He comes in the room, and locks the door, his eyes fixed on mine. I'm not in trouble. I've been a very good girl, with very little reason to take a punishment trip over Daddy's knee, thank you. But he knows I'm pent-up, and we have a blissful morning of unexpected privacy, so we don't need the wicked silent implements. His eyes fixed on mine, his hands go to his waist and he unbuckles his belt.He knows I love his belt. It's the symbolism, the iconic implement of discipline, and when he rolls up his sleeves, prepared to strap me, my mouth goes dry and my thighs clench together.
I love Daddy's belt.
I suppose one can call it a love-hate relationship, but – well, no. I don't hate his belt. I love his belt. Even the handful of times he's whipped it off to punish me are ingrained in my memory, because it's so deeply erotic, moments I will never forget that were sobering, but sexy as hell in retrospect. And the belt is his. He wears it about his waist. I remember one time being on an elevator with him, just the two of us, and he hugged me close. My fingerslatched around his belt, and I closed my eyes. This is daddy's belt.
In my deepest, darkest fantasies, I never think about him spanking me with a paddle, or the brush, or any of our other implements. Those are not the stuff fantasies are made of, for me. No. I always fantasize about his belt, as he stands in front of me and unbuckles it, wraps it around his hand or doubles up, gestures for me to kneel on the bed, or lean over the edge, or my favorite, get over his knee. I love the sound of it, the feel of it, and sometimes when he undresses at night, I sneak a look at him as he removes it because I love it.
I watch him as he unfastens the belt, the clink of it making my heart start to stutter, the soft, familiar whoosh as he removes it making me gasp. He folds it over in his hand and sits on the bed. “Over my lap,” he says.
“Someone will hear!” I begin to protest. I hate the idea of being overheard.
“They won't,” he says, assuring me that we do indeed have privacy, and no one will hear. Reluctant but eager, scared but excited, I drape myself over his knee. He wraps the belt around his hand and fashions a strap, holding me over his knee, then zing it whizzes through the air and thwap smacks against my naked skin. It's such a unique feel, his belt while over his knee. It's not as hard as a punishment spanking, or when he's doubled it over and bent me on the bed (ouch). But it hurts. It really, really hurts, as it stings and burns, and lands in the same place twice, three times, and then again, wrapping around my thighs for a few wicked lashes. I squirm, trying hard to hold position, and he holds me tight, one of his hands tight around my waist, anchoring me to him.
“Take your spanking, babygirl,” he says, lifting the belt and bringing it down again, each swoosh and thwap making my skin burn, my hands fisted on the bed. It hurts so good. He spanks me until I want him to stop, my bottom on fire, the deep burn of leather laced along my backside and thighs, striped with daddy's belt. And when he's done, he threads the leather back through the loops on his pants while I fall to my knees. I'm heady with submission, nothing on my mind now but the licks across my skin and the delightful release of being overpowered. I could float away.
I feel it for days, the burn and sting, the lasting reminder that I am daddy's girl.