Saturday, June 23, 2007


well since the move nothing has really happened to me lifestyle wise. I have been looking for a job with no luck, and I have been walking almost every day for 6-miles a day. I figure I need to get back to losing weight so I can boost my self confidence and feel beter about myself until I can find someone new for me. I dont have any friends here yet, but I an a very optimistic person so I know I will soon. but while nothing is happening I decided i will post stories I find online that are similar to what I am looking for and hoping to get out of my BDSM life. so this first story i found on my friend's myspace blog. I read it almost a year ago and cant get it out of my head, it just sounds almost perfect to me.

It always begins differently. Sometimes with an e-mail, sometimes with a phone call. And often there is no warning at all. Like tonight.

I return home from work a little after 8 pm, later than I'd planned, arms filled with groceries, feet aching from a long day spent on my feet. Distractedly I'm thinking about unpaid bills and the depleted state of my chequing account. There always seems to be something to worry about, and lately I've felt so stressed and pre-occupied, my stomach always in knots. It's been more difficult than I'd imagined, working full time and going back to school. And now I'll have to worry about repaying student loans, too.

Juggling the bags of groceries in one arm, I unlock and open the front door, kicking off my shoes in the hallway, sighing in relief. Once I reach the kitchen I dump the paper bags on the counter, then massage my aching back. Home at last. All I want to do is take a shower and go to bed. Early.

"Michele Marie?" I hear these words and feel flooded with warmth and relief. I will not be alone tonight.

Wandering from the kitchen down the hall, I find him in the living room, reading the newspaper. I drop exhaustedly on the couch, propping my feet on the coffee table, leaning my head on a broad, comforting shoulder. Closing my eyes, I snuggle into his warmth.

"How's my little girl?" he asks, carefully folding the newspaper and putting it aside.

"Frustrated. Tired." I mumble. "Exhausted." I amend my statement. "Nothing's been going right." And now I want nothing more than to be held.

"Come here, pumpkin," he urges me, pulling me onto his lap, hugging me tight. For the next few minutes I rest in his arms as he rocks me back and forth, feeling his warmth sink into my tired body. And as he embraces me and strokes my hair, I start to feel young and small, enveloped and protected by his size and strength and love for me. I shudder, suddenly on the verge of tears.

"It's okay, honey," he reassures me. "Daddy's here."

It's hard for me to admit to needing someone. I hate feeling vulnerable and have a lot of trouble asking for help of any kind. And, oh, the fights we had about this topic. Over and over. About my refusal to acknowledge feeling scared and needy, sometimes. Arguments about my inability to admit to my mistakes. Conflict about my fear that the little girl in me would scare him away. Until the night I came home and he greeted me with my full name: "Michele Marie." The night I came home to Daddy.

When he's my Daddy I can let him take care of me; I don't have to pretend to be strong when I'm feeling weak, I don't have to feign the self-control and independence that is sometimes a burden. With Daddy I feel like a little girl again- young in my skin, free of responsibility. For a while I can be the child who needs protection and guidance; I can admit my faults. I can be the girl who needs her Daddy's loving discipline.

"I think my baby needs a bath," he decides, and I nod obediently, eager to soak in a tub full of hot water. I rise from Daddy's lap, and with a hand at my back he guides me towards the bathroom. Daddy starts to run the water, adjusting the temperature carefully, and I begin to disrobe, unbuttoning my blouse.

"No, honey." His voice is gentle but firm. "Let Daddy undress you."

Passivity can be such a release. It feels so good to be acted upon, rather than act. To wait, trustingly and expectantly, for Daddy to recognize my needs and take care of them. This is one of the gifts Daddy gives me.

Standing in front of him I avert my eyes as his hands complete the task of unbuttoning my blouse, then slide it off my shoulders and down my arms. Obediently I turn around at Daddy's command, and he unhooks my bra, slipping the straps off my shoulders. As I turn back again to face him I blush a little, knowing that Daddy can see my breasts and small brown nipples. Protectively I cross my arms across my chest, but he reprimands me: "Hands at your side, sweetheart."

"Yes, Daddy." When I'm a little girl my voice is higher, softer, melodious. I don't know how this happens, but the change is natural and unforced, and I am not conscious of it when it occurs, though Daddy has commented on the transformation.

Nervously I let my hands fall to my sides. It's embarrassing to be naked in front of Daddy, though I'm very casual about my body with Jess. Daddy's touch, though, is asexual as he unzips my skirt and lets it puddle at my feet. I start a little and squirm when I feel Daddy's hands at the waistband of my panties, and he gives me a gentle swat on my bottom- "don't fidget, pumpkin."

Daddy tugs down my panties leisurely and I try not to wriggle as my underwear descends, exposing my backside, thighs and soft thatch of hair. When the panties reach my feet I kick them off, eager to be in the bathtub and to hide my nakedness. I clench my legs tightly together, feeling shy and awkward.

"Spread your legs, honey," He bids me.

"Daddy," I protest, my voice soft and embarrassed.

A sharp spank reminds me to obey my Daddy, and reluctantly I shuffle my feet apart.

"Open your eyes, Michele Marie." His voice is very quiet. Daddy never yells.

I meet his gaze, see the admiration and love that I need. "Daddy's girl is growing into such a beautiful woman." I glow at this praise, bask in the words I never heard when I was a young girl and needed to hear them.

Daddy's fingers tug at the sparse hair that hides my cleft. "Maybe we should shave this, eh?" When I blush awkwardly, he grins and decides, "maybe next time."

"Into the tub, pumpkin." Once again Daddy gives my backside a swat, and with a shy smile I climb into the water, sighing gratefully as I sink into the hot water.

Our Daddy play has many rules- most of them never articulated. Together we intuited them. When he calls me "Michele Marie," I know that it is safe for me to be a little girl, time for Daddy to appear and take all control from me. And I give it up gratefully. When I am his little girl he uses endearments that adult Michele would scoff at- pumpkin, sweetpea, princess. But as a little girl I don't bristle at these diminutives; instead, they make me feel comforted, safe, loved. I've never told Daddy this, but he understands very clearly how good these affectionate words make me feel, and almost every sentence he utters either begins or ends with an endearment. And it seems very natural for me to call my lover Daddy in these moments.

Leaning back against the tiled wall of the shower I close my eyes, sinking into the heated water, feeling my muscles slowly relax.

For a few minutes Daddy lets me rest in the tub, and we talk quietly about this week's frustrations: a demanding boss, unpaid bills, lack of time to write, lack of time with him. I feel defeated and shamed by my weakness and failures, weary under the weight of so many obligations. Again I feel tears springing to my eyes, and Daddy suggests, "sit up, honey. Daddy will wash your hair for you."

This is one of our favourite rituals. Pulling my knees up to my belly I wrap my arms round my legs, my head drooping like a broken-stemmed flower as Daddy pours warm water on my hair, his hand stroking away the wet strands as they fall against my face. I smell the scent of the baby shampoo, and as he begins to lather my hair, fingers kneading my scalp and hairline, the tightness in my throat, the knot in my belly, dissolve. Daddy's ministrations are so gentle and loving and I sigh as he massages my neck and shoulders, the shampoo sliding off my hair and dissolving in the water, foamy and iridescent.

With the shower attachment Daddy rinses away the lather, his long fingers running through my hair, ensuring that no shampoo remains. This touch feels so good. Relaxing. Loving. I wish that I could let him take care of me more readily; frequently I accept this tenderness with too little grace, I fear. But my Daddy is patient with his little girl. Slowly I am learning that this gift comes with no obligation or cost to me.

"Daddy's going to wash you now, pumpkin." I nod silently, and lean back against the wet tiles as he begins to scrub me, the terry cloth brisk beneath strong hands as Daddy kneels beside the tub. I extend my arms and he washes each one, lingering over each finger, his thumb pressing into my palms. Daddy dwells a little on my neck and shoulders, hoping to relax me. Then the face cloth passes across my breasts, rubbing the underswell, teasing my nipples, and my face grows hot as they harden beneath Daddy's fingers. He chuckles in amusement, and my embarrassment increases.

"Hands and knees, honey. Daddy needs to clean you everywhere."

Momentarily I feel a sense of shame and resistance, and I shake my head. "Michele Marie." The warning is there, in Daddy's voice, and reluctantly I pull myself upright, the tub slippery and hard beneath my knees, my arms braced on the edge of the tub, my bottom resting on my heels.

Once again Daddy soaps the face cloth, then begins to scrub my back. His touch is brisk, but still arousing, and my hips arch to greet his hand as the cloth makes its way downwards.

And now Daddy abandons the washcloth and soaps his hands, and I wait, expectant, knowing what comes next.

Daddy knows what I need; he knows because I told him. For the longest time my hours with him were chaste. Then, one night I came home to a note on my desk: "tell me how you want Daddy to touch you." I cried for an hour, frightened to record the desires and fantasies that had shamed me for so long, sure that when I faced my lover I would see disgust or contempt. I cloaked my desire in euphemism, but still he understood. And Jess accepted what I needed; welcomed it. He showed me the grace that lay behind my shame. Showed me the pleasure that makes me whole.

And so I arch my back and present my bottom, welcoming Daddy's hands as they soap my buttocks, massaging the rounds of my flesh. My breath comes shallow and fast as a soapy finger glides down the furrow dividing my cheeks, and I moan as Daddy rubs teasingly at my anus, round and round, pressing gently, patiently. "Daddy needs to clean you everywhere," he reminds me, and I feel the tight muscle loosen and relax. The tip of his finger eases inside my bottom, moving slowly back and forth, the penetration shallow at first. I feel girlishly virginal and tight, both embarrassed and excited by this penetration.

"That's it, honey," he urges. "Open up. Let Daddy's finger inside. Let Daddy get you nice and clean." I moan at these words, feeling tears come to my eyes as the finger slowly penetrates me to the hilt.

As Daddy's finger squirms and twists in my anus, his other hand slides down my belly, through the thatch of my pubic hair, fingers searching for my bud. He rubs steadily, using the ball of his thumb to press at the side of my clitoris as his middle finger eases inside my sex. My ass opens to take Daddy's finger deeper, and I clasp the edges of the tub as I move closer and closer to orgasm, my hips rocking back and forth against the hands that pleasure me.

My arousal in these moments is that of a greedy child. I have no responsibility for my pleasure, or Daddy's. No needs exist beyond my own, and I delight in my selfishness and Daddy's insistence on it. He has created a space in which I am free to once again be a little girl, discovering her body and its appetites with delight and embarrassment. Only now I feel no shame, for Daddy is here, giving me this gift of pleasure, telling me that these sensations are good and right.

"That's it pumpkin. That's Daddy's good girl. Let it come, honey. Let Daddy make you feel good."

These words free something inside me; Daddy has granted me permission to accept the pleasures of my body, and I surrender gratefully, shuddering against his hands as my orgasm ripples through me, strong and pure.

Slowly Daddy pulls his finger from my rectum, giving the whorls of my rosehole a teasing tickle before he urges me upright. "Bathtime's over, sweetheart. Let's get you dried, hmmn?"

With a big, soft towel Daddy dries me off, his capable hands lingering over my breasts and sex. I balance on one foot, my hands on his shoulders, while Daddy kneels and makes sure my legs and feet are dry, too. Daddy is always thorough.

"Now, pumpkin, I want you to go to your room and put on your nightgown. Daddy will join you in a little while, and we'll have our talk."

Wrapping the towel tightly around my body I scamper from the bathroom, a sharp spank from Daddy hurrying me on my way. Laid across the bed is a special nightgown, one I only wear on the nights Daddy takes care of me. It's made of soft, white cotton and is full length, the hem brushing my ankles when I wear it. 50 buttons run the length of the nightgown, finishing demurely at a rounded neckline. The gown lies on the bed unbuttoned, and it's one of our rituals that I slide on the nightdress and slowly button it, thinking of my bad deeds and failures with each one. In my more adult moments I think of the buttons as an obscene rosary, this bedroom my confessional.

Once I've put on the nightgown and thought about my sins, I lie across the bed to wait for Daddy. I slide the gown up past my hips, exposing my bottom, rosy and soft from my bath. A pillow under my tummy ensures that my backside is properly arched and presented for Daddy's hand and belt. Stretching out my arms and legs, I sigh, my stomach tight with fear and expectation.

Soon, Daddy will join me. He will sit beside me on the bed, stroking my bottom as I confess the naughty deeds that beset my guilty conscience. Perhaps I will admit to masturbation, and Daddy will inspect my sex, searching for wetness and desire. Maybe I will reveal that his finger in my bottom makes me feel squirmy and good, and he will use a bottom pacifier to remind me of my naughty thoughts.

Once my confession is complete, Daddy will begin to spank me. And he will not spank me as a lover would, although there will be tenderness and compassion in my punishment. This spanking is not for my pleasure, and it will not arouse me. No, Daddy will spank me hard and fast, ignoring my protests and distress no matter how real they may be.

Because Daddy understands me; he knows that I need to feel cleansed, both in body and spirit. He understands that now and then I need to feel like a little girl whose bottom pays the penalty for her naughtiness. Sometimes this is the only way that grownup Michele can be released from the failures and mistakes that haunt her. So Daddy's belt will mark me, and I will try to escape the hand that pins me down, until tears flow. Tears of repentance. Tears of release. I will cry away my shame and failure; I will release the bitterness and fear it is so hard for me to articulate. Daddy will spank me until I am exhausted beyond struggle, until he knows that I am free of shame and guilt. Daddy will spank me until I feel like a good little girl.

And after the spanking Daddy will rock me in his arms, his voice strong and consoling as he praises me for my honesty and bravery. Daddy will wipe away my tears and reassure me that he loves me, no matter what. And perhaps I will sob again, then, though my tears will no longer be bitter, but a reflection of my love and sense of safety.

Perhaps Daddy will reward me, then, his hand working between my thighs as he shows me the pleasure that is the due of all good girls. Sitting in Daddy's lap I will smile up at him as he makes me feel good, radiant in his love and protection. And after I am satisfied and feeling sleepy, Daddy will tug down my nightgown and put me to bed, kissing me softly on my forehead. I'll lie face down on the sheets, my bottom aching and sore from my punishment. As I slowly drift off to sleep, Daddy will rub my backside and call me his good girl. I will sleep soundly, all the stresses of my adult life banished for the moment.

Tomorrow I will awaken, and we will be Jess and Michele again; partners, lovers, equals. And perhaps it will be a little easier for me to share my fears and failures with him. Perhaps I will resent my weakness less. I just don't know, though I hope that the wall that sometimes divides us will have crumbled, if only a bit. What I do know is that my Daddy loves me. And he will always be there when his little girl needs him. Nothing I need will ever scare him away.