Page 23 of Daddy!

He pulled me into his arms. "Then you have to think what your Daddy would want you to do."

"No, I hafta decide which one is the worst fate. And a nap is way better than a spanking."

He looked a little bemused, then said, "Okay, whatever gets you to the right decision, I suppose. I don't guess I'm likely to understand a little's logic."

"It's very easy, Daddy. It's the logic of the least unpleasant consequence when faced with having to do something you don't wanna do."

"Uh huh," he said, producing the freshly washed jammies I'd been wearing.

"You got the stain out! Thank you!" I said as he changed my pseudo-diaper and popped me into them, leaving both of them collected around my calves, for some reason. "I liked the ice cream, but I was sad that I'd ruin'd them."

He looked glad to hear that, for some reason. "You didn't ruin them, lovey. And I'll get you a couple more of them—in different patterns—for the summer. Maybe we could look at them together when you wake up from your nap."

I humphed, wanting to spend time with him looking at things for me, but not wanting to be reminded that I was expected to go to sleep in a few minutes.

But he certainly hadn't forgotten. Nor had he forgotten what he'd said he would do to me every time I had to go to sleep, because as he pressed the pacifier into my mouth unexpectedly, he pressed his own warm, open, wet mouth onto my clit.

I yelped behind the binky, hips naturally arching myself up against his ravenous tongue. "Give me your hands, little one."

This time, instead of having me hold onto the headboard, he looped his strong fingers around my wrists instead, pinning them into the mattress, one next to each hip.

He drew back just a bit, in order to mutter—his lips still against me, "There now. Daddy's got you. Time for Daddy to make you come so you can sleep well. I know that your kitty's gotten all het up in your diaper, hugged by all of that softness and warmth. So, I'm going to take the edge off for you. You just lie still and let it happen. Daddy's not going to stop until he's worn you out—not now, not tonight, either."

I tugged at my hands—I don't know why. I wasn't going to do anything in particular with them. I guess I was testing his resolve, and he passed with flying colors, clamping down a bit harder. "No, baby. Don't resist; it'll just make things harder. You don't want your Daddy to have to paddle you again, do you? I will, if you continue to resist me. Wouldn't that be horrible when your pretty little bottom is still so sore? This morning, it was almost purple in a few spots before I stopped."

I swear, I could feel every bit of that purple!

As he was lavishing that now continually swollen bud with his lips and tongue, he let go of one of my wrists. I thought he might trail his fingers down my groove to fill me with them, but instead, he reached beneath me, cupping and then squeezing the very area he was speaking about, reviving the awful throbbing in my taut, swollen skin that had died down to a dull, background roar.

How he managed to sound so stern and yet so sorry to have punished me, while causing me to feel very punished, indeed, by his own hand, I'll never know. But it went straight to the heart of everything I'd ever wanted in a Daddy, how I'd always wanted a Daddy to be with me and to me.

Of course, I tried to move away, to lift myself out of his hand, and that meant offering myself up to him even more fully as he devoured me whole.

Every time he lifted his head to speak to me, he was teasing me at the same time, leaving me hanging, needing his mouth on me. His hand reclaimed my wrist, but not before he'd done the same to the other side, and the damage was done. He'd proven to me that I really was Daddy's girl—a paddled little girl—thoroughly punished and now thoroughly pleasured, and there was nothing I could do about either situation. I was moaning constantly as he lapped me up, licking down to my entrance, loudly savoring my own dew, then back up again, held captive for it all.

"That's it, babygirl," he whispered huskily against me. "Daddy's going to make you come, whether you want to or not. Then, when he decides you're sated, he'll tuck you in and turn the lights down, so that you can have a good, long afternoon nap. That's the best thing for my little girl—to have a set bedtime that Daddy makes her keep and a schedule, so she always gets put down in the afternoon, and of course, she gets a very thorough punishment if she's naughty—"

There was nothing for it when it crashed over me but to give myself up to it—to him—when he had deliberately built that wave to a tsunami that would just about wipe me out. To keen and cry with it—and I did, over and over again—as his mouth rode my wildly bucking hips, never leaving me, never not flicking over and over me with the tip or pressing the flat of it over all of me at once as he drew muted circles over my heated flesh or licking me, top to bottom.

As a result, I was buffeted from peak to peak, never really allowed to come down from those towering heights, never even beginning to recover in any way, carried off out to sea, but never beyond the enormous waves of sensation that he was continually causing in me.

Finally, I found it within myself to whisper exhaustedly, "Mercy, Daddy. Mercy. Please."

He chuckled his way away from me. "Well, well, well. I'll take that as a compliment, my lovely little girl."

I could barely focus my eyes, but I could see that his face was literally dripping with my juices, and he looked unbearably happy with himself. An errant thought flitted through my muddled head. How could I possibly have gotten so lucky?

And my undeserved luck continued for the rest of the weekend. He decided not to discuss rules with me until Sunday night, when we'd had a little more time and experience being together as Daddy and little.

But that night, after dinner, he turned off the TV and pulled me onto his lap. "Come to me, my pretty," he said, cackling in a relatively decent impression of the Wicked Witch of the West.

"No, no, no! Help me, Dodo!"

When he had me in his clutches, he said, "I think the dog's name was Toto."

"It was. And he wasn't much help to anyone, either—got himself captured by the witch and practically eaten by the Cowardly Lion."

His befuddled look told me that I had thought entirely too much about The Wizard of Oz, as far as he was concerned. "Anyway, as I mentioned this morning, I want to talk to you about putting some rules into effect."

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