I come upstairs after a long day, and my children are now resting. The older ones are winding down, and the younger ones are tucked into bed. I go through my normal nighttime routine, preparing for bed. We have a rule here that I am to be unplugged, “off the grid” after 9 p.m. No social media, no texting, no emails. It’s time for me to read, or listen to an audiobook, maybe take a nice long shower, and unwind before my ten o’clock bedtime.
There’s a longing inside me, though. I need Jason. The little voice in my head whispers to me, I need my daddy.
I was spanked earlier today.
My day started out like any other. I woke up early, and got my writing in, attended to business-related tasks, and then my little ones began to wake. I switch from writer mode to mom mode then, putting down my work and attending to the needs of my family. But something went wrong, as sometimes things do. I was angry.
“Come here, please,” Jason said. He stood at the top of our stairs at the bedroom, dressed for work already, hands on his hips. I did not need further explanation. I knew I was going over his lap. We hadn’t had our morning check-in yet, and he knew I was simmering. Unable to fully check myself, I stomped angrily up the stairs. I didn’t say much…but I didn’t have to.
In the room I went, and it all happened in a blur. He shut and locked the door, opened the drawer by his desk, and pulled out the wand. I closed my eyes and sighed, cringing. He sat on the edge of the bed, took my wrist and pulled me between his knees.
Hand under the chin, my eyes met his. He attempted first to calm me, but I wasn’t in a place to listen. My walls were up because I was angry. It took him seconds to decipher where my heart was, and less time than that to lift me and take me across his knee.
The spanking was hard, and fast, and almost as soon as it began, my tears flowed. He let me have it, then when he thought he’d made his point, back into his arms I went, where I dampened his shirt with my tears. “You’ll be a good girl, today,” he said. “Do not let your anger today bleed into everything else here. You set the tone for this house. I expect you to hold yourself together.”
Throughout the day I did my very best, but it was a hard day. I was weepy and sad, and though I held it together in front of my children, I needed Jason. I texted him.
I need my daddy.
He knows what I mean when I say that.
I need to crawl into your arms.
I need you to hold me.
I need you to understand me, to protect me, to tell me that you love me.
I need you to wipe my tears while I cry.
I need you to be my strength, my fortress, my wellspring.
My lover, my friend.
When I am punished, I am vulnerable. My walls are broken down, my mind is cleared, but my heart…it is tender.
He comes home and he takes me straight upstairs, locks the door, then comes to me. “Come to your daddy now, little girl,” he says, and I do, I climb up onto the bed and snuggle up on his chest. He holds me, and the tears begin.
“It’s hard when you punish me then leave for work,” I say. I feel it all day, the need for him to make it better again.
“Honey, I didn’t mean to punish you. I wanted to stop you before you got out of control,” he said. “I didn’t want you to spiral.”
“Does it matter, daddy? If you didn’t mean to punish me? I still felt as if I’d been punished, and I still need you now.”
He held me and wiped my tears. “I know, baby,” he said, all tender, sweet, and loving now. “I know how sometimes that’s hard for you.”
I poured out everything that was on my mind and heart, talking and talking while I sniffled and he wiped my eyes and held me tight and kissed my forehead. Finally…finally I was done. I felt lighter. I had the cleansing cry I needed, the reassuring touch of Jason, and I knew I was back in his good graces. Everything was good again. All was right with the world.
My heart was content.
My mind was at rest.
My body was soothed.
My soul was at peace.
And as the week went on and other things came up, as they do, I was able to undergo a bit of reflection I hadn’t anticipated. In the quiet, that place where I am at peace and my mind listens to the whisper of the eternal, I am reminded why this works. Why when I submit to Jason and he leads me, that it is so utterly fulfilling, moving, and beautiful. When I am laid bare and he cherishes that, all of me is his. It isn’t just my one part of me.
It is my whole being. My heart, mind, body, and soul are engaged with Jason at a level they simply weren’t before we began this journey into deeper dominance and submission.
All of me is his.
I’ve touched on all this before, I know…it’s a process of a learning, of understanding, but it’s all so difficult to grasp sometimes. Then every once in a while, it all clicks. It makes sense, and I know.
I am his completely.
When he speaks to me, I listen. Often, we’re just two friends chatting, laughing, teasing. But sometimes, his voice low in my ear, it's the voice of my lover, and he whispers wicked, dirty, delicious things. Sometimes, his voice is corrective and firm, and the submissive in me kneels to him. My name said in that tone makes the tempo of my heart beat faster, and my body is focused on one response: Yes, sir.
He touches me in so many ways. I wake early in the morning, and sometimes at that quiet hour between night and day, when the light out our window is still inky and black, I long for him. “Daddy,” I whisper in the early morning quiet, and God bless that man, he never hushes me, never pushes me away.
“Yes, baby,” he says, still wrapped in slumber, and he’ll reach for my hand, put his arm around me, or kiss my forehead if I slither under his arm for a warm, early-morning snuggle. I always make it quick. I’m just being sure of him.
His hands are strong and possessive, on the back of my neck as we walk side-by-side, spanning my waist as he comes up behind me in the kitchen, tugging my collar to remind me to obey, slipping under the bed clothes to touch what is his whenever he desires to, never asking but taking and I love that. Holding me over his lap, spanking my bare skin, stripping away my fears or reminding me to obey.
My heart is his completely. I adore him. I long to please him, to honor him, to be the little girl he is proud of. “Are you my good girl?” he’ll ask, or “Do you need your daddy, little one?” I melt, as nothing brings me more pleasure than to know he is pleased with me.
My mind is his, as he leads me to be a better person, clearing away the insecurities that hold me back, teaching me to be kind and loving. He probes and challenges and molds, holding me to the same standards of goodness and kindness he holds himself. He has taught me the power of positive thinking, molding me with the simplest of words: Always assume the positive.
My body is his entirely. I never refuse a touch, or more. His hands roam my body with a delicious possessiveness, firm and claiming, a master with his instrument. His touch brings me comfort, pleasure, or pain as he sees fit, but never pain without purpose. It thrills me. I am owned by him. He delights in my curves and imperfections. “You are beautiful,” he says. “I love your body,” he vows. And he shows me just how very much he means it.
There is an intrinsic connection between heart, mind, body and soul. When this lifestyle does what it should do, two people meeting the needs of another so fully, dedicated to acts of service and love, the fulfillment is holistic. It is no longer one-sided, limited, or muted but full and vivid, a beautiful connection of all parts of the self. And it is then – with the denial of self and meeting of the needs of the other – in the stripping away of selfish proclivities and demands of the world – when two people see one another, bared and broken, and accept one another regardless– that love blossoms.