I still have a hard time asking for it. I know he’s happy to do it, he likes it even, but it’s not something he really needs or initiates on his own.
It’s mostly something I need when I’m feeling disconnected, or overwhelmed with everyday stuff. When my head is spinning and I’m lonely and I want to feel calm, settled, loved.
I know I could just tell him that I want him to take control—to spank me until my ass is red, throw me around like a ragdoll, call me his sweet girl and fuck me until all I can feel is his body in mine. It’s just hard to say the words, so we have a signal instead.
My husband knows that when I wear my pretty, girly underwear—the stuff with bows and flowers and ribbons—that I need to be little.
I put it on in the middle of the day, before he gets home. Just the feel of soft cotton and silk against my skin gets me excited, distracts me from my problems, but I’m not really happy until he notices.
Tonight he doesn’t see them until after dinner. He’s watching TV and I’m tidying up, and I bend low to pick a magazine up off the floor.
“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and calm. “Come over here.”
I shuffle across the floor and stand in front of him, shrugging off my fear and my tension as he wraps his big hands around my waist and folds me over his knee.
“What a bad girl you are, showing off these pretty little panties,” he says, pulling my skirt up to expose them completely. “I think maybe I should spank you and teach you a lesson, what do you think?”
I sigh, relaxing against him, and once again I’m safe in the knowledge that he will take care of me. “Yes, Daddy,” I whisper. “Please.”
Wow. That’s it.
