The high-pitched whir of the coffee grinder buzzes downstairs, waking me up. You’re down there, already busy, but I crave your affection up here in our bed. Wincing and twisting under the sheets, I roll onto my belly and rub my hands over my cheeks, remembering how you punished me last night. You were mad about that ticket that came in the mail after a camera caught me running a red light downtown. My buns ache, hard and swollen thanks to the long string of kisses you delivered with the bath brush.

 

I didn’t even know I’d done it. Had no idea. You sprung it on me after I’d already gotten out of the shower and brushed my teeth, all ready for a peaceful night’s sleep.

 

“You’re getting spanked before bed, young lady.”

 

Calm, serious, unblinking, you watched me frown and try to figure it out. Nothing playful about your tone.

 

“What’d I do?”

 

“Have a look,” you said, holding out the paper with a measured sigh out through your nose.

 

It’s me in that photo, clear as day. The license plate of our car is clear as day too. Four-hundred-and-eighty-fucking dollars. Goddammit.

 

“Anything you’d like to say?” 

 

It finally hit me how pissed you were. The raised eyebrows. The hands on your hips. You’d been holding it in all night, but I was apparently in deep shit.

 

I got real snippy with you for waiting to tell me. I knew something was off when you got home from work. Sensed that subtle, simmering air of annoyance. You’d wanted to calm down first, spooning me from behind on the sofa and stroking my arm while we watched TV, kissing my neck slowly and softly. You don’t like to punish while you’re fuming.

 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me earlier?”

 

“You want to argue with me now?” you asked, squinting, piercing my soul. “That was dangerous, hon’. It’s a lot of money too. Now come here, let’s get this over with so we can go to bed.”

 

You went for a while and I cried, a lot. Then you stuck me in the corner naked and shivering while you washed up. I hate the corner. It all felt horribly unfair... though it was certainly my fault.

 

“You’re gonna have to be more careful,” you told me, opening your arms and pulling me in as we settled into bed. 

 

Snuggling against your chest, I cried so hard it made me lightheaded, soaking your skin with my tears. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know I did it.” You kissed my forehead and told me to breathe.

 

“I wish I could tell you it’s okay, but it’s not. That’s the kind of mistake that gets people killed.” Your thumb ran idly back and forth over my tender, raised welts for a minute as you lay holding me, ruminating in the dark. “I’m gonna check your bruises tomorrow. Probably spank you again if they’re not too bad.”

 

“Daddy, no! I said I was sorry.” Definitely the last thing I wanted to hear. Multi-day punishments make me an anxious fucking mess. Agonizing. The guilt of upsetting you so. I can’t handle it. I want it over and done with to know I’m forgiven.

 

“Shh,” you said softly. “I’m not taking votes. This is a big deal. I want to be sure you understand that.”

 

You rubbed my back and my bottom with kind, gentle hands while I cried myself to sleep in your arms.

 

Still can’t believe I did it. Fucking sucks.

 

I brush my teeth, then throw on a loose blue t-shirt and a pair of stretchy black leggings. Maybe if I cover up and act sweet this morning, you’ll forget about what you said and let it go. Not likely, by any means, but worth a try.

 

Pitter-pattering down the stairs, I try to be as quiet as I can. When I peer around the corner to peek into the kitchen, I’m overwhelmed as always by the sight of you. You’re finishing making breakfast, flipping a steaming omelet down onto a plate next to a side of potatoes. What a marvel you are. The broad, angular shoulders. The tussled, wavy hair. The dudely bubble butt hiding under your black basketball shorts. Strong, defined calves. That centered, private, down-to-earth demeanor. Such a man, I can hardly stand it. Past boyfriends were just that: boyfriends. Not you. You’re an experience.

 

Sensing me, you glance to your right and I’m caught. You hold in a chuckle and smirk, looking back to your food.

 

“You spying on me, baby?”

 

“Maybe…” 

 

I cross the kitchen with trepidation. One hop, two hops, three hops forward and I throw my arms around your waist, squeezing tightly. You return the embrace, wrapping your long arms all the way around me, smooching the top of my head from above.

 

“She moves in for the kill…” you narrate in your finest Attenborough accent, making me giggle. I kiss your chest through your T-shirt and profess my affection, sing-songy and gross.

 

“I luuuuh you, boyfriend,” I tell you, pivoting from my ankles, rocking side to side, moving you with me.

 

“I luh you too, girlfriend.”

 

Your hands slide from my waist down over the arcs of my cheeks, long fingers splaying wide to cup them completely. Leaning down to plant kisses along the side of my neck, you rub and squeeze, sending stretches of sore flesh bulging out between your digits. This kind of thing gets you going—the shape of me fitting snugly within the shape of you—and you drag your lips down to my shoulder to sink your teeth in with a growl, making me squeak.

 

“Ouch!”

 

Breathing a low, gnarling rumble from the depths of your chest, predatory, you look down over my shoulder and pull up the back of my shirt, then hook your thumb into the hem of my leggings and start to slide them down. On instinct, my hand flies back to stop you.

 

You abruptly let go and pat pat, swat SWAT before straightening up and folding your arms.

 

“Go on,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “Turn around, pull ‘em down. Let me see.”

 

If I show you, you’ll definitely spank me again. I checked in the mirror earlier and only noticed a few light marks. Not enough by a long shot to discourage you from doling out round two, considering the offense.

 

I take a few steps back, covering my butt with my hands and pouting.

 

 “No…”

 

“No?” The eyebrows rise and you step toward me. “Am I hearing things?”

 

I bump into the edge of the table behind me, stammering and wishy-washy. 

 

“It’s… it’s none of your business…”

 

You freeze in your tracks, deadpan. Wrong choice of words. You’re always telling me my mouth writes checks my ass can’t cash. Quivering, I shrink in the length of your shadow while your dark irises widen and swallow me whole.

 

“No,” you say finally, switch flipped, shaking your head. “Uh-uh. We have a misunderstanding.”

 

Pulling a chair out with one hand and reaching for me with the other, you snag me by the wrist and take a seat, wasting no time as you drag me over your lap and start spanking hard over my pants.

 

FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP… 

 

No chance of getting away with anything now. I’ve awakened the dragon. You pause and take the liberty of shucking my leggings down to the middle of my thighs, baring my butt.

 

“Hm,” you grunt, smoothing your wide, rough palm over its warmed surface, taking a long, close look. “Needs more.”

 

With that, you get back to slapping fresh sting onto my skin with sharp blows that have me squirming immediately.

 

“Ow! Ow! I’m sorry!!”

 

Those words, you like. They inspire you to pause and chastise, tapping two fingers over the back of my thigh to punctuate your words as you speak.

 

“Who am I, young lady?”

 

“You’re my boyfriend…”

 

“And the man in charge of what?”

 

“...making omelets.”

 

SMACK!

 

“OW!”

 

“Disciplining you. You know what that means?”

 

“No…”

 

“It means the state of your seat is absolutely my business.” You adjust to swing your right leg over the backs of my knees, pulling my bottom high atop your left thigh. I rock forward and slap my palms onto the tile for support. “Whether you need a spanking, how well you’re spanked, whether you’ve been spanked enough—entirely my business.”

 

You swat ‘til I’m kicking, but won’t be confident my defiance has been tamed until you’ve earned my tears. Patting, you stop and pull me up, nodding to my left. 

 

“Bring it to me.”

 

You’re talking about the paddle hanging next to the doorway that leads to the living room. That long, nondescript, rectangular slab of wood with a hole at the end of the handle where the nail on the wall sticks through. I always beg you to take it down before we have guests over, but you scoff and warn me to do everything in my power to make sure it stays there rather than ending up in your hand. Our kinky friends know its purpose, which makes me blush like crazy. The vanillas have never said a word… maybe they think it’s a cheese board or something. That is one-hundred percent NOT what it’s used for.

 

I trudge over with my leggings at my ankles, lift it off the nail, and whimper as I walk back and hand it to you. Pulling me back down over your knee, you wrap your arms and legs around me to lock me back into place. The wood glides back and forth over its target, rises, and…

 

WHACK!

 

“Owch!”

 

Again.  

 

WHACK!

 

“Ow! DADDY.”

 

WHACK!

 

You’re doing that thing you really like. You swat hard, but leave a second between each blow to hear me whine and feel me jolt from the pain. It’s luxurious to you, starting with your weapon this way during punishment. Severe and slow.  

 

WHACK!

 

“Oww!”

 

WHACK!

 

“Daddy, no!!”

 

Gradually, you pick up the pace along with the intensity. The lecture trickles in over the sound of my cries.

 

“There are times when you need to accept,...”

 

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! 

 

“OWWWW!”

 

“... that just because you don’t like something…”

 

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! 

 

“Daddy!”

 

“... doesn’t mean you get your way…”

 

You go until you’re satisfied, as always. Until I’m wailing and falling apart and telling you I’m sorry, begging you to stop. Setting the paddle on the table, you pull me up and squeeze me tightly in your arms, holding me on your lap. I cry into your neck while you unceremoniously open your laptop on the table in front of you and start reading the news as you sip your coffee and rub my back.

 

The lecture continues. You murmur in my ear absentmindedly, patting and pinching my butt now and then, eyes on the screen, hardly even thinking about it. It’s automatic for you. In your blood. Your mouth was made to say those words, about how I’m gonna pull my pants down and let Daddy inspect my bare bottom whenever he feels like it. How I’ve been a bad, BAD girl lately and you’ll be upping my maintenance sessions from twice to thrice a week until you see noticeable improvement. How if you EVER see a ticket like that again in the mail, you’ll invite all our kinky friends over to watch me get paddled to tears. How I’m gonna slow down and pay more attention while I drive or you’ll whip my sorry ass to next Tuesday. Is that clear, young lady? On and on you go, rubbing and patting and chastising like it’s the most natural thing in the world while warmth from my pussy trickles and soaks into the fabric of your shorts.

 

It is natural, for you. A given, plain and simple. There’s no question in your mind about whether you’ll be spanking me when I misbehave. I’m your girlfriend. Of course you’ll be pulling down my panties and holding me down while I cry. Of course the paddle hangs in the kitchen for all to see. Of course it’s your responsibility to enforce discipline in this house. This isn’t a performance. This is simply the way that it is because you are you.

 

It all drives me absolutely frantic with lust and I can’t take it anymore. Kissing your neck while you speak, I abruptly part my legs to straddle your lap and start undulating, rubbing my clit against your half-erect manhood shielded by that thin layer of fabric. I need the entire length of your cock down my throat within the next 30 seconds or the nucleus of my soul will burn red and sizzle out like a dying star. I slink off your lap and slip under the table, grabbing the elastic waist of your shorts to slide them down.

 

“Babe…” you say, watching as I free your perfect dick from its polyester prison before you can get your bearings. You should stop me, but I’m out-of-control frisky and therefore temporarily insane. You’re mine. Fucking M-I-N-E. I take you into my mouth and cover every naked inch of skin with slobbery saliva. 

 

Your fingers slide through my hair and I look straight into your eyes.

 

“Thank you,” I breathe, managing to get the words out between ravenous strokes of deepthroating, panting and coughing on your precum, “thank you... for... disciplining me, Daddy.”

 

Jaw dropping, you frown and your semi-softness goes rock hard in my slippery grip as I slide my hand forward and back along your shaft. Head lolling back, you look toward the ceiling and close your eyes, clenching your jaw. 

 

“Oh fffFUCK.”

 

I take off my shirt and get back to the task of sucking the life out of you while warm spiddle drips off my chin and onto my tits. Massaging the underside of your length with my tongue, I find your frenulum just below the head and seal my throat tightly around it, choking myself. Then I back out for air, take a few wet gasps, and dive back in for more. Frenetic. Determined. Sexually violent in spirit, admittedly. No warm-up for you now, you gorgeous fucking asshole. I’m gonna make you come. Gonna rob you of all vitality so you’re left oozing helplessly across the kitchen floor with no recollection of your name or where you are or what century it is. I’m gonna strip you of every bit of clothing and kiss you all day while you lie there trying to piece together what happened. WHO is she and WHERE did she come from, this rabid little demon?

 

Look at what you DO to me, you Iiving breathing thinking feeling animate masterpiece. Can you even begin to comprehend the depravity of it? I LOVE YOU. I love you in the way we’re not allowed to love people anymore. The way that makes you seem crazy and addicted and invested and devoted and intense and that’s BAD. You’re supposed to be cool now. You’re supposed to wait an aloof hour and a half before returning a text. You’re supposed to set a timer in your head for the appropriate allotment of minutes per day deemed healthy to spend waxing poetic on thoughts of another person. And you are absolutely, under NO circumstances, allowed to care about them or how they feel about you—God fucking forbid any of us do THAT ever again. But the terrifying truth remains, all the same: I’m gone. I’ve been gone, Daddy. I have zero hold on this way you make me feel about you.

 

The abrupt pain of fingers lancing into my scalp and gripping a fistful of hair jolts me from my trance. You pull me off your cock as I reach with my tongue, straining to take you back into my mouth. You were close, rigid and pulsating, on the brink of surrendering claim over your seed. I felt it. GIVE IT TO ME.

 

“No,” you growl through gritted teeth.

 

Before I can process what’s happening, you shove whole stacks of paper off the far end of the table to clear it and pick me off the floor to land me there on my back. I stare up at you frozen, blinking in shock while you lean over me, eyes darkening. You’re a thousand-mile hurricane set to ravage an audacious speck of island daring to blemish the blue sheen of the sea.

 

“Who’s in charge?” you ask, quiet and malevolent. You’re gonna hurt me.

 

“I… I want to fuck you,” I squeak, deflated of the arrogance I was high on three-point-eight seconds ago.

 

You rip off the leggings still hanging from my ankles and throw them aside, then get close—very close, thick arms caging on either side of my torso. You stop an inch from my nose and I’m suddenly so afraid of whatever you’re about to do that tears spring to my eyes and I start crying again, wishing I could disappear.

 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted, did I?”

 

“No, Daddy. I’m sor—”

 

“Answer my question.”

 

“You’re in charge, Daddy. You are.”

 

You hold me in your eyes, watching while I weep in fear of you. Five seconds… ten… fifteen pass. Then you back off, sinking onto your knees as you pull my crimson fanny to the edge of the table, lifting my legs to drape them over your shoulders. Feasting your eyes on my flower, you lean forward and start sucking my clit, lids fluttering blissfully shut.

 

The slow, rolling warmth of your tongue melts my insides into golden nectar and I pool like honey in the palm of your hand. Clearly, you’d never let me get away with such a thing as bursting through the doors to demand your orgasms at gunpoint like a thief. You’ll come when you’re good and ready.

 

Reaching down for you, I run my fingers through your hair and you pause, grabbing my wrist and letting up to look at me from between my legs.

 

“Touch your nipples.”

 

I whimper, pouting, desperate to touch you. “I want you,” I whine, voice gravelly.

 

“Do you want another spanking?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then do as I ask,” you say, immovable. “And close your eyes.”

 

You know me too well. You want me to let go. I feel foolish playing with my own tits while you lap at my little jewel, but you’ve got all the elements of the equation sorted in your mind. Touching my nipples awakens a sparkling string of pleasure running all the way through my belly down to my cunt. Right as I feel it ignite, you slip a long finger into my folds and slide it firmly along the ribbed ridges of flesh lining the first few inches of my entrance. The flat of your tongue settles into a steady rhythm. I want to stop you from plucking each piece away from me one by one, but I can’t protest. You’ll put me back over your knee again like you said, as long it takes ‘til you’ve gotten your way. This game is not mine to win.

 

Deep breaths flow smoothly in and out of me as I lay there powerless, mouth agape. Dark maroon mists of velvet overtake me, seeping into every corner and crevice, and I feel my heartbeat pulsing through every cell in shimmering waves. I focus on all the parts of you touching me and my pussy clenches. You slip in another finger in response and I moan at the stretch. The wave washes over me, rising with the tide. Drowning again. How could I not?

 

Fight it... fight it...

 

With your free hand, you reach for my apex, press firmly with your thumb, and push back the hood of my clit. The raw cut of pleasure slices through me while your tongue makes short work of my exposure. Boundless euphoria.

 

“No! No!”

 

I’m gonna lose…

 

“Daddy, oh... oh!!” 

 

...and abruptly, I do.

 

There’s always a disconnect when I hear myself come, like I’m listening from the next room with my ear pressed to the door. It’s a song of erratic crescendos that meander and trip over themselves, curling like vines climbing the walls. I lose track of the melody, though, as discomfort rapidly sets in. Pain, actually. Stop stop stop, too intense.

 

“Please! Please!” I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut, suddenly realizing I’m fighting you. You wrestle to keep my thighs wide, sucking incessantly until I scream.

 

Setting me free, you stand and flip me onto my belly as I heave to catch my breath. Just give me one fucking MOMENT—but you certainly will not. You’ll do as you wish. The rounded head of your cock pushes through my slit, making space, forcing through the supple grip of my pussy. 

 

Now is when I truly lose control. Now I moan and cry out against my own will. God, it hurts. There’s simply not enough space to accommodate your size and I sob unbidden through every thorough thrust. My nails dig into the surface of the table, scratching sharp lines along the wood.

 

“Ow, ow, Daddy-y-y-y!!”

 

“Thank me,” you rasp, digging your nails into the ripe flesh of my hips. “Say ‘Thank you, Daddy.’”

 

“Thank you, Daddy!!” I wail.

 

“Do it again.”

 

“Thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! I’ll be a good girl!!”

 

“Yes you fucking will,” you say, slapping my ass, speeding up to wound me, spearing through the column of my core. 

 

I kick my feet, desperately trying to catch the floor with my toes for some semblance of control, to no avail. I have no hold. Nothing to anchor me. Unhinged and shuddering, I give into the onslaught and submit, giving you your way, letting you have everything. Reigning godly and victorious as you take me, groaning when you climax, you mark the gateway to my womb like you did my skin.

 

Claimed. Defeated. Wholly undone.

 

Melting over me, you pant and kiss the back of my neck as I weep. Your cock softens and slips out and it’s all over and I’m so… tired… 

 

“We’ve gotta… eat something…” you breathe. You’re right, but I won’t be helping. Not lifting a finger. I’m gonna die here on this table, filled with your cum.

 

Somehow, slowly, you manage to stand, brew more coffee, and whip up a breakfast identical to your own, then reheat yours in the microwave. After laying it all out beside me, you pull out a chair for me and pat my sore butt.

 

“Come on, babe. You’re not eating breakfast lying on the table.”

 

I pout again, reaching for you with a whimper and you sigh.

 

“Sit, young lady.”

 

With just enough fussiness, I get my way and perch naked as a jaybird in the lap of the royal omelet maker while we eat, refueling to survive each other and die another day. Ham, cheese, avocado. Your quiet lips kissing my temple here and there. Fresh, mingling sweat poised on our skin. And coffee, of course. Always coffee.