Please Daddy(9)

By: Maggie Ryan

“N…no, Da…Daddy, but I don’t like it,” she said, obediently answering yet maintaining her stubborn streak.

Dalton chuckled, giving the thermometer a twist, eliciting another moan. “It doesn’t matter if you like it or not, Colette Grace Windsor. What matters is that Daddy will make sure that his little girl isn’t burning up with a fever. The only part of you that Daddy wishes to be on fire is your bottom after your spanking. Now, just relax and let the thermometer do its job.”

A soft sigh of acceptance sounded as she went limp over his thigh. Keeping the thermometer in place far longer than necessary, he continued to twist, withdraw and replace it deeply within her for several minutes, enjoying every whimper, gasp, squeak and moan his actions produced. Finally, he pulled the tube from her and checked the reading. Her temperature was fine, and yet he’d do as he’d promised and continue to check for the next few days. Returning the tube to its box, he pulled his fingers from between her nether cheeks, allowing her little rosebud to return to its hiding place. The handprints that had decorated her bottom had faded to a light pink and would quickly disappear altogether beneath the crimson color that would soon cover her entire ass. Laying his palm against the center of her bottom, he splayed his fingers wide. She was so much smaller than he that his one hand practically covered the entire, plump surface. Giving her a little pat, he lifted his hand and began.

Chapter Three

It only took a half-dozen swats before her knees bent, calves folding back in an attempt to cover his target with her feet. “Naughty,” he scolded.

“Daddy! It hurts!”

“I should hope so,” he said, pushing her legs down and placing his free leg over hers. “If it didn’t, it would be a rather useless exercise now wouldn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, landing a cracking smack against each of her upper thighs.

“No! Daddy!” she wailed as his next swat caused her left cheek to lift and wobble when the stroke connected to that very tender area he considered her sweet spot. Ignoring her plea, he painted his handprint beneath her right buttock as well.

“Little girls who fight their punishment get a harder spanking,” he said calmly returning his swats to her bottom, alternating left and right again and again, each stroke audible in the room as the cracking sound bounced about the abundant space.

“I’m sorry! I’ll be go…good. Daddy! Daddy, please! Owie! Owie! Please, Daddy, please! No more spanking!”

She squirmed and wiggled, attempted to swim off his lap, and continued to beg for him to stop. Instead, his hand continued to rise and fall in a steady cadence, covering the entire surface of her bottom for the second time after completing the first round.

“Who decides when the spanking is over, Colette?”

“Da…Daddy does,” she cried, her back arching after two harder swats landed.

“That’s right. Only Daddy decides, and I promise I will keep smacking your bottom until you stop squirming about like a little worm.” Evidently she recognized the validity of his statement as it took no more than another half-dozen spanks before she went completely limp over his knee. Patting her rapidly reddening rear, he said, “That’s much better.” Yes, she’d submitted, but he expected renewed struggles with the next step of her discipline. Reaching for the last item on the table, he rotated the heavy wooden hairbrush until the flat backside faced her posterior.

“Are you feeling warmer?” he asked, rubbing the surface of the brush over her quivering cheeks.

“Ye…yes, sir, but…” her sobs had her words skipping about, “oh…please, please…oh, Daddy—”

“Shh, you know you earned this.” Pulling her a bit tighter against his waist, he continued her punishment, moving from spanking with his hand to paddling her with the brush. It never failed to amaze him that different implements applied to the same naughty bottom not only sounded completely different, but evoked different cries from the one being punished.

“Oh…oh, ow! Daddy!” Colette wailed, her head arching back as the brush smacked down, its thud preceding her cry.

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