She lies face down on her bed, her robe opened behind her, revealing the tight cheeks of her posterior, her vulnerable bottom.

She lies there, feeling the wetness between her legs, thinking about him watching her, commenting on the bareness of her buttocks as she lies there, submissive, waiting for the discipline to come.

“You know why we had to expose your ass,” he says, calmly. “Because you’ve been a bad girl, and bad girls have to be punished. On their bare behinds.”

Her hand slips down between her legs and she closes her eyes as she thinks about him delivering the scolding. The scolding that precedes the inevitable punishment that she knows she’ll get afterwards.

“I think we’ll start with the rectal thermometer,” he says, “the cold glass rod inserted deep into your bowels. Bare bottom up over Daddy’s knee with the thermometer ticking your rectum, feeling the shame of being bent over like that as Daddy spreads your cheeks and slides it in.

“You’ll have to help me, of course; my naughty little girl pulling her underpants down and then walking to the bathroom like that to get the thermometer and the big jar of Vaseline. I’ll watch as you walk, I’ll see your bared bottom, your tight little cheeks moving against one another as you walk.

“We’ll both be thinking about your bottom, and what’s going to happen to it. We’ll both be thinking about it, about what a bad girl you’ve been, and how bad girls have to be disciplined.

“You’re lucky that this time you’ll be getting the thermometer in private. Because when Daddy has guests over and you’ve been naughty, or act up, you know I’ll put you over my lap and take your temperature in your behind while they watch. They’ll smile when your face turns red when I tell you to get the thermometer and the Vaseline. You’ll have to stand there and look them in the eyes as I take your skirt off and pull your underpants down to your knees; and if your gaze falters, if your eyes drop, you’ll get Daddy’s belt across your buttocks while they watch, and then you’ll still have to have that cold thin glass rod inserted deep between your hot red cheeks as they watch.”

Her hand is rubbing her pussy hard now, as she thinks about the thermometer sliding in. She feels his hand on her bare behind, holding her cheeks firmly for a moment before he separates them to expose the tight portal to her bowels. She thinks about her humiliation when he spreads her there, exposing her rectum to his gaze.

She is dripping, and she realizes he will want to know that she wore something in her behind while she masturbated, so she gets up and get her butt plug and the Vaseline. Coats the plug with the greasy lubricant, imagining him doing it. Imagining him making he stand there, wearing the open-backed hospital gown, in front of him, in front of his friends, having to watch as he methodically coats the plug with the Vaseline.

“It’s going deep into your naughty bottom,” he tells her, “deep in, in front of me, in front of our guests; and then you’ll stand in the corner with it in plain view until it’s time for me to sodomize you. And, if it falls out before buggery, you’ll get Daddy’s belt across your cheeks until you howl, and then you’ll get it back in and you’ll go over each of our guests laps for a paddling.”

She pushes the plug in, thinking about this, thinking about her mortification and shame, having Daddy punish her, having the guests watch, or, worse, participate. She thinks about it, pushing the plug in as she imagines her shame.

Feeling the thickness of it against her rectum, feeling that initial tensing as it slides in, imagining it’s Daddy there, penetrating her behind for the first time.

She wonders if he’ll be gentle; knows he won’t be, that bad girls get their asses fucked, hard. She knows it will be uncomfortable, that she’ll feel the entire bulk of his cock in her behind. But she knows she needs that, needs to feel stuffed by him, needs to feel sodomized, needs to be pressed down hard on the bed, her cheeks spread, his entire length insider her – moving inside her – thrusting, scolding, not stopping despite her struggles and pleas.

The plug is in her behind now, and she’s lying on her tummy on her bed thinking about him inside her, about being buggered by him, unrelentingly, until he gives her the sperm enema that she longs to feel there.

She feels how stretched her ass is, feels how wet she is between her legs. She closes her eyes tight, reaches back and moves the plug, trying to time the rhythm of its motion to the movements she’s seen on the videos he’s sent. She thinks about the girl on the bed in the video, gown opened, her ass being fucked, and imagines it happening to her.

Feels him there, feels how thick he is, how she’s pinned to the bed beneath him, his voice in her ear as he scolds, “Yes, sweetie, this is what you get for your bad behavior and disobedience,” and all the while the motions of his cock deep in her virgin bowels, the motions of sodomy, the deep thrusts into her ass as she tenses her legs and cries.

Wanting him to stop, not wanting him to stop. Knowing that, whatever she wants, he won’t end it until he thickens, stretching her rectum tight on his swelling cock, holding her tight as he forces himself further up her behind, as deep into her bowels as he can before he groans and discharges, the sperm enema shot as deeply into her bowels as he can manage,

Imagining his discharge there, imagining his use of her body for his pleasure, she comes. Feeling the tensing of her rectum on the plug, imagining its him she’s tensing on.

She keeps the plug in. For she knows another orgasm with it inside her will please him.

And, more than anything else, she wants to please her Daddy.



The seated girl on the subway is nearly indistinguishable from the other passengers around her, at least at first glance. Petite, pleasant face, neatly and conservatively dressed, she appears no different from any of the other young women who fill the seats.

Nearly the same as the women who surround her, yet, on closer examination there are slight deviations that point to distinction. The flush on her face, unexplained; the rigidity with which she holds herself on her seat, despite the rocking and swaying of the cars as the train thrusts itself forward; and, the telltale swelling of the nipples of the large breasts, swelling that can’t be explained by air temperature, swelling that speaks only to animal arousal.

Aroused in the subway; and the men around her notice that arousal, to her shame and further excitement. Her nipples outthrust through the thin blouse she’s been made to wear; and, when the hot breezes through the open windows of the swaying carriage are opportune, the musky scent between her legs that confirms the suspicions of the strangers around her examining her over their newspapers.

The young woman sits there in the subway, hands fluttering on her lap, reaching back when she thinks she’s not being watched, The hands reach back, towards the behind. Towards the buttocks in the tight slacks; towards her two twin rounds that she holds gingerly on the seat, as far above the seat as she can keep them, in order to keep herself from settling onto its surface.

It’s an odd uncomfortable position, and people wonder at it, wonder at the reasons for it. But whatever guesses they might have would be off the mark, for the truth – the rectal plug intruding deep into her distended anus – is not one that would occur to them, looking at a nice girl like her.

“A nice girl,” she tells herself, unconvincingly. “A nice girl.” But then, if she’s so nice, why is she sitting there in the subway as instructed, a rectal plug inserted tightly in her behind, and her pussy wet at the discomfort, and the humiliation that she’s enduring for no other reason than his pleasure.

Or could her own pleasure be reason enough, she wonders, distracted for a moment from the intrusion of the plug into her behind.


The train rushes forward through the tunnels, slowing down now and then as it approaches a station. Slowing, decelerating, grinding to a sudden lurching halt.

With each motion she feels the plug in her bowels, feels her ass fucked by it, a taste of sodomy with each sway of the carriage, a thorough buggering with each sudden change of trajectory as the train strains forward along the underground tracks.

She’s never experienced it before – sodomy – but she imagines it as she sits there in the subway, feeling the plug push into her every time the train moves, every time she settles down on the seat. She thinks about it, about how she’ll be bent over for it with her behind bared, having to hold her own cheeks apart and ask for it, telling him that she’s misbehaved and deserves it.

“But I’m a good girl,” she says to herself, out-loud she realizes, when she feels the stares of the men around her. “I’m a good girl,” she thinks, but she realizes that her wet pussy and willing insertion of the plug in her own backside puts the lie to that claim; puts the lie to any argument that she shouldn’t get what she has coming. Shouldn’t get what she knows she wants and needs. Her underpants down, her behind exposed to his gaze. The punishment she needs, the submission she wants.

The train rounds a hard curve, tilts to the left, and she’s thrown to the side and then down onto the seat. The plug intrudes even deeper between her cheeks, inserted to the hilt the way his cock while be when he fucks her ass for the first time.

The smell of arousal in the car is greater, and she wants desperately to rub herself. But she can’t, for she has no way of concealing her actions from the watchers and, even if she did, she knows that rubbing isn’t allowed.

And so she sits there, feeling her inflamed lips rub against the fabric of her pants, letting her behind move on the plug slightly, as she tries to convince herself, yet again, that she’s not a bad girl, and so can escape what she’s been told she has coming.

She tries to convince herself that she doesn’t deserve it, but she knows that she does. And every time she recalls his words, she tightens her behind on the plug.


“I’m going to make you take your pants off in front of me, or,” he adds, after a momentary pause, “better yet, I’m going to make you hold up a pleated school skirt you’ve bought and worn just for the purpose.

“And then, when your panties are exposed I’m going to lecture you while I run my fingers over your behind, through the underpants, so that you feel examined and investigated even though you’ve not yet been undressed. Imagine that, having to stand there while I run my hand over your behind, knowing that soon I’m going to lower your underpants or, better yet, make you do it, undressing in front of me, feeling the humiliation as you disrobe, as you expose yourself.

“When we have you with your panties down to your knees you’re going to be examined, front and back, to see exactly how bad a girl you are. A rubber glove on each hand, my dear, the fingers of one hand in your pussy to see if you’re behaving yourself there, the fingers of the other hand teasing your anus, tickling you there before one slides in deep to see if your behind is clean.

“And,” he concludes, “you know the penalty for having a wet pussy or a dirty bottom. For the former, a spanking between your lips as you lie on your back with your legs spread. And, for a dirty bottom,” he says, “a long session over my knee with a thick nozzle forced between your cheeks. A punishment enema for you to take and retain while Daddy spanks you, and reminds you that, when he’s done, he’s going to use your behind to conclude the correction …”


The words swirl through her mind as the train pulls into her station. She jumps up, heads for the opening doors, all too aware of the intruder between her cheeks.

As she leaves the train and heads for the street and her apartment, she feels the wetness between her legs, a wetness she knows will increase when she reads her mail. Reads the next set of instructions to her from him.

A bad girl, reading about her punishment. Wanting to make it real.



“They’re only a pair of panties,” she tells herself, as she turns the garment over in her hands, standing there in the middle of the store. “Just a pair of panties,” she thinks, but she knows it isn’t true, for they’re far more than that. Not simply revealing underpants, but a sign of her submission, of her eagerness. Of her desire to follow him down this road of humiliation and exposure that he’s set her on.

She turns the garment over in her hands, examining the flimsy white cotton carefully. Observing the lacy front and, of greater significance, the sheer seat.

She thinks about that, running her hands over the material. The sheerness, and of how she’ll look in it with her skirt hiked up, bending forward in front of him, bent over the sodomy stool to show him her ass. Revealed, though clothed; more naked for being covered, to whatever extent the thin material covers her crack, the deep crevice between. To whatever extent it covers her shaved wet pussy below, and the tight portal of her soon-to-be-used anus above.

“Bending before buggery,” he’s told her, “bending, with your skirt lifted, to show me your ass through the thin sheer seat of the underpants I’m sending you to buy.

“Bending in front of me to show me your ass, to show me what you want done to it. A slow revealing strip-tease in front of me, lifting your skirt slowly to show me the bottoms of your cheeks peeking out from below, raising it higher to show me the whole of your backside.

“And then, bending down, down, to touch your toes, sticking your ass back at me, inviting me to deal with it. Sticking it back at me, and you know what I’ll see, because you’ll have seen it yourself in the mirror, so many times. Two tight cheeks with the crack revealed. Two tight cheeks with the crack between, and we both know what’s hiding between those cheeks, don’t we.

“Your bottomhole. Say it now, sweetie, ‘my bottomhole, Daddy, the entrance to my bowels. The tight hole I expose to you when I have to be punished, the hole I have to have Vaselined when I’ve been bad. The hole I have to expose as I bend over the sodomy stool in front of you, waiting to have my underpants yanked down to my knees, waiting to have you spread my cheeks and stick your cock in hard, forcing it up my tight ass as I kick and cry and plead with you not to have it.’ Say that, and think about how its going to feel when I do it to you, do it to your bottom.”


She buys the underpants, and then walks into one of the dressing rooms, closing the door slowly, feeling her stomach churn as she locks it, turns, and faces the full-length mirror she’s thought about so many times as she’s masturbated.

“They’re sodomy panties,” he’s told her, “and, after you’ve purchased them, you’re going to go immediately into a dressing room and put them on so you can see what I’ll be seeing when you strip in front of me.”

She’s imagined this more than once, lying on her bed with the lights off, feeling the pillows beneath her hips, thrusting her behind up to expose her ass. She’s imagined it, thought about seeing herself in front of the mirror, undressing and then putting the garment on. Thought about this as she lies over the pillows, feeling her regular panties banded down at her thighs, feeling the teasing intrusion of the rectal plug deep in her bowels as she lies there, thinking, feeling her wet pussy tingling beneath her.

She’s thought about it so many times that its almost by habit that she turns to the mirror, slips her hands down and raises her skirt. She does this slowly, watching the fabric rise up, sliding up her thighs, sliding higher still to expose the wet patch at the front of her usual underpants. She thinks about him chiding her for her arousal, thinks about him shaking his head slowly, the way you would with a child who’s misbehaved. Thinks about him shaking his hand, and then gesturing to her to come closer, to come to him so that he can slide a finger or two into the sodden material there, so that he can question her about her behavior while he tickles her between her legs.

Tickles her, adding to her shame. And to her arousal.


“Now turn and face your behind to the mirror,” she imagines him telling her. And she does, watching in a distracted fascination as the girl in the dressing room pivots, faces her cheeks to the mirror. She watches as the hands grip the waistband, lower the panties slowly, exposing the seductive curve of the lower back, then the top of the crack and, finally, the deep cleft itself as the panties go lower and lower down her bare bottom cheeks. Finally, they fall to the floor.

Now the part she’s been dreading. Slowly she bends, leaning forward as if to touch her toes. Turning her head to watch in the mirror as her cheeks spread, further and further, giving a clear view of her dripping sex and, ultimately, the tight vortex of her as-yet-unused behind.

She stares at her asshole, imagining him watching her, watching it, seeing it tighten under his gaze. She thinks about him making her wait like that while he gets the Vaseline, about how it will feel when he presents his cock at the tight entry to her bowels and instructs her to push back to take it inside. About how it will feel when he impales her ass on his cock, and how he won’t tolerate her complaints and pleas. About how he’ll make her tell him that she’s a bad girl who deserves this and, as she does so, she’ll feel him sliding deeper and deeper inside, finally coming to a rest as far up her vulnerable ass as he can go. Her rectum gripping him so tightly that she can feel every heartbeat of his as a sudden swelling of his fat cock in her tight used ass.


She reaches back with her hands to spread her cheeks, giving herself a long look at her rectum before she lets go, stands back up, and puts on her new purchase.

Once more she leans forward, now craning her head to see her behind in the sodomy panties. As she’s imagined, there’s very little of her backside that doesn’t show; the thin fabric of the seat gives a clear view of her crack, of her pussy, only her anus is hidden.

Again she rises, this time to open her purse and withdraw the rectal plug. Another long pause as she imagines a store employee watching her from behind the mirror, watching her as she goes back into her purse for the tube of Vaseline. She coats the plug, sets it down on the bench. Her underpants come back down, to her knees, and she picks up the plug.

In the mirror the girl is holding the blunt end of it against her bottomhole. The cheeks spread, her face as red as her bottom will be, she grits her teeth and pushes it in. slowly the anus distends as the plug intrudes into the resisting bowels. Slowly it enters her, a parody of the relentless sodomy she’ll take when she’s with him. When she’s underneath him, behind up over the pillows feeling his weight pressing down on her as he forces himself inside.

The girl in the mirror is getting the plug in her behind, inch by inch. Slowly it enters her, stretches her until, finally, it comes to a rest, seated completely inside her, only the base visible.

The hands move down, gripping the new panties, pulling them up over her hips, up, over her cheeks until her behind is once again covered.

The base of the plug is clearly visible through the thin fabric.

The girl stands, lowers her skirt.

Before she leaves, she bends over again in front of the mirror. The skirt raises in back, just enough to show the base of the plug.

As she walks out of the dressing room, she knows he’ll ask her how many times on her trip home she had to bend over.

Her pussy is wet at the thought.



She is wet all day, thinking about what she’ll do when she returns home. Thinking about the ritual, about the anticipation, she feels her pussy throb; wishes she could touch it, knows she can’t. Because she’s at work.

And, more importantly, because she knows he wouldn’t like it if she did.


On the subway home, the reality of it is greater; so too is the slickness she feels between her legs. She is all too aware of her behind as she slides on the seat, all too aware of her rectum tensing and tightening as the train rushes forward, as the minutes slip away and her apartment draws closer.

She’s aware of her behind, particularly aware of it because of the thick coating of Vaseline she applied to her rectum before she left for the train; standing there in the bathroom, her skirt raised, her panties yanked down, her finger pushing the greasy lubricant into her ass.

A first insertion, then more Vaseline on her finger and back in it goes for a second and then a third time.

She imagined him doing it, his voice telling her to put her hands down on the seat and stick her ass up for him. She imagines it’s his finger intruding into her behind; tenses herself each time the finger slides in, imagining him smacking her cheeks as punishment for resisting him.

She’s aware of her behind as she rides the subway home, feeling the Vaseline inside her, knowing its making a greasy spot in the seat of her panties.

A greasy spot in back, and a wet spot in front.

The train jolts and jostles its way through the dark.


Her stomach is in knots as she opens the door to her apartment, her bottomhole tensing and relaxing in spasms, her nipples hard, her lips dry.

She goes into her bedroom, finds it as it was when she left in the morning: the two pillows plumped in the middle of the bed, the jar of Vaseline she used that morning still opened on the nightstand.

She showers, comes back to her room, and puts the shirt on backwards. Goes to the mirror to see herself, looks for a long moment at her behind, bared and exposed through the opening in the back of the shirt.

She gets the jar of Vaseline, removes the rectal plug from its hiding place, stands there in the middle of her room lubricating it, her stomach rumbling as she sees it coated with Vaseline, the thick coating of grease that’s prepared it for enforced penetration into her tight resisting bowels.

“I want your ass,” he’s told her, and she knows he means it. And she wants it too, wants to be like the girls in the videos, the last one in particular, bent over the tub, crying as she has her rectum used.

She climbs up onto her bed, slowly, imagining him watching her mount it, imagining him watching as she positions herself, tummy down, bottom up over the pillows so that her behind is readied for him.

She thinks about not wanting to have it there, about it being punishment, about it being against her will, enforced. She puts the head of the plug against her bottomhole and pushes it in suddenly, abruptly, thinking about him violating her bottom, matter-of-factly using it, using her.


The plug moves in her ass, and she thinks about how she looks, behind up over the pillows, cheeks spread on the fat intruder.

She wonders for an idle moment about the restraints he’s threated to use, wonders why the loss of control of being tied down for it, helpless, excites her so.

She feels the plug moving, images it’s his weight thrusting it forward. Imagines crying as she has her ass used, crying as she has her tight bowels invaded.

She thinks about not wanting it, and having to have it anyway. “A punishment ass fucking, sweetie, Daddy using your behind to punish you, only a small amount of Vaseline so that you’re sore when he’s done, so that you feel the results of that half an hour of intense friction all day long.

“A naughty schoolgirl, called into the principal’s office to have her panties removed. Bent over the little desk he keeps there, her face towards his open door, her behind Vaselined for his use. A long session with the wooden paddle on those bare rear cheeks, and then the entry, the penetration of your tomato-red bottom, while you cry and plead with me not to have it, and I tell you to keep still, that you’ll get a sperm enema, and then you’ll go back to your classes, everyone knowing what you’re carrying in your behind.”


She is close to coming, knows its time to stop, so she gets up and changes. Takes the white shirt off and puts it on again, this time correctly, puts on a short skirt, and, in front of the mirror with it hiked up, watches as she slides her see-through panties on.

Leaves her apartment, feeling the intrusion of the plug in her ass, feeling her pussy still dripping, wondering if people can smell her arousal.


She arrives at the drugstore, her stomach in knots, her bowels tensing. Goes in slowly, wondering what it will be like to go there with him, to be lead to select the implements of her correction, the methods of her discipline and preparation.

She walks to the laxatives aisle. A jar of suppositories, two fleets enemas, her throat is dry as she puts them into her basket.

She loiters there, waiting. Finally, another customer comes by, and she bends to look at the items on the lowest shelf.

She knows what he sees, for she’s practiced this motion in front of her own mirror. The young lady bending, the skirt coming up in back, the curtain rising, revealing the tight cheeks of the behind, the lower curves, then the seat of the panties, and the base of the plug visible between the rounded cheeks.

The man saunters by behind her, and from his gait she knows he’s looking. When he’s gone she stands, her face red, her pussy puffy. Another man comes by and she repeats her actions, mortified, feeling the plug push further inside her as she leans forward.


Finally, she’s done and it’s almost time to go. Only one item remains, and she dreads it’s purchase, but she knows he expects her to buy it so she walks through the aisles until she finds it.

A bedpan. To remind her that her expulsions will not be in private. She adds it to her basket, and, dreading the experience, heads for the cashier.

She stand in line, knowing she’s not allowed to wait till there’s no one there but she. The humiliation of being seen with the bedpan, the suppositories, the fleets, that’s what he wants.

She keeps her head down, feeling the eyes of the other people on her. She mumbles her way through checkout, trying not to look at the young male clerk staring at her.


Finally, she’s done, and she rushes home to her apartment. In her room she takes her clothes off and puts the shirt on again with the opening in back.

She goes to the mirror, puts the bedpan down on a chair.

She straddles the chair, her behind facing backwards, her legs on either side of the back.

She sits on the bedpan that way, legs spread, ass and pussy both on display. She knows he wants her to masturbate like that, feeling the plug inside her, knowing that, when she finally comes, she’ll get up and see the ring on her behind from the bedpan.

“I want that ring there,” he’s told her, so that I can enjoy it as I sodomize you. So that I can be reminded of your humiliation, as you sat on the bedpan and expelled in front of me, your bottom misbehaving while you sucked me.”


She sits on the bedpan, watching herself in the mirror. Wanting it, wanting him there with her, wanting him in control.


As she hovers on the brink of orgasm, she thinks about being fucked in her ass.

Thinks about his instructions to her preparing her for it.

Thinks about what he’ll have her do next …



She waits until she can be alone in the bathroom.

Waits, until she can be alone, goes in with her gym bag, nonchalantly, the bag dangling down in her hands, heavy with its contents.

She closes the door, hears it thud. Locks it.

Goes to the sink, stares at herself in the mirror. Pauses. A long moment, looking at herself.

Then, she turns towards the bathtub and, with a sinking heart, lifts her skirt up above her waist and pulls her underpants down.

Turns her behind towards the door, and shuffles towards the tub.

Leans over the rim, over the towel she’s put across the cold lip, bending until she’s head down, bared behind up and facing towards the door.

She moves her legs, sliding her feet to each side until they’re as far apart as her lowered panties will allow. Far apart, so that he can see her shaved pussy. Far apart so that he can see her spread cheeks, and the tight vortex of her rectum between them.

She begins to count, slowly. Three-hundred, he’s told her, the time it will take for him to fill the bag enema and hang it, the time it will take to force her cheeks apart and push the Vaselined nozzle into her bowels.


“One … two … three …”, she speaks out loud, barely audible, but even her whisper deafens her, her trembling voice echoing around the bathroom.

“Fifteen … sixteen …”, and she imagines him watching her from the other room, watching her through the opened door, for he’s told her many times that she’ll be denied privacy in the bathroom, denied privacy when she waits to be punished, denied it when voids herself of the enemas he’ll make her receive.

As she counts she imagines him there, in the other room, looking at her, enjoying the sight of her stripping, watching her lifting her skirt, watching her lowering her underpants.

Seeing her shuffle to the tub, watching her cheeks rub up and down as she moves. Watching her bend, seeing her head disappear as she leans forward, seeing her behind rise up when she’s in position. Her behind, presented to him, waiting, for whatever he intends to do with it.


She wonders what he’ll think about when he sees her like that. She has her own thoughts on the matter, and she wonders if they match hers.

For her, the excitement comes from the attention she’ll get, as well as the vulnerability and the pleasure he’ll take when he uses her. She likes that word, “use,” and turns it over on her tongue as she waits there, counting.

She likes the idea of being taken, of being used. She finds the lack of power arousing, the submission and vulnerability in having him decide what she needs, what she has to have. “Because Daddy says so,” he’s told her on numerous occasions, and she likes the sound of that. Daddy wants it, and so she has to have it. She might protest, but it wouldn’t matter. She’s too small to decide what happens to her, its all up to him.


“One-hundred-twenty-seven … one-hundred-twenty-eight …”, and she remembers being punished growing up, how it felt not to have control, how it felt when you were bad and got your behind bared for a spanking.

She’s relived the memories many times, over time rolling the stories she’s read into the reality of her own past, creating a mixture that she can no longer tease apart into fact and fiction. But it doesn’t matter, really – the emotions count for more than the events that accompanied them.

Anticipation, first. Acting up, feeling herself walking towards a line, feeling the butterflies in her tummy when she thinks of what crossing that line will bring.

She should stop, but she doesn’t. How old is she … 10, and she knows she’ll have to go over his lap if she keeps it up. How old … 4? Even at that age she knows Daddy won’t like what she’s doing … sees it in his face, but keeps right on doing it. Keeps on doing it, knowing even then that the consequences will be his adult hand on her little bare rear, as she kicks and cries over his lap.

Anticipation, and the feeling of naughtiness, of being bad, and you know what bad girls get. That’s right, they get their underpants pulled down and their bottoms spanked. When she was young she felt her tummy lurch; now, she still feels that, but its accompanied by a throb between her legs, the telltale wetness that speaks to arousal as well as fear.


“Two-hundred-five …”, and she’s recalling the shame, her face red as she’s lectured, standing there, looking at the floor, and at his shoes. The polished tips, the neatly tied laces. She feels ashamed at having disappointed him, at having gotten him so angry at her.

And of course she feels ashamed at what he’s about to do, at having him watch her pull her tights down or, if she’s too hesitant, about having him put his warm hands on her and pull them down himself.

She feels that shame as she thinks about that, him seeing her in her panties, his naughty little girl, about to go over his knee. She remembers the color of his trousers, and how they felt underneath her as she was pulled across, draped there, head dangling, looking at the shoes from up close now, and the bare floor beneath the legs of his chair.


Arousal was not something she felt as a child, at least not the way she feels it now. She vaguely recalls a guilty thrill she’d sometimes get, mixed in there with the fear and the shame, a little spasm of something she couldn’t describe as she bent over him, felt his large hand on the seat of her bottom, his large hand resting there on the seat of her flowered cotton underpants.

It was a game of sorts, one only the two of them played, not like anything that happened with Mommy, nothing that could happen with her. He was under her control, even then, when she had no control at all. She had gotten him there, had gotten his attention by misbehaving and, even though the consequences were frightening, and shameful, she still felt a secret blush of power at being able to have all of his focus.

“Two-hundred-seventy-three …”, and she recalls how it felt when the first finger slid up to the waistband and she held her breath waiting for what came next. The moment of silence while he held her there over his lap in limbo, his finger just barely intruding, her behind about to be bared.

A moment’s pause, and the anticipation rose higher and higher like a wave sweeping in towards the shore.

And then, without warning, a sudden yank and the panties were sliding down, down so fast that, had she dared to put a hand back to stop there descent, by the time she’d reach back they would already have been pulled down to her knees.

Sliding down, Daddy baring her behind, holding her there over his lap as he undressed her, exposed her little bottom, so that he could spank her. So that he could slap one cheek and then the other while she kicked and cried and promised to be good, all the while the slaps raining down, the sounds all to audible to anyone passing by outside her room as she was punished there.


“Three-hundred …”, she concludes, thinking about her past, thinking about herself now, draped over the rim of the tub, behind up, ready for his use.

She slowly gets up, shuffles back to the doorway, leans down to open the bag she’s dropped on the floor.

Reaching inside, she takes out the jar of suppositories, her rectal plug, and the bedpan. She feels her unvaselined rectum resist as she pushes them in, counting out loud as each of the three that he’s instructed her to insert enters her.

She stands there, Vaselining the plug as she feels the desire to make grow within her. She does slowly, knowing that’s how he’ll do it, knowing he’ll make her wait for it the way she had to wait to have her underpants lowered when she was spanked growing up.

Finally, the plug is glistening with lubricant. She bends forward, feels the head at her bottomhole, pushes firmly, feeling it forcing its way inside. She thinks about being sodomized as she does so, imagines him forcing himself inside her, no pain, but discomfort enough to make her forget, for a moment, that she wanted him to do it. Forgetting that, allowing her to imagine she’s having to have it done, her behind’s use.


The plug is in, and she sits the bedpan on the toilet, straddles it, lowers herself down. She puts her hand to her pussy, begins rubbing as she twists her head to look up at the clock. “Fifteen minutes,” he’s told her, “half the time it will take me to give a sperm enema when I use your backside. But,” he adds, “just the right amount of time for you to see the ring the bedpan leaves on your bottom.”

And so she rubs, knowing that only when the allotted time has passed will she orgasm. Knowing that he’ll expect her to squeeze on the plug the entire time, so that, when her release does come, her behind will be sore from the intruder inside.

The clock ticks. Her behind tenses. Her hand rubs …



She thinks about their meeting, and of how, afterwards, she’ll no longer have a virgin behind.

“I’m going to fuck your ass, sweetie,” he tells her, “forcefully … forcibly.” And she thinks about those words, says them out loud, feels her body responding to them, feels her pussy throb as she thinks about the actions behind them.

She closes her eyes and imagines herself bent forward over a stool, her panties yanked down to her thighs, feeling his finger forcing its way up her behind, delivering a large blob of Vaseline into her tight rear portal.

He scolds her as he prepares her. “You can’t admit it, but you like being prepared like this, don’t you. You like the feeling of being bent over, of being forced into this position, of being held her with your head down and your behind up, your cheeks forced apart and my finger tickling your bowels as I prepare you for the hard ass fucking you know I’m going to make you have.”

“You can’t admit it, but you know that I’ll make you say it all the same, make you tell me how much it excites you to think about what’s going to be done to you, your cheeks spreading soon for the head of my cock, the fleshy intruder entering you, penetrating you, going in deep. Much deeper than you expected, much deeper than you think you can take. But of course you’ll take it even so. After all, you have to take, don’t you my dear.”


She gets up, goes to her sidetable and takes out her rectal plug and the Vaseline. Gets the bedpan from the closet and, returning to her bed stops and looks at herself in the mirror. Turns, so that the ripe curves of her behind face it, puts her hands in the waistband of her shorts, and strips them down, thinking about him doing it, his hands there, forcefully baring her, exposing her.

The shorts come down and she sees her panties – the punishment panties that she was sent to get – the thin fabric showing her crack, a tantalizing view of the deep cleft, perhaps a faint hint of the vortex between. She watches as the underpants are lowered, feeling him doing it, hearing the heaviness in his breathing, knowing that he’s excited by the thought of sodomizing her, of making her have him up her ass, of violating the tightness of her virgin bottom.


She walks to her bed, stopping once or twice to look back in the mirror, seeing her underpants at her knees, her bare behind vulnerable, the two heavy cheeks shifting against one another as she waddles forward towards the bed.

She climbs onto her bed, kneels, and puts the head of the Vaselined plug against her rectum, thinking about his cock there. “You’re going to get your ass fucked,” he’s told her many times, “a punishment ass fucking, hot and hard, until you’re sore, until Daddy gives you the sperm, deep in your bowels.”

She thinks about his words, turning them over in her mind as she slides the plug in. A punishment ass fucking … she wonders why that excites her as much as it does. Closes her eyes and thinks about it, the forcefulness of his cock sliding in, his view of her, bending, her hot red cheeks spread, his cock thrusting in and out as he uses her bowels, uses them as a hot tight sleeve for his cock, forcing himself in, until he administers the sperm enema, the hot sperm hard up her ass.


The plug is in now, and she lies forward on the bed, feeling it there, intruding. “A punishment ass fucking,” she thinks, “because I’ve been a bad girl and Daddy needs to make me have him there.”

She feels her pussy, soaked, as the words float through her mind. She knows she’ll enjoy it, but imagines she won’t. She knows she wants it but imagines herself forced to have it. Consensual but, in her mind, the power comes from a perceived non-consensuality, from being forced.

They’ve discussed the idea; forced anal, something they can pretend she doesn’t want, something she has to have even so. And she thinks about that, the shame of it, being called to him, being undressed, being bent over and made to spread her cheeks for his entry.

Having her bottom used, his pleasure paramount, her pleasure deferred or even eliminated as she submits her ass to him. The plug is deep in her now, and her hand has slipped between her legs as she thinks about this, and their meeting, less than a week away.


She gets up, seats herself on the bedpan, which she’s put on a chair. Feels the rim biting into her, she masturbates, thinking about his cock in her mouth as she expels the first enema, voids herself in front of him, humiliated, and wet.

She rubs, thinking about his hand in her sex as he fucks her ass, his hand there, not to give her pleasure, but instead to demonstrate his control.

He may masturbate her to orgasm, timing her release to his own in her behind. His reasons for this may be concern for her – or they may be selfish, for she knows that her behind spasms when she comes, and she knows he’ll like this feeling, her ass milking his cock as it uses her bowels.

He may masturbate her to orgasm as he uses her bowels – or, he may not. Gratification deferred, or denied, she knows it’s not up to her, its his choice, and his alone. She knows that, if he wants to deny her, he will, he’ll keep her pinned there under his weight, the bulk of his cock up her backside provoking unladylike urges that she knows he’ll force her to suppress.


She sits there on the bedpan, the plug in her ass, masturbating furiously, feeling how soaked she is in front as she thinks about it all.

She feels her orgasm approaching, an imminence that, under other circumstances would make her happy.

But he’s told her she can’t come until they meet, so this session, to be repeated daily, is nothing more than an exercise in frustration for her.

Frustration. Or maybe something else: his control, his way of ensuring her desire is at a boil when he comes, ensuring that she’ll meet him.

As she rubs, as she feels how wet she is, she thinks about that.

And her pussy spasms as she does.

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