Posted by: littlegirlyone | June 17, 2010

A Hurty Week, part 4

I was relieved, to say the least, when Daddy said he’d spare my nipples on Tuesday. They were hypersensitive from the squeezing they’d taken over the past two days. There were even little tooth marks in the flesh of my areolae (doesn’t that sound scientific?). Of course, just because my nipples were going to be spared didn’t mean the hurty week was over.

No.

He told me to pick out a wooden spoon to hit myself with.

When I protested that the only spoon I had on hand was a salad spoon, he dismissed me to find him some options. I rummaged through my stuff, and found him an array of instruments. I lined them up on the bedside table, plugged in the Hitachi, and waited.

And waited.

He was busy with something.

So I waited a while longer, and then I decided to get his attention, busy be damned.

I snapped a couple of pictures of myself. I was wearing white cotton boyshorts with big blue polka dots, and a cute blue cotton t-shirt. I attached the photos to an email titled “Come play with me.” All I wrote inside it was I’m wearing such a cute outfit.

I don’t know if my email had the desired effect or not. All I know is, he eventually did come play with me.

“That is pretty cute,” he agreed.

“Mhmmmm. I thought you would like it.”

“So? You have my options?”

I nodded.

“Show me.”

I picked up the first thing I’d brought: a wooden boar bristle hairbrush.

“There’s this big hairbrush,” I showed him. “And this littler one.”

I held up the other brush, skinny, from Aveda. Light, bamboo I think, with plastic bristles.

“Those are fun,” he commented. “What else?”

“There’s this spoon with a hole in it,” I raised the red plastic spoon. I got it at Ikea as part  of a set of cooking utensils, and I’ve never been able to figure out the purpose of the hole. I mean, who uses a spoon with a hole in it? Well, I use it for stirring pasta, but that’s about all.

“Let’s start with that. We’re going to beat your chubby thigh. Get on your knees. Kneel up with your ass off your feet.”

“Which side goes toward my thigh?” I asked.

“The flat side.”

The spoon didn’t really have a flat side, but I decided that he meant the back side, not the cupped side.

“So… you want me to just hit myself with it?” I felt silly.

“Yes. Hard.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

I pulled my hand back and brought the red plastic down on my right thigh. It smacked, and then it stung.

“Harder, silly. Like, three times that hard.”

I did it again, harder. I jumped from the impact, and already I could see my skin starting to swell and redden and turn white where the hole was. I whined.

“I would break that thing on you,” he threatened.

And so, to the soundtrack of my Daddy’s urgings, I hit myself again and again with the little red plastic spoon.

After a few hard swats, I started to curse that little hole. It made for serious, stingy, red and white marks. I couldn’t believe how much it hurt, too. I mean, really hurt not at all in a sexy way. Like pain. Like red and white hot stingy pain. I didn’t like it, and I whimpered about that a lot.

“I like it,” he reminded me. “I like that spoon. It leaves pretty marks. Now, I want you to hit the same spot 5 times in a row. Hard. And count.”

I did, squealing in fiery discomfort.

“God, you’re such a baby. Let me see that spot. Dig your thumbs into the welts so they bruise like crazy.”

I pressed my thumbs onto the pink and white flesh.

“Harder, cunt.”

I pressed harder. But I was hitting muscle and it wasn’t really doing what I thought he wanted. My thumb wouldn’t sink into my thigh, it just sort of sat on top no matter how much I pressed. It hurt, no doubt, but I didn’t think the visual was adequately representing how much.

We did this a few more times. He’d have me hit the same spot 5 times in a row, then tell me to press my thumbs into the spot. And no matter how much I tried, he wasn’t satisfied. He called me a baby, and finally told me to stop.

“I’m disappointed.”

Of course, for me, that’s about the worst thing he could have said. I’d rather be called a whole list of mean names before the d-word. I felt my face drop. I felt tears well. Surely he knew how hard that was for me? Surely he knew that hitting yourself is almost impossible, and that I’d done my very best?

I didn’t say anything. I just sat there with my eyes down, feeling like a disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” he asked after a minute.

My lip quivered. I didn’t dare speak.

“What’s wrong, tell me?”

“Um, I feel like I didn’t do a good job,” I whispered.

“You’ll get more chances.” That wasn’t reassuring at all.

“I know, but. I feel like. I’m sorry.”

I felt sad. Really sad. I didn’t know how to tell him how much. It felt endless. Oceanic. Vast. Sad.

“Listen, when I get my hands on you, it will be better. I’ll hit you harder. I’ll push on you the way I want. OK?

“Yeah.” I considered this. “Look, I know it will hurt worse, but it would be a lot easier to not have to do it to myself. And at least then I wouldn’t feel like I didn’t do a good job.”

“You’re a good girl, piglet. I love you.”

“I know but-” and the tears broke.

“Oh, honey. Daddy’s just a mean guy. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“But,” I sniffed, “I don’t like feeling like I didn’t please you. I don’t like that you didn’t think I did a good job.”

“You’ll try harder next time,” he assured me. “And the time after that. And the time after that. Until forever. Right?”

I nodded. I wanted to put my head in his lap. I wanted to feel his hands on my hair while I cried. I wanted to sob into his knee. I wanted to empty the sad ocean onto his thighs, and emerge from the water dripping, pale, but warm and safe on land again. I wanted something magic, metaphoric, too big for words and too human for internet love affairs. I wanted him to be real. Hands. Legs. Human touch.

“I’d love that,” he said as I told him. “And when you’re done crying? I’ll let you suck my cock.”

And of course, I couldn’t resist a smile. He knows me so well.

“That’s everything right in our world,” he continued. “Your head in my lap, my hand in your hair, your tears on my thigh, and your mouth on my cock.”

“Mmmmmm.” I closed my eyes and imagined. I felt better. Warm. Beached. I could have slept right then. It was amazing to me that even with no physical contact, no comfort, just the image of being close with him could make me feel so much better. I smiled.

“Good girl.” He was watching me. “Now, take 5 pictures of your thigh, and send them to me? I’ll pick one for your tumblr.”

And that’s exactly what happened next.


Responses

  1. “Your head in my lap, my hand in your hair, your tears on my thigh, and your mouth on my cock.” –

    heaven!

  2. It’s strange. I think making a girl put clamps on her nipples online works very well. The degree of pain caused by the clamps is fixed objectively by the nature of the device. But spanking yourself is different. The strength of the strokes on your ass or whatever depends not on the device used but on the strength with which it is wielded. And that is in the control of the submissive, not of the dominant. So I don’t quite see how it can work properly. Poor little girly one obviously caused herself a good deal of pain and we must give her credit for that. But I can’t help thinking that what she caused herself isn’t but a fraction of what her daddy will cause her when he gets his hands on her.

  3. Lg, I’ve just had a look at the photo you uploaded. Ouch!! I can see now why you had the reaction to Him being disappointed. I would have done the same. You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that 🙂


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