Here’s an excerpt from Punished By Daddy.
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Daddy’s hand comes slamming down on my bare ass again, re-igniting the fire he’d set off with this thorough spanking. I’m eighteen — an adult — and here I am getting an over-the-knee spanking like I’m a little boy. I grunt, doing my best not to cry out in pain, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to hold back the tears of pain that threaten to fall.
Finally, he stops spanking me and he rests his hand on my tender cheeks. He starts smoothing his hand over my hairless skin, soothing the fire.
“Stand up, son,” he says. I can hear the anguish in his voice — he doesn’t like that he had to punish me. He doesn’t like that he had to do this.
It’s all my fault. I made a stupid choice and was brought home by the cops, barely avoiding a criminal charge. Dad is furious.
I push myself to my feet. My ass is so sore that I wince with every movement. I struggle to stand, but my knees give out and my feet are tangled in my jeans and briefs. I fall to the floor and I let out a yelp of pain as I land hard on my ass. Those tears that I had struggled so hard to hold back suddenly spring forth, rolling down my cheeks. I look up at daddy, his angry face blurry through the tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
Even though my sight is tear-blurred, I can see his anger softening. He knows I’m genuinely apologetic. He knows I never want to make him mad.
He puts his hand on my head and ruffles my hair, like he always does. In that simple touch, I know things will be okay. With his other hand and his thick, meaty fingers, he wipes away my tears.
“I know, son. I know.” He puts his hands on his hips and I suddenly feel lost without daddy’s touch. “But you’ve really disappointed me tonight. Your mother is going to be so upset when we tell her the cops brought you home.”
A new wave of sadness crashes into me and tears threaten to fall again. “Please don’t tell her, daddy. Please. I’ll do anything to make it up to you — anything!”
He puts his hand on my head again, running his fingers through my hair. It’s a tender gesture, fatherly. But then his face turns almost sinister.
“I love it when you beg, boy.” He grips my hair and I yelp as he pulls my head toward him, shoving my face in his crotch. “You want to make it up to me, son? You can start here.”
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