Daddy’s spankings

"Daddy doesn't know all the ways his spankings affect me."

My name is Samantha. I am nineteen years old and live at home with my dad while I go to community college. Mom left when I was twelve and it’s just been the two of us since then. It was hard at first. Daddy worked, so he would take me to school in the morning and I had to take a bus home, or get a ride with friends or something. I’d be on my own for the afternoon. Unless he said it was OK for me to spend the afternoon with friends, he expected me to get my homework done before he got home. He would make dinner when he got home from work and usually we’d spend the evenings doing our own thing. Without Mom, we had to both step up to take care of the house and do laundry and stuff. For the most part, this was fine, but I imagine like all teenagers, I got mouthy sometimes. And when I did, I got spanked. He never got angry (at least, it never seemed like that). He just said, “That’s it. Go to your room. I’ll be there shortly.” He never said it out loud, but I knew what that meant.

As I’ve gotten more mature, I’ve managed to get myself fewer spankings. The last one was just past my seventeenth birthday. That one was because I was on a date with a boy and was late for my curfew. I was late because we were caught up in our make-out session and lost track of time. I tried to work the front door lock as quietly as I could, but Daddy was waiting for me when I came in the front door. I heard him before I saw him sitting on the couch. He simply said, “You’re late. Go to your room. I’ll be there shortly.”

I was crestfallen. I thought I would be able to sneak in quietly and he’d never know. But I knew better than to argue. I stomped off to my room and slammed the door and sat on my bed. That’s when the nervousness started and I began to fidget and fret, thinking about how much it was going to hurt and how embarrassing it was going to be. And then I heard his footsteps in the hall. He knocked and opened the door. He was holding the paddle in one hand and ordered me to stand up.

The paddle he has is the same one I’ve always been spanked with as long as I can remember. I think it’s walnut. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s got a head that’s about four by six inches – just enough for one swat to cover most of one cheek. Seeing that paddle always makes the bottom drop out of my tummy and makes my teeth chatter and fills me with dread.

As I stood up, he took my place on the bed and ordered me to take off my pants and panties. My hands moved almost on their own as I stared past him at the wall. My mind had nothing in it but fear at this point, and what space there was for thoughts was nothing but regret for how I got myself into this situation.

He ordered me over his lap. As I get into place, my hands grabbed my pillow.

He said, “Sam, I’m sorry to have to do this, but you have earned it with your behavior. I hope you’ll learn from it so I won’t have to do this again.”

And then it started. He always spanked hard and fast. He alternated sides with every swat and didn’t take more than a few before I was howling and there was nothing in the entire world except for the fire in my bottom and the crying. Eventually, through the crying, I realized that he’d stopped spanking and I heard his voice tell me to stand up.

As I got to my feet, my hands flew back to my bottom and my feet couldn’t help but move as I tried to rub the heat out of my behind (it never works). Daddy said nothing more and walked out and shut the door behind him. I immediately lay face down on the bed and just cried and cried, rubbing my bottom with my hands.

But something happened years ago. I don’t know exactly when, but I know that I felt different after a spanking than I did when I was younger. After the crying started to calm down, I felt a warmth elsewhere than my bottom, and my hands wandered away from my bottom to between my legs. As I began to touch myself, I got an image in my head of the spanking in progress from the vantage point of someone watching from the doorway. I imagined myself naked from the waist down crying and holding on to the pillow for dear life, hearing the swats land and watching my bottom go from white to pink to red. And those images and my busy fingers would propel me headlong into a powerful orgasm.

I don’t have a curfew anymore. We still share chores and look after each other. And every now and then I go out on a date, but I’ve not yet confided in anyone else how I feel about my spankings. And when I masturbate now, those same images of watching myself over Daddy’s lap howling while he tans my bottom with that little walnut paddle are what makes me come the hardest.

It’s Saturday afternoon as I’m typing this into my computer, Daddy is in the living room watching a football game on the TV. If I had the nerve, I would go down the hall and turn off the TV and say, “Daddy, I need to talk to you.”

I can see his face fill with concern and he’d say, “What’s up, Sam?”

And I know I’d be all tongue-tied and try to get it out as best as I can, “I… I don’t know how to tell you this, Dad… But I need a spanking.”

His face would change to a confused look. “What? A spanking? What for? What have you done?”

I’d reply simply, “Nothing.”

“Then why do you need a spanking?”

I’d close my eyes and lower my head and say, “I just do, Daddy. Please.”

There would be a very, very long pause.

And then he’d say, “Alright, then. Go to your room. I’ll be there shortly.”