and thought about her master's instructions. "You’re to look like the whore you are." She knew exactly what he liked and was determined to be his perfect slut, his whore. Paying extra attention to a small scar above her eye, she picked up a bottle of liquid makeup, poured a small amount onto her fingers and applied it to her face. She frowned, remembering the day she fell from her bike cutting open her forehead. She was eleven and received a new bike for her birthday. She could picture that hot pink Schwinn perfectly in her mind. Oh, how she practiced on that new bicycle. She wanted to do something special to show off for her father. As her dad kneeled in the driveway, puttering with his Harley, she peddled pell-mell down the hill toward her house. Upon nearing the front yard, she carefully lifted one foot from the pedal, placing it on the seat. Holding onto the handlebars with a near death grip, she then lifted her other leg and extended it straight behind. "WATCH ME, DADDY! WATCH ME RIDE!" she shouted while whizzing past the front yard. Tiffany practiced the trick time and again, believing she had it down perfectly, however, it was always done while looking straight ahead. Now, turning somewhat to the side and shouting for her father’s attention, the bike’s handlebars twisted slightly then veered off the pavement and into the curb. She didn’t recall much of what happened after that, only being cradled in her father’s arms and sobbing. Later that night, after receiving several stitches over the eye, she laid in bed, upset at failing to please her father. Oh, how she loved her daddy and desperately craved his approval. Pushing back the bedcovers, she tiptoed down the hallway to her father’s room. Silently, she pushed open the door, crept to the bed, and slipped beneath the sheet. Occasionally, though not for some time, when she needed comfort or when she was afraid, she’d climb into his bed and cuddle. As she snuggled up next to his sleeping form, his arm instinctively wrapped around her shoulder and drew her close. With her face pressed against his chest and her arm around his waist, she felt safe and secure. "I love you, Carol," Tiffany’s father whispered into her ear. He then kissed her softly on the forehead and pulled her tighter. Carol was her mother’s name, and though she died nearly six years earlier in a car accident, she still had vague recollections. She wanted to wake her father and tell him he was mistaken, that she was Tiffany, not Carol, but it felt so good with her face burrowed into the thick mat of hair covering his chest, she stopped herself. As her mind slowly drifted toward sleep, and with her father’s hand gently stroking her back and bottom, she felt that odd tingle between her thighs. It was the same feeling she had the last time he spanked her. "I can be mommy, if you want," she whispered. After finishing with the liquid makeup, she screwed the top back onto the bottle and studied her face in the vanity mirror. The little crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and mouth were skillfully covered, barely visible. Though age and gravity were clearly beginning to take their toll, she was still attractive, still able to turn heads. The extra pounds and inches she carried in recent years only seemed to add beauty to her voluptuous figure. Tiffany opened a plastic tray containing various shades of eye shadow and studied the selections. Since her master craved a slut this afternoon, she selected blue. Though outdated, the shade would work just fine creating the whorish effect she desired. After rubbing the applicator across the surface of the compressed blue powder, she closed one eye and applied a thick coat to her lid. She remembered finding a stack of dirty magazines in her father’s closet and thumbing through the pages. All the women seemed to be made up in the same manner; thick eye shadow and eyeliner, heavily penciled eyebrows, rouged cheeks and bold red lipstick. Whenever she felt the desire to attract a man to her bed, that was the look she strived to achieve. Though attracting men was no problem at all, she seemed to have no luck finding the right one. With her generous figure, a push up bra and low cut dress was all that was necessary to keep the parade of strange faces coming back for more. None of them, however, could seem to please her, give her the pleasure she so desperately craved. Not since she was eighteen, when her daddy took her over his knee for the last time, did she feel that overwhelming release at the touch of a man’s hand. After each disappointing encounter, she’d use her imagination and fingers to produce the desired relief she so desperately craved. The fantasy she used was always the same; caught in bed by her father, naked, a strange man lay trapped between her thighs. After tossing him to the curb, he would take her over his knee and spank her into submission. All it took was the memory of his thick calloused palm striking her soft, resilient bottom to push her over the edge. Now, she was certain her disappointing run of sexual encounters was about to end, for in less than an hour, her new master would arrive. She hoped he would have thick calloused palms. After applying eye liner and penciling in that come- hither look to her perfectly plucked brows, she picked up her eyelash curler. Having naturally long lashes, once curled, and with a generous application of mascara, she would have that wanton look designed to drive men crazy. Well, most men, at least. She remembered spending an afternoon at a girlfriend’s house when she was eleven and playing with her mother’s makeup. Using all the skills a young girl could muster, she attempted to recreate that look from her father’s dirty magazines. After walking home that afternoon, certain she looked at least twenty, she was greeted by her father with a scowl. Dragging her to the bathroom, he then proceeded to scrub every bit of makeup from her face. Once finished, he took her over his knee and gave her a sound spanking. The tingle she felt as his thick calloused palm struck her soft, resilient bottom reminded her how much he loved her. SMACK! "Don’t you realize how cheap that makes you look?" SMACK! "Do you want to look like a slut?" SMACK! "You hear me? You look like a cheap slut." SMACK! With each stinging blow from his palm and each degrading word from his lips, the tingle and wetness grew more intense. Tiffany picked up a small jar of rouge, unscrewed the top, and removed a dab with the tip of her index finger. As she carefully applied the bright red hue to her cheekbones, she tried to imagine her master’s reaction and wondered if her appearance would excite him. She was positive all men liked their women looking like a tart, a whore. Whenever she went to the local clubs, as well as wearing her makeup heavy, she’d wear a tight, formfitting, low cut dress to accentuate her generous cleavage. The men always flocked to her side, buying her drinks, trying to rub against her then touch and feel. On those nights, she never failed to find a willing partner to share her bed for the night. Though never able to achieve complete satisfaction, hearing them call her vile names as they lay between her legs and pounded her into submission, always excited her. Setting aside the jar of rouge, she picked up the lip liner and carefully outlined her full pouty lips. The finishing touch was an application of bright red lipstick. She once read that lipstick was designed to simulate the appearance of a woman’s genitalia. Considering what would most likely be forced between her lips later that evening, it was an apt description. As she blotted her lips on a tissue and stared into the vanity mirror, an image flashed through her mind. It was a frequent recurring memory, etched into her mind since adolescence. She’d arranged to spend the night with a girlfriend just up the street, but left in a girlish huff after a silly argument. Earlier that evening, dressed in motorcycle leathers, her father rode off on his Harley for a night of drinking with his friends. As she approached the house just before midnight, she was surprised to see his bike in the driveway, for he usually stayed out much later. With the exception of a single lamp in the living room, the house was completely dark. After trying the side door to the garage and finding it locked, she walked around to the back. Like the side door, that one also failed to open. Because she expected to spend the night with her girlfriend, she left her key at home. Walking back to the front with the intent of knocking to get her father’s attention, as she passed the living room picture window, a movement within caught her eye. In shocked disbelief, she stared through the open drapes. There, stretched out in a overstuffed brown leather chair, wearing only tight black leather pants, was her father. Kneeling between his legs, staring intently at the prominent erection protruding obscenely through his open zipper, was Phyllis Everly, the "floozy", as her father referred to her, from up the street. Though wanting to run and hide, she stood transfixed, powerless to turn away. Wearing makeup exactly like the women in those dirty magazines and nearly naked, wearing just a red lace bra, she watched Phyllis Everly’s bright red lips close around her father’s erect flesh. Tiffany shook her head, forcing herself back to reality. Each time she thought of that women, kneeling at her fathers feet, worshiping, the jealous rage would build once more. She thought about the day her father dragged her into the bathroom, scrubbed the makeup from her face, and called her a slut. She wondered why, for it was obvious, that was the kind of woman he desired. She then recalled her punishment, the sting of his thick calloused palm against her soft, resilient bottom, and once again felt loved. Looking at herself in the vanity mirror and admiring the transformation from prim proper teacher to wanton harlot, she thought about her master’s words the night before. "Remember... you’re to look like the whore you are." She then stared at the reflection of her breasts with their pink prominent nipples just slightly darker than the pale flesh surrounding them, and picked up the small jar of rouge. After removing the lid and dipping her finger into the bright red paste, she coated her nipples, exaggerating the size of her areolas. Smiling, she then spoke aloud to the strange exotic woman looking back from within the mirror. "Now, you look like the whore you are." Tiffany’s heart pounded with excitement as she glanced at her bedside clock. It was just past 6:30, only minutes before he was expected. Shivering with anticipation, she selected the perfect perfume from the numerous bottles atop her vanity. She smiled at her choice, Obsession, and sprayed a whiff of fragrance on either side of her neck, between her breasts, and just above her now naked sex. Spreading her legs wide apart, she then spritzed her pale, soft inner thighs, just below her puffy, dark pink folds. Though doubtful, she hoped her master might have the chance to breath in that bouquet, combined with her own special heady scent, while tasting her essence. After placing the perfume bottle back on the vanity, she leaned back in her chair, trailed her fingers up the inside of her soft thighs, and stroked her delicate, slick folds. Looking deep within the mirror, like so many times before, reality slipped away as her own exotic image was replaced by that of her father wearing only tight black leather pants. His prominent erection stood out obscenely from his open zipper. "Watch me, daddy," she whispered. "Watch me play." "Your master will be here soon, princess," the ghostly image replied. "If you don’t stop, you’ll be punished... punished... punished..." The voice, as well as the image, faded then disappeared. Rising from her chair, she turned and thrust her derriere toward the mirror. "Come back. Punish me, Daddy. I’m a slut. Remember? Punish me." Raising back her hand she slapped it hard against her soft, resilient bottom. SMACK! "Daddy?" she called out. "Don’t you love me?" Her cheek bore the angry red print of her own soft, delicate palm. "Come back, Daddy. Punish me for what I did." With a final glance at her own erotic image, Tiffany turned, and walked into the living room. After sitting on the sofa, she reached for the box left by her master on the doorstep, carefully severed the tape holding it closed, and folded back the flaps. Her nipples grew instantly hard the moment she saw the contents: A two inch wide black leather collar with bright chrome buckle and attached ring. Beneath the collar was matching black leather leash. She knew exactly what to do. Reaching into the small cardboard box, she removed the collar, placed it around her neck and secured it to her throat with the bright chrome buckle. She then removed the leash, but before snapping it to the collar’s large metal ring, she paused. Smiling to herself, she then set it back onto the coffee table. Up until now, she’d followed each of her masters instructions to the letter. The "hideous tangle" between her thighs was shaved clean, she’d made herself up to look like the whore she was, and now the collar was secured around her throat. With the exception of the leash, she was the perfect compliant slut. By leaving the leash unattached, she was insuring herself certain punishment. Oh, how she longed to feel the sting of a thick calloused palm against her soft, resilient bottom. Since only minutes remained before her new master was scheduled to arrive, with heart pounding in anticipation, Tiffany knelt as instructed. Spreading her knees wide as possible, with breasts thrust forward and hands clasped behind her back, she waited. Before the door opens, she thought to herself, I must remember to avert my eyes downward. Master wouldn’t like it if I looked without permission. Though this wouldn’t be her first master, she hoped it would be her last. Finding one was easy, for the bondage chat rooms online were filled with willing wannabe Doms. Most, however, were merely men looking for cheap roll playing thrills, and not true dominators. She needed a man with a touch just like her daddy’s. She tried to remember the last time she saw her father, the day her world crumbled apart. It was just after graduating college and over four years since she last felt the love of his stinging hand against her bottom. Many times, after being caught that night stripping, she attempted to goad him into punishing her, but each time she was merely reprimanded, told a woman doesn’t act that way, and to begin acting her age. Craving sexual release from a man, she finally resorted to bringing home strange men and letting them do whatever they pleased. By putting herself in a position of being discovered, she felt certain there would come a time when harsh words weren’t enough, and only the sting of his thick calloused palm would do. Each time she was caught with a man buried deep between her thighs, or down on her knees swallowing his erect flesh, he was escorted to the door and shoved naked onto the front lawn. Feigning remorse, she’d lay face down on the bed, sobbing into her pillow. With her nude bottom prominently displayed as her father delivered a verbal tongue lashing, she attempted to tease him into the punishment she so desperately craved. Each one night stand seemed more self-destructive than the last. The final act of desperation came after a night out of drinking. Though her father rode a Harley, he detested outlaw bikers, calling them filthy pigs that gave motorcycles a bad reputation. That night, she purposely chose a bar frequented by biker gangs. After chatting up and teasing the vilest piece of scum she could find, she invited him home. Once inside, it didn’t take long to realize her mistake. In a brutal act of violence, he ripped the clothes from her body, bent her over the sofa’s arm, and took her unmercifully from behind. It was this image her father saw after opening the front door. In a fit of frustration and rage, her father grabbed a wrought iron poker from beside the fireplace then swung wildly, crushing the biker’s skull. The coroner said he died instantly. After being convicted of manslaughter, the prosecutor asked for and got the stiffest sentence possible, six to ten years in state prison. Because she’d voluntarily brought him home, it wasn’t considered rape. Regretfully, he blamed Tiffany for his predicament. Each weekend she’d make the long drive to visit, but each time he refused to see her. Finally, after months of returned letters and rebuffed visitations, she gave up. After his release, she half expected him to return home, but she never saw him again. That was twelve years ago, and eighteen years since they last spoke. The chime of the mantle clock above the fireplace snapped her from her sorrowful reverie. Each time she recalled that day served to remind her of what a disappointment she was to he father. The man she needed so much was gone from her life. The only one that understood was her new master. He was the only person she trusted enough to share her story with. Now, as six o’clock came and went, she waited. In an effort to block out the painful memories, she squeezed her eyes tight, and tried to envision her new master. The same image as always came to mind. Shirtless, with a thick mat of dark hair on his broad chest that flared to a taut narrow waist. Standing straight out from the open zipper of his tight, black leather pants was his more than adequate erection. Tiffany heard the throb of a motor and the crunch of tires on her stone driveway. Kneeling in her special position, she felt a trickle of moisture seep from between her deep pink folds and her sensitive, swollen nipples stiffen. As the doorknob slowly turned, she averted her eyes down, and trembled. The anticipation of what lay ahead was almost too much to bear. "Good evening, pet." His voice, though still deep and commanding, had a different sound than she remembered. Obviously the computer distorted his real voice somewhat. It sounded vaguely familiar. "Good evening, master," she replied. Her voice shook with fear and excitement. "You may look at me now, pet. You won’t be disappointed." Tiffany slowly raised her eyes upward from the floor. Her mysterious master wore tight black leather pants tucked into black leather boots. Continuing to lift her eyes, she saw his black leather jacket unzipped, revealing a thick mat of salt and pepper chest hair. As her eyes locked with her new master’s, she knew without looking, he would have thick calloused palms. "Daddy," she whispered. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 37