Page 31 of Daddy!

"Stay still. I'm almost done."

He guided me into the bedroom, pausing to bump up the heat, then, casually naked, proceeded to carry me to the big rocking chair he'd put in his bedroom. It was the same kind of big chair I used at Bette's place. When I'd told him about it, we'd gone shopping for one almost immediately, and he'd actually gotten two—one for here and one for the living room. It lived up to my fantasies about it. It was just perfect for the two of us.

Prepared as always, Mane had grabbed a spare blanket, which he spread out over the two of us, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me to him. "I'm so glad you're all right, little love. I was so worried about you when you told me you'd gone off the road."

"I'm sorry I worried you, Daddy, and that you had to come get me."

He played with my hair a bit, not looking into my eyes, which worried me. "I know you are, kitten." But then he did, and it was worse to see the disappointment in them, and hearing it in his voice made me hide my face against him. "But that was a very naughty thing to do. I'm not going to rehash the bad choices you made when you decided to disobey me. You're a very smart girl, and you know what you did that I'm extremely unhappy about. You put yourself in needless danger, and you're very lucky that your little accident wasn't much worse than it was. And I'm afraid that you've earned a very severe punishment because of that."

I began to wail, but I'm not sure if that was more because I knew I wasn't going to be sitting down comfortably for quite some time or because I'd let him down. They were both equally horrible to consider.

After holding me for a long time, making sure I was warm again and fully recovered, Mane stood up, taking my hand and bringing me to a standing position, also. We were both naked at that point, and he had me turn around so that I was facing the seat of the recliner. "Put your hands on the arms of the chair, young lady, and don't even think about moving."

I had been weeping from the point of my confession, but as I remained in that stark position, I began to tremble, too. It was such a blatant punishment position, so different from how he usually disciplined me, over his lap or next to him on the bed, where we were still in contact, he was close to me, and even though those spankings or paddlings were no fun, there was a loving intimacy to them that I missed terribly now.

When he reappeared, he was fully clothed in jeans and a polo shirt, which just made me feel that much more vulnerable to him. But worse than that—much, much worse—was what he was carrying—my cane.

He'd bought it early on in our relationship, after recognizing that, although I was generally a pleaser, I could do some stupid—usually just stubborn—stuff, and occasionally needed a firmer hand. Mane hadn't had a lot of cause to use it, but more than enough that it easily became my most hated implement.

He stood to one side of me, where I could see him, his hand on the small of my back, standing close, which gave me at least some comfort. He looked stricken, and what he said to me next, his words choked up, proved that I was right.

"I'm not quite sure how I feel about using the cane on you, Tahlia. I had considered my belt, but somehow, that seemed even less appropriate to me." His fingertips caressed my back gently. "I'm sorry to have to do this, doll, but I can't see any other way to let you know just how seriously naughty you were and to make sure that you think twice before you disobey me and do anything that stupid again."

With that, he took his position behind me to my left, the cane in his right hand. He laid it up against my cheeks, then said, "This is going to be very hard for you to bear, I'm sure, but do not move your hands from the arm of the chair, babygirl. I'm not playin'. If you do that, I will restart the count from the beginning, even if there's only one more stroke to go. You're going to get thirty-five stripes."

I gasped, but he had timed it well, bringing the first of them down across my cheeks seconds later.

It was a good thing it was winter and all of the windows were closed, the storm windows down, and lots of the houses around him were owned by "from aways", which meant they were boarded up till next summer. In other words, there was no one to hear me scream.

And scream, I did. Mane didn't give one the chance to die down before he caused another, and they only seemed to get louder and more fervent, at first, although they died down a bit towards the middle as my mouth stayed open, breath fully expelled until the next one made me draw in a great gulp of air and scream it out again. I didn't realize until later on that I wasn't the only one moaning when the cane fell.

Thank God for the padding on the arms of the chair. It was plentiful and loose, and I could really grab onto it, which I desperately needed to do to save myself from having any of this repeated.

There was no lecture, there was no reassuring feeling of his hard thighs beneath me, and there was no mercy. He went through them like a machine, his face—what I could see of it through my tears—hard and resigned to what he knew he had to do. I'd never seen that particular expression on him, even when he was Domming me. I think that was because this was as hard for him to do to me as it was for me to have it done.

Mane did the counting—I don't think I would have gotten much past two or three. But he didn't number the strike until after he'd delivered it, not giving me the time to prepare that announcing it beforehand would have allowed me.

By the time he got to the last five strokes, we were both panting heavily, and those were the worst. "So I would remember them," he'd informed me the first time he'd caned me.

And this time was no exception.

Once he'd laid that thirty-fifth track across all of the others, I heard a clatter through my misery and realized he'd thrown the cane away. Then he gently gathered me up and carried me to his bed, where he put me down on my stomach and lay down beside me. But for some reason, not right next to me.

I was barely coherent, weeping and wailing as if he was still punishing me, choking and coughing and hiccoughing, my fists still clenching as if I was holding onto the arms of the chair.

And he wasn't touching me anywhere except for a big hand on my back, above the evidence of the devastation he'd caused. He wasn't rubbing soothingly, even, as he always did. He wasn't talking to me and telling me that everything was all right now, that I was forgiven and that he loved me.

I don't know why he was so withdrawn, but the reasons didn't matter to me. I didn't care if he was still mad at me, I didn't care if he didn't want me to cling to him. I had to—literally, physically, mentally, emotionally, and psychologically had to. So, I crawled awkwardly over to him. You don't realize how hard it is to move in any way without moving your butt until your butt is swollen and striped with livid, raised red lines.

"Daddy!" I cried, snuggling myself up to him, just about as raw and open and needy as I had ever been in my life.

For a second, I felt him hesitate, and alarm bells began to ring even more agitatedly than my bottom was stinging. Was he going to reject me?

But then, it was as if a switch flipped, and his arms wrapped around me, and it was as if he couldn't get close enough to me. He kissed my face, he murmured softly into my ear, and he began to stroke my hair and rub my back.

"I'm so sorry I had to do that, my darling little girl. I'm so sorry."

I was amazed that he was apologizing to me, and when I had recovered some, I sat up. He had rolled onto his back, so that I could be comfortable draped over his broad chest, on my stomach, so I was looking down at him, knowing I looked a mess, but that was bound to happen sometimes in a relationship like ours.

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