Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Archive for the ‘daddy/girl’ Category

My Master and I have been going through quite a lot, emotionally, these past few months. He’s not happy in his job at the moment, and what with my father not doing well and a number of other serious emotional things, it’s been very hard for us to manage even being a happy husband and wife, never-mind bring back kink into our relationship.

One of the reasons kink has been so scarce for us is that my Master has had serious concerns about being fair and reasonable. He’s been in some seriously cranky moods, for very good reasons, and he hasn’t wanted to take them out on me.

This would be all well-and-good, except that he hadn’t really expressed to me the extent of how miserable work was making him – he was trying not to bother me, to protect me from worrying information. Also it can’t be easy on him that I have depression – I can understand him not wanting to bring me down.

But the fact of the matter is that when the going gets tough, I can, as our dear Miss Maggie Mayhem says, “Pull on my Big Girl Panties.” And I need to know about what is happening in his life and mind and heart, because if I don’t, I can’t act properly on the information I’m lacking. Which can lead to a number of unpleasant results, like him resenting me for wanting things from him that he doesn’t have the energy to give, or him feeling bad that he can’t give me what I want (which I’m only asking of him because I don’t know better), and that guilt making the whole situation worse in a downward-spiral-y type of way.

Well, we’ve gotten though the worst of it. (I think and hope!) Now that I know what’s going on, I can give him the support he needs – or at least not ask stuff of him at bad times! As part of the healing process, we’ve been discussing getting back our disciplinary dynamic.

The main gist of our discussing (and discussing this stuff is very much fun, almost foreplay in its own right!) is that he is going to let go of his concerns about “fairness.” They were making him second-guess himself to the point that he never did anything, and to earn a punishment I had to basically “act out” in a very obvious way. Not particularly good for us!

Now, if I bother, annoy, or otherwise inconvenience him, something will be done about it. There is no excuse for feeling sick or tired or just having a sudden attack of stupidity. Another change is that our focus isn’t just “the paddle,” anymore. There will be a variety of levels of discipline and punishment.
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An excellent post (as always) from The Spanking Writers includes a (more introspective than I ever imagined) quote from Scary Spice:

The anticipation was worse than the punishment. I knew exactly what was coming. I’d walk into a silent room, bend over, get smacked (by his hand or a belt), then stand up and walk out of the room without saying a word…. I dreaded it. Sometimes, though, I think I was naughty on purpose, just to get dad’s full attention for a few minutes.

In the first place, that very anticipation and the ritual aspect are both vital. But that’s not what I want to write about just now.

As a little girl I wanted my daddy’s attention. (Well, I wanted all the attention I could get from everyone, but my daddy’s counted the most!) And I’d do anything to get it — good behaviour, bad behaviour — whatever worked best! And since my parents didn’t really punish me very efficaciously, it was just as likely to be the latter as the former, when I was a child! In my teens it changed — then I wanted him to pay as little attention to me as possible, so I could do the stuff I wanted to do with him not forbidding me or lecturing me!

Now I have come full circle, but at least I am self-aware. I want my Daddy’s attention as much as possible. When he is busy on the computer, and doesn’t have time for me, it hurts just as much as when I was a little girl and my daddy had to work.

There is an amusing family story that when I was about 5 or 6, my bio-father had a meeting one weekend day. Now, I had accepted that my daddy would be at work during the day on weekdays, but weekends were MINE, and I was a jealous god little girl. So I pitched a fit with all the power of my wee vocal cords and body (the vocal cords, I am given to understand, were not unimpressive, and my mother assures me I was Olympic-level for throwing myself on the ground and pounding my little fists and feet.

My dad gave his lecture with me on his hip.

And I was a happy little girl, because I was with my daddy. (And, of course, I’d WON!)

Now I’m in a slightly different place. Not in my desires — they are still as simple as wanting to be with my Daddy, and wanting attention from him. But now I don’t want to be a spoiled creature — I want the discipline to not throw fits when I don’t get my way. (I don’t, for the record, still throw myself to the ground and scream and pound my fists. But there are adult behaviours, the worst of which include manipulation and being passive-aggressive, which are just as vile as any childish misbehaviour! And my mom is a very passive-aggressive manipulator, so I live in terror of having picked those things up from her!)

However, no matter how well I may learn to accept that I can’t always get all the attention (which I think will be a life-time’s study!), punishment will always have as it’s most beguiling attraction, the fact that when you are being punished, all your punisher’s attention is right on you. And as much as you may dislike the pain or other educational aspects of punishment, you can still bask in the attention being lavished upon you.

I suppose a contrary person might point out that then, in my case, a true punishment for me is simply to ignore me. I have two answers to that: in the first place, this is supposed to be loving discipline — not cruel and unusual punishment! And secondly, my Master and I have the complimentary urges, wired into our sexuality, to be punisher-and-punishee. And since we’ve been lucky enough to find each other, in this wide world full of mistakes and missed connections, we really both ought to derive some enjoyment from our mutual needs that now can be fulfilled.

And what that means is that I need to police myself a bit, and not act too badly, be a little bit in charge of myself and consider my actions and words. The reward for that effort though, is getting to revisit being a little girl who gets punished by her Daddy, having his love and concern for her proven with his attentions, over and over again.

(And somehow, getting lectured became hot for me, too, somewhere along all of this. I remember saying as a teen that no punishment could be worse than my dad droning on at me. Now my Master can’t make me a happier lil’ pervert than if he reads me the riot act before my thrashing!)

*Please note that I’m not calling anyone stupid! I’m misquoting “It’s the economy, stupid” from Bill Clinton’s 1992 presidential campaign.

Graham has just posted a though-provoking post, which concludes:

Anyway. I’d be interested to know how you feel about submission v. masochism – do you identify more as one or the other, or both? Does it change depending on the week, day, scene? Are you so label-transcending and over this shit that you don’t even think about it anymore?

Well, Graham, I am both, obviously.

I would point out that submission can be explored just as well in roleplay scenes (or other limited time-period options) as well as 24/7 “Serve my Master’s Needs all day and night” situations … and for someone starting their explorations, the former is much, much better than the latter!

There is some confusion about “submission,” which I blame on the BDSM folk’s propensity to put forth an “I am more of a ‘bottomless pit’ than thou” attitude. It’s like there is some competition between subs about who can take more pain, who can be more submissive, who is willing to give up more of their life for their D/s dynamic. It’s horrid, and it really messes with the heads of the people who are new to the scene and trying to find themselves a place within it. (Speaking from experience, here!)

The confusion about submission comes in when people assume it has to be this full-on thing. But the fact of the matter is that if you bend over for a caning or some whacks from a hair-brush, you are in that moment being submissive (regardless of whether you are a masochist, and indeed, if you are not a masochist, you are being even more submissive in that moment!) Only if every spanking you get involves you being tied down so tight you can’t move, after being “taken down” because you were unwilling to stand still for being tied up, does a spanking not include some greater or lesser amount of submission.

That doesn’t make you a submissive. There’s times throughout any vanilla day when you are compliant, acquiescent, or just passive, and those are all synonyms for “submissive” – and that doesn’t make you a submissive either. As any dog could tell you – there are times when it’s just a plain good idea to roll on your back and expose your tummy and wag your tail.

So playing around with submission is no big deal, and to some extent it is in most spanking scenes, regardless of whether you admit (or recognize it) it or not. You can take it up to another level by talking about it, and adding more of that dynamic, but being conscious of it and playing with it don’t mean it’s suddenly an ingredient that wasn’t in the recipe before – you’re just changing it up from a tablespoon to three Tbs., and maybe using grated fresh submission instead of dried powdered submission.

To address the other part of the question, my Master* and I started out with a very D/s dynamic, partially because that’s what I knew (coming from that world and not the Spanko one), and he was excited about playing with that dynamic.

Over time that has evolved, and I’d say we are now more Daddy/girl, or more like the domestic discipline people (although we don’t have a lot of things in common with them, otherwise!) but my submission has not changed in a number of ways: I try to serve him in such a way that it makes his life better (this involves making a lot of tea for him – not a very difficult charge!) and I accept his discipline.

I don’t shift in my submissive level as regards my Master very much. I can get in a shirty mood and be less considerate and obliging (and refuse to follow rules) but that is not a shift in personality as much as it is me being a spoiled half-child half-adult who needs some discipline! (As regards other people, I am not particularly submissive at all — I’m a take-charge kinda gal! A favourite saying from the BDSM world: “I’m submissive — but I’m not your submissive!”)

So I would say that most people’s labels/definitions don’t fit us very well, although saying that he is dominant and I am submissive gets a certain amount of information across most effectively, and our unique variations can be discussed in the depth they deserve, if the person actually wants to hear all about it!

*I capitalize “Master” because to me it’s a proper noun and thus should take a capital. No one else has to call him “Master,” and if they want to say, “Your master is a wonderful and fabulous man,” they don’t need to capitalize the M-word. But the whole D/s capitalization thang is an aspect of the “kinkier than thou” problem, and thus deserves to be disregarded as juvenile and ridiculous. No, I ain’t mincing words on this matter!

Wow, how this month has flown by. Damn, there went that summer, and I really don’t feel I had enough time to fully enjoy and appreciate it!

Now that it’s September, I realize I’d better finish this serial, before events overtake me again – i.e., before I go to my first ShadowLane party!

Mr. Defeu has been in Daddy-mode a lot recently.

Of course, that title might squick the pure-spankos who come over here even more than “Master.” I mean, “Master” sounds all BDSM-y and possibly pushes emotional buttons, but how many more buttons does “Daddy” push?! And we’ve talked about it, and while it would be a good solution otherwise, “my Sir” is not for us, because it’s not a natural part of language, e.g. the way “my Lord” is. (Errr, the English language, I should specify, as “Monsieur” is exactly that. But if I called him “Monsieur” we’d both fall over laughing, unless we were doing the whole bloody scene in French! Which, come to think of it, could probably not be accomplished without massive giggling, anyway! Now German, that would fit a scene very, very well…. But I don’t think he’ll take to “Mein Herr,” either, and honestly, that leads to visions of clicking my heels and saying, “Yavol, Mein Herr!” and then falling over in giggles as well….)

But I’ve wandered off track – thinking about it, I’ll use “my Daddy” for the rest of this post. Those of you who read it, please leave me a comment letting me know how you feel about it – does it work? Or does it squick you out?

So, here we go – I started over my Daddy’s lap; hand-spanking and then the mean slipper. Once I was crying out and bouncing around, I was put over the edge of the bed and he decided to work through a large selection of his tawses, as we’d just found the missing Campbells (they were, if you can imagine it, in the toy bag!)
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Just a couple days ago I linked to a post by Haron of The Spanking Writers which discussed the painful truth that: “without taking on and processing different kinds of violence visited by one human being on another throughout history, we would be bereft of any settings for role-play.”

Well, Pandora also had thoughts on the matter, and it inspired her to write this amazing one, in which she points out:

Reading this material is uncomfortable in several different ways. The first and obvious is basic human compassion and empathy: we are horrified to hear of suffering, particularly prolonged cruelty visited on the most vulnerable. At the most basic level, it’s painful to imagine torture because the idea of experiencing it ourselves is horrible.

As a pervert, it’s uncomfortable because of the superficial resemblance between the horrific reality and the sex games we enjoy. Never mind the consent boundary, the crucial factors of choice and agency; the difference between an experience that one chooses and can stop at any point; that is short-lived; that one shares with loved ones – and an experience that one does not choose, that is inflicted by people you hate, that is ongoing. The idea that we enjoy something which looks like something real and tragic and horrible makes us feel doubtful and guilty. The idea that we might be selfishly exploiting the suffering of others adds to that guilt.

Both Haron’s post and now Pandora’s have got me thinking, and I actually have a moment to write it down!

I have a lot of fantasies or general interests I probably ought to feel guilty about — and sometimes do, although less and less as the years go by….

When I was but a wee little girl, I knew I was into spanking, and I knew it was something to hide. And other ideas got my little mind all hot and bothered: the sight of a girl in a guillotine (I like to think it was about the bondage aspect of it, not the decapitation, but I was a sick lil’ thing, so who knows…), or the violence of the afternoon cartoon line-up when I was a kid — particularly Tom and Jerry, although they were all quite violent, come to remember it! I was fascinated by violence and couldn’t take my eyes of the screen, or close the pages of the book — well, unless some adult came by, in which case I’d very studiously be interested in something else, or flip to another page in the book. Me, fascinated by this stuff? Never!

When I was 12 I renounced all my kinky fantasies, and decided I would only allow myself a straight, vanilla sexuality. I didn’t have those words for it, obviously, but basically I looked around, found women’s romance novels, decided that was the paradigm of what I should be “into,” and banished all my kinky, bisexual notions from my head. (What I didn’t realize at the time was that romance novels are kinky in their own way, being generally either pre-feminist or so post-feminist as to have forgotten feminism ever existed, and having the fetish of “Big Strong Men With Shiny Muscles.” And there was usually a sexy bad guy who looses out in the story, but to whom my heart — and, errr, my loins — were always much more sympathetic.)

I thought I was well on track, despite the fact that first adult male I had a true sexual crush upon was David Bowie as Jareth in Labyrinth. I was obviously in a deep and sincere state of denial that it didn’t occur to me that this was kinky; that such lines as, “Just fear me, worship me, and I will be your slave,” might not be what is normally said in vanilla relationships. And the fact that I hated Sarah for not taking Jareth up on the above offer, but spurned his obviously superior affections … well, all I can say is that I obviously never had a good idea of what “normal” was in the first place, so it’s no wonder I should fail so utterly at trying to live up to such unknown and illogical standards!

Getting back to serious matters, though, I didn’t really understand the guilt of liking things other people “knew” were wrong until well after I accepted my kinkiness at age 17. It was my boyfriend Iago who got me into role-playing, and so even while I was a schoolgirl, I was playing “schoolgirl visits her Uncle Iago’s house and gets taken advantage of,” as well as my first explorations in bondage and rough sex. (He also gets the credit of talking me into shaving my pussy for the first time, and as I have done so ever since, I do owe him a thank you for that, even though he dumped me at my prom — leaving me to find my own way home, I’d add — which does temper my gratitude, rather!)

It was some years after that in which the big moment of disgust at myself for my twisted desires occurred. I’d done a fair bit of “rape play” (or, to use a far more comfortable and p.c. term, “consensual non-consent”) by this time, and I’d always been entirely sanguine about it.

And then one of my little sister’s best friends got raped. Really horribly raped.

I knew the girl and liked her a great deal. And she so didn’t deserve it — not that anyone ever does, but this girl had had a hard enough life without adding that much more trauma and pain and years of self-doubt and god knows what it did to her ability to have a normal sexuality, whatever “normal” was for her.

Suddenly, I hated myself. How could I — how dare I? — get turned on by playing with the idea of something so terrible, so destructive, so wrong! And my sister insisted on telling me details — I knew I really oughtn’t hear them, but I did need to provide support to my sister if she needed to talk about the situation — and to make things all the worse, the details sounded like something that, if I was doing them in a role-play setting, would have turned me on no end. Even just hearing about them caused physical, sexual reactions in my body, even as my mind was horrified at the details — and all the more horrified by my response.

It took years to get me back to that innocent appreciation of rape-play. That sentence may sound funny to some, but the fact is that if women were safe to play with such concepts, and never fear actually suffering them in real life, it would be a much better world! Now, with Mr. Defeu, I can explore my darkest fantasies, because I trust him so utterly. This is something I deeply appreciate.

But I still have a reaction when I see a brutal beating in a film, or a rape scene. One part of me despises it — wants to cover her eyes so I don’t see the violence. The other part of me can’t shut her eyes because it’s too erotically hypnotic. I can wince in total empathy … and yet get wet at the same time. And both are unconscious reactions!

For example, Mr. Defeu and I have been watching Heat of the Sun and one episode starts with a Boer man beating a worker (to death, it turns out later) and then walking back to his house, where his daughter has been watching the whole time. “Daddy,” she says, lust oozing from her voice. (Actually, what she says is “Daddeh” — sounds much sexier!) And her father reaches out, smears her lipstick with his finger across her cheek in this movement of pure promised sexual violence, and then grabs her and kisses her.

Well, I nearly fell off the sofa. I’m not made hot by the actual fact that things like this really happened in East Africa in the ’30s, but all the ingredients for a hot role-play (by my standards!) were there! Move the beating from some poor worker to me, and suddenly we have a winner: Daddeh and I (Motheh is out of the picture — it’s just me and Daddeh on the farm in the middle of nowhere) go out to a party, and I have a bit too much of the bubbly and flirt with a boy. Maybe even a native boy! [gasp shock] Well, Daddeh drags me home, where I am suitably unapologetic enough to warrant myself a serious beating — possibly with Daddeh’s belt, as it may be the first thing to hand! Then, because I’m like that, Daddeh takes me roughly (probably in the ass, which is what normally happens in my fantasies) to prove that I belong to him. What really gets me off in this fantasy is that it is entirely true for my character: as an unmarried young lady, I’d be the charge of my father, and he’d be within his rights to beat me. And, in that time and place, no one would pry into Daddeh’s business (he’s rich, a “gentleman,” you see) so he could really do whatever he wanted with me — use me as vilely as he liked, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop it. That’s the really hot part for me.

Of course, for me to get aroused while watching the scene in the show, I had to seriously overlook the poor guy who gets beaten to death. I have to seriously overlook how terrible the scene I just wrote above would be in reality.

Mr. Defeu, noticing my humping his leg during the scene in the show, and perhaps noticing that I wouldn’t stop talking about it, the next day showed me a scene from made-for-TV movie, “The Happy Valley”

Again, overlooking certain truths means that I can find that extraordinarily arousing. I’m bugging Mr. Defeu all the time now, “You can’t show me that and not do a role-play of that with me, Sir!” and [tugging on sleeve] “When are we gonna play Happy Valley, huh huh?!”

This post has taken me five days to write, not just because I’m rather busy caring for Mr. Defeu post-his accident, but because I’ve had to think through this stuff a lot. (And, in the case of The Happy Valley, think about it with Mr. Buzzy held between my legs.) Just last night, with strange correspondence, we watched a show with Trevor Eve from Heat of the Sun, and a grown-up Holly Aird from The Happy Valley. It was Waking The Dead Season Four’s “The Hardest Word”

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