Nonchalance

Daddy was on all fours with his head buried in his hands on my bed, telling me that he was almost certain that there was carbon dioxide leaking in my house because he felt unusually groggy and tired. I was kneeling behind him fiddling with something small, listening.

“No, I don’t think so. I feel fine,” I objected.

“You’ve probably acclimated to it by now. You need to get a carbon detector. They’re not expensive, I’ll even buy you one if you’d like.”

I stayed quiet. We chatted for a little while before Daddy asked me to wake him up. I asked how and he told me to figure out a way by myself. I was holding a water bottle, and in a thoughtless moment I decided to push the bottle against his butt, hoping to get him to flinch or jump and ‘wake up’ so that we could spend some legitimate time together. Unfortunately, I miscalculated and the top of the bottle connected with his balls, not his butt.

My hand flew to my mouth, I gasped, I thought it was funny for a moment, then changed my mind. I didn’t know what to do, so I just flopped down next to him and asked if he was okay. He didn’t respond. My brain works a little oddly, and in moments of intense stress I tend to attempt to play my way out of it. I rolled onto my back with a sigh.

“That’s alright. I don’t care, it wasn’t really that bad.” My attempt at nonchalance and disregard wasn’t nearly as convincing as I’d wanted it to be; in fact, it just made the situation worse. Daddy stayed frozen, head in his hands against my covers, for a few more minutes. At this point I was highly irritated with myself for saying what I’d said, but I’m fantastically hard headed and didn’t want to make myself seem like an idiot, so I stayed quiet in lieu of correcting myself. I decided to wait it out. Daddy sat up, then slowly stood. I thought that he was going to leave from my room to cool himself down or just be away from me, which isn’t uncommon when I screw up.  Instead, he came to a quiet halt in front of me. I sat up but didn’t look at him and wondered what was going to happen. In one fluid motion, before I could really register what was going on, Daddy pinned me to the bed by my neck. His form blocked out everything around me aside from the mound of soft covers a few inches from my head, looming and seemingly lethal in that moment. I chanced a look at him.

Smack. His hand came down hard across my face, harsh, conveying to me a taste of his honest anger at my actions. Tears flooded that backs of my eyes and threatened to spill over if I wasn’t careful. I bit my lip and let my eyes float closed.

“Do you ever speak to me like that?” Low, growling; an unplayful sound that, even in memory, makes me shiver.

“No.”

SMACK. Harder, on the other cheek. I hadn’t been careful enough, and a few drops of salted moisture dripped from the corners of my eyes, down my cheeks, and onto the fluffy bedspread. “No WHAT?”

“No, Daddy.”

SMACK. “That’s right. Do you ever tell me that you don’t care about doing something like that?”

“No, Daddy,” I warbled through my developing tears.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. I’ve no idea how many times it was, alternating cheeks, feeling as though the blows came down harder every time. Hard enough to break through my resolve and reduce me to sobbing pathetically and pulling at his wrists to no avail. With valiant effort, I tried to keep my face from screwing itself into an ugly knot, and squeaked each time his hand connected with my stinging flesh– the childish kind of squeaks that come out when you’re really trying to stifle yourself, that choked, sad squeak. The slapping stopped and I sniffed, hard.

“What do you have to say?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” I cried to him. I turned my face away in some sort of shame and embarrassment at my misbehavior.

SMACK. It was the last and the hardest, but I took it with a sense of grace and thankfulness. Daddy leaned down and kissed my wet lips.

“You know, it didn’t even hurt. The fact that you tried to act like you hadn’t done something wrong, though, infuriated me. Are you ever gonna do something like that again?” His finger traced along the curvature under my chin, his tone dramatically softer than before, albeit slightly amused. I shook my head back and forth, then brought my hands up to cover my face. He moved them away and kissed me again before standing up. Daddy’s hand ran along the length of his upper thigh, where I could clearly see the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric of his jeans. He smiled and made a noise that I can’t quite describe in the back of his throat.

“I love you, baby girl.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” I said softly, my fingers extending to trace the swelling of flesh and muscle that snaked his leg. “I love this. That punishing me makes you get like this. It makes me happy.” I smiled up at him, sweet and genuine, then wiped my face off with my spare hand. With that, Daddy knelt and pushed me back into the bed with the weight of his body and growled back to me: “Me too. Me too.”

 

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I feel like this entry is pretty pathetic. I’ll be back next week with something better, I promise. 🙂

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~ by daddyslittlegirll on February 6, 2011.

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