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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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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.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 37