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The spoon fell hard and fast, peppering my backside with a horrid swiftness that left me writhing and gasping for air.
I started begging. I knew my words were falling on deaf ears, but I said them anyway because there was a tiny part of me that hoped he would hear them. Maybe if I sounded pitiful enough, he would be merciful, but the longer the spoon terrorized my backside, the more that slight hope began to fade away.
“Daddy. Daddy, please,” I pleaded.
My bottom felt so swollen, and I was sure that I wouldn’t be able to sit for days. It had to be bright red by now, maybe even purple.
This was so much worse than the belt. The leather had been more forgiving. The spoon was focused in an area that was so much smaller and I sucked in a breath, trying to keep ahold of myself and quickly losing control.
Daddy had taken it. Daddy was in charge. Not me.
“Are you going to hide anything from Daddy anymore?” he asked firmly, and I wailed as I answered.
“No, Daddy!”
“Are you going to run from Daddy ever again?”
“No, Daddy,” I cried.
“Are you going to let Daddy keep you safe even when you’re scared?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered.
My voice was hoarse, and I squeezed my eyes shut. The spoon never stopped falling and I never stopped whimpering.
I didn’t want to cry.
The spoon was so hard, so firm, and so terrible that I knew it was inevitable though. I tried to blink my tears back. I tried to tell myself to stay strong.
I started to fight back. I rolled my hips, but they only rocked maybe half an inch. He had me thoroughly pinned against him. My fingertips dug into my shoulders as I tried to hold on, but then my breath caught in the back of my throat.
I couldn’t pull myself forward or go backwards. I was trapped.
The first tear dripped down my cheek. I sniffed, attempting to draw it back, but another fell. And then another. My body slumped forward, and I gasped for air.
Everything hurt. My bottom hole still blazed hot from the ginger and every square inch of my bottom and thighs was scalded from the cruel bite of the wooden spoon.
I started to sob. I was hardly even aware of the spoon slowing, but it did. Each spank now was heavier, more solid, more absolute, and every one reminded me why I was being punished.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I cried out, my voice hardly above a whisper.
“Shh, little girl. I know. It’s all over now,” he murmured.
I vaguely recognized that the spoon wasn’t paddling me anymore. His fingers skated over my flesh before they grasped the ginger and gently pulled it out. I squeaked more in surprise than pain. The insertion had been far worse that the process of removing it.
The burn in my asshole had turned from a terrible hellfire to more of a gentle warmth, a solid reminder of just how vicious it had been.
His palm brushed over my backside as he carefully inspected his handiwork. His rough skin stung against mine, but his caress was tender and that was soothing to me. After he was finished, he lifted me up so that I was leaning against his chest. I pressed my cheek to his shoulder, unable to stop the flow of tears.
The longer I cried, the more I realized it wasn’t just from my punishment. I was grieving the loss of so much more than that.
I’d never been allowed to have a life.
Until him.
I’d never been allowed to love.
Until him.
