Here’s what I want you to do to me …
Give me an enema and make it hurt. I kind of wish I had a bigger bag. I never feel really really full. But maybe adding the soap will change that. I want you to fill me ‘till it hurts bad, then fill me a little more. Force a plug in me and make me hold it a long time while you spank me hard. Turn my white ass beet red with hand prints and stripes and welts. Make me suck your cock and swallow your cum while I expel. Fuck my ass. Torture my pretty little tits. Basically, do anything you want Daddy.
I’d like some passionate, slow, gentle sex afterwards, but if you don’t do that, I’ll understand.
She lies face-down in the guestroom over a pile of pillows, her panties pulled down, the punishment gown opened in back to reveal her bared white buttocks to anyone standing at the landing outside, looking in.
Her behind is “on display,” a term he enjoys repeating to her, or having her repeat to him, especially while she’s awaiting correction. “On display,” so that she’ll think about being watched during punishment, being watched as she’s spanked, being watched as her cheeks are spread wide for the penetration of the cold Vaselined nozzle into the depths of her hot tight bowels.
She thinks about that as she lies there, about the nozzle, about the way it feels when it penetrates her anus. About the way it feels when it slides slowly in, with her cheeks held apart to ease its entry.
She thinks about the nozzle as she lies there with the door open, feeling her body responding to her thoughts, knowing he’ll be pleased that she’s aroused, but displeased if she does anything about it without his supervision. She wants to rub, but its not allowed. Wants to finger herself, imagining its his hand between her legs; but without him there, everything is forbidden, nothing is permitted.
She lies with her eyes closed, imagining the sensation of the nozzle being inserted into her behind. Feeling the butterflies in her tummy as she imagines it, focuses on it, tightens her cheeks and her bottomhole just so that she can experience more of the sensations before they actually occur.
As she lies there, bottom exposed, eyes closed, she feels the nozzle entering her. Feels it going in, even though in fact it dangles behind her, descending down from the rubber hose that’s attached to the enema bag on the stand she’s positioned at the foot of the little bed she’s lying on.
She knows if she opens her eyes and twists her head back she’ll see the nozzle there, thick, thickly coated with Vaseline. Her stomach rumbles at the thought; her behind contracts spontaneously as the imagery fills her mind. Fills her mind, rushes into her thoughts as the water will rush into her resisting bowels.
The room is silent, so quiet that the pounding of her heart is deafening, so quiet that the constant rumbling of her tummy sounds like the thunderclaps of a distant summer storm.
The silence surrounds her, and because of it she feels her anxiety grow, knowing that the sound of his arrival will startle her, rudely rouse her from her reverie.
She anticipates it, his arrival, his voice, his dealing with her. The anticipation consumes her; has consumed her from the outset, when she first read his writing, long before she first heard his voice. Long before she first felt the reality of what he described, of what she knew was going to happen when he arrived.
“Here’s what I want you to do to me,” she wrote in that first letter. “Give me an enema and make it hurt.” Lying face down on the bed she recalls her words, recalls the emotions she felt when she wrote them. How many weeks of anticipation had preceded her writing it; how many weeks had gone by afterwards before she found the courage to send it to him.
“Give me an enema and make it hurt. I kind of wish I had a bigger bag. I never feel really really full. But maybe adding the soap will change that.” Lying there, face down on the bed, she recalls her words, feels how wet she is recalling them, recalling how he repeated them back to her the first time they talked. And then, when she was already red with shame, made her repeat them back to him, rubbing herself between her legs as she did so.
“Give me an enema and make it hurt. Give me an enema, and make it hurt. Give me an enema, make it hurt.” Over and over, until she began timing her sentences to match her fingers between her legs, raising her behind up in the air in silent offering with each request for an enema, dropping herself down to grind against her fingers with each request that it be painful.
She knows she’s dripping now, but doesn’t dare touch herself to find out, aware that he’ll ask her if she’s let her fingers stray, will punish her if she has.
“I want you to fill me ‘til it hurts bad, then fill me a little more. Force a plug in me and make me hold it a long time while you spank me hard. Turn my white ass beet red with hand prints and stripes and welts.” She wonders what this will feel like, the pressure of the enema in her bowels, the concentrated thickness of the plug in her behind, the spanking over his lap while she struggles to retain. She wonders if she’ll enjoy it, wonders if she’ll cry from the humiliation, wonders if he’ll feel between her legs and punish her more for being aroused.
As she lies on the small bed in the quiet room she imagines his fingers there, between her legs, rubbing her as he scolds. Will he enjoy the sight she presents, bare bottomed and vulnerable, cheeks spread, the thick hose between them? Will he enjoy spanking her, bringing his hand down hard, making each impact painful, the pain from the spanking adding to the discomfort she feels from the enema he’s made her have, the enema that he’s making her retain?”
“Make me suck your cock and swallow your cum while I expel.” Her words stick in her mind, and she recalls him repeating them back to her. Recalls him bringing her to orgasm more than once as he explains to her the necessity of the potty chair, and of her having to take his cock in her mouth and look in his eyes as she sits on it and, under his attentive eye, voids herself into the receptacle beneath.
“Fuck my ass.” She’s never been taken that way, but the thoughts of surrender and submission to his penetration there are constantly in her mind. She feels his weight pressing down on her, feels his cock sliding into her bowels. Feels him poised like that, only the tip of him in, waiting, forcing her to anticipate his complete penetration of her rear end.
She knows she’s dripping as she wonders what it will feel like, as she lies on the bed waiting, waiting for it all happen.
“Do anything you want, Daddy,” she thinks to herself, lying there on the bed, anticipating.
Waiting for him. And for what comes next.
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