She’s talking.
This is what I want.
It’s not good for anyone to bottle up their feelings or their emotions. Not ever. Talking is one of the most important things humans can do to deal with their stress and their anxiety, and their fears, too. I want to get her comfortable enough that she’ll be willing to talk to me. One of the reasons BDSM is such an effective form of therapy is that it helps you relax enough to be able to identify and deal with your emotions.
“Are you ready for your spanking, sweet girl?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I push up the edge of her dress, folding the fabric up above her bottom. She’s got a pair of white panties with the days of the week on them. Not exactly slutty panties, but they’re exactly what I love. I’m all about playful, cute panties on my submissives. It’s part of the reason why I love playing the Daddy. I love taking care of my partner. I like pampering her.
In some cases, I like disciplining her.
This, though, this isn’t about discipline. It’s about relief. It’s about helping her calm down and open up enough to communicate with me.
I reach for her panties and tug them down to her thighs. She holds still as I start rubbing her skin gently, softly. I take my time massaging her round globes, playing with her bottom, and touching her legs. She spreads them just a little, and I smile to myself. She likes this, and that makes me happy.
“Are you ready, pretty girl?” I ask.
“Yes, Daddy,” she murmurs, and oh, the words go straight to my dick.
Shit.
I’m in trouble.
I wanted to hear her say that, wanted to hear her call out to me like this, but I didn’t think it would happen to soon.
I pull my hand away and swat her bottom slowly at first: just a few soft smacks. She wiggles beneath my touch, but she’s not uncomfortable. Not yet. That’s okay. We can take our time. We’re literally in no rush. The food is in the crock pot and the wine is chilling in the fridge. There’s nowhere either one of us has to be.
It’s just me and her and this moment.
I spank her again and again. Soon she starts to groan with each swat of her bottom, and her skin begins to turn a soft pink. I like it. She looks lovely like this: sprawled out across my lap, and she’s wiggling against me like she just can’t get enough.
I like that.
I like the way she’s making me feel.
I like the way she’s moving against my body.
I’m quiet as I spank her harder and harder, gradually picking up the pace. Soon she’s wiggling harder beneath me, but she doesn’t cry out. She doesn’t break down. She doesn’t ask me to stop. She just groans through each and every swat, and oh, I want her to cry.
It’s not that I’m a sadist. I’m not – not really. Not in the way people think when they picture a sadist or a bad guy or someone who likes to cause pain.
But I do want her to cry for me.
I want her to let out all of the emotions she’s been clinging to.
I want her to feel free and comfortable and at peace, and oh, I want her to open up. Holding her thoughts and emotions and pain all to herself isn’t healthy. It’s not a good way to live, and even though I don’t deserve it, I want her to open up to me about everything she’s been going through: about everything she’s been facing.
I spank her over and over, and then it happens.
The first tear falls.
She starts crying quietly at first, but then almost instantly, she breaks out into sobs, and I stop the spanking. I pull her up into my arms, not bothering to pull up her panties, and I pull her close to me.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, but she keeps crying. She cries for the pain and she cries for the memories. She cries for everything she’s lost and everything she wants.
And herself.