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Brat Monkeys, Daddy Cuffs and Losing My Composure

May 6th, 2010

I was doing dishes, and getting ready to make dinner (strip steak on lettuce, tomato, cucumber and olives topped with cubes of Monterey Jack, and seasoned with Italian dressing – simple but delicious), when M sidled up to me and slipped His hands around my waist.  “Whassa matter, brat monkey?” he asked as His lips tickled the curve where shoulder meets throat.

I sort of ducked away from Him, smiled shyly and said, “I kind of feel neglected.”

I hate telling Him when something’s wrong.  His life is a delicate juggling act.  He’s always got ten or twelve balls in the air.  Things are so much easier on Him if I can just sit in the bag, quiet and content, taking care of Him and myself and the house and the birds, leaving Him to the other ten or twelve balls. 

And then, if He does something about it, I feel like I’ve topped from the bottom.

I watched His face fall.  I don’t think He thought I saw it.  He immediately replaced the hurt with concern and asked, “Neglected? Well… It won’t be too much longer.  It’ll all be finished soon.”

And if by “soon” He means “nine years”, then yeah… It’ll be finished soon.  But until all the kids are 18, we will constantly be dealing with the unethical behavior of child support enforcement.  Unless someone is able to get a judge to recognize how unfair the laws are and put some new ones in place.  The chances of that happening are slim.

He knows what I need.  I know He’s not in the right frame of mind.

We curl up on the couch to watch this week’s episode of Lost and a movie called Tell Tale.  I leaned over and held Him for a while, and He put His hand on the back of my neck.

I licked and suckled at His chest and throat and ran my hand down His thigh.  And when I sat up, He clenched a good amount of tit flesh in His fist.  It bruised instantly.  And the more I tried to wrench away from Him, the tighter He gripped.

The rest of the night pretty much went the same way.  He hugged me, an hour or so before we went to bed, and said, “I’m sorry, baby.  I’ll fix it.  Maybe not tonight, but soon.” I smiled and hugged Him back.

I knew He’d fix it.  He always does.

Somehow, when we laid down to sleep, we ended up in a wrestling match.  “Daddy cuffs!” He cried as He locked His hands around my wrists.  And I tried to wrestle away.  But He’s a lot stronger than me, and it’s rare I can break free.

I tried pinching and gouging and biting and… And He never let go.

I’m not sure when it went from playful wrestling to something darker.  I don’t remember when He started slapping me.  When His hand wound itself in my hair.

I remember Him grabbing my wrist and wrapping my hand around His cock.  I remember how thick and hard it was against my palm.  I remember rubbing it against my stomach, and my thighs, and then bending in half and wrapping my lips around it.

I remember the ringing in my ears.  Struggling to hear what He was saying over my own ragged breath.

I remember Him rubbing the underside of His forearm up and down my face, indicating I should lick, moaning each time my tongue stretched forth to taste Him.

But mostly, I remember the slapping.

And being on the edge of cumming while He was biting my nipples, and then my areola, and then my breast.  Almost gaining the courage to ask permission… “Sit still, little cunt.”


Of course, I know, had I spoken up, He probably would have let me cum.  Right there, sitting on His cock, while He chewed my tits up one side and down the other.  But this was His show.  I was just along for the ride.

And when He finally whispered, “Daddy’s gonna cum in that little hole.  Make Daddy cum.” I rocked my hips for all I was worth.  I almost came as He was cumming.  Almost asked if I could.  And just as He was finishing, I realized it was too late.

I’ve really gotta work on this ridiculous fear of rejection.

Along with this insatiable desire.

While last night was just what the doctor ordered, for the moment, I can’t stop thinking about being strung up between His office and the living room.  About the Delrin Cane and the studded paddle.  About losing my composure.

~pig whore

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