Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

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!)

So one tawse after another was taken to my bottom. Some were just for six, some were for twelve or more (I guess he was liking the results with those!) At one point, he had switched from standing on my left, strapping me with his right hand, to standing on my right, thwacking away with his left hand – to even things out, of course! It was a heavy strap, as I recall, and it was wrapping onto my hip, so I kept shuffling to the left a little, so that his next stroke would land squarely on the target. But his inner sadist had come out, and he followed along, so it was “thwack!” and then I’d wiggle stage left, followed by him taking a small step along, and then “thwack!” again, and away I’d wiggle, and again he’d follow. “I like this little dance,” he said evilly. I didn’t reply, because I had nothing good to say.

He then informed me that we were going to have to end with twelve from the cane. I really didn’t have much to say to that either, because, “Really? It’s not like we have to do that – it’s actually just that you want to!” is not an acceptable answer at such moments. (Unless you desire the amount of pain to double!)

I was crying by the end of that, and the subsequent sexual intercourse was very satisfying for all – especially because my bottom was so sore, that his pounding against it keep the pain going along with the pleasure.

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