My Reluctant Spank Daddy
by Giselle Renarde
My husband of four years has never been comfortable with our age gap. I’m thirty-seven. He just turned sixty. Frank has never admitted his uneasiness about the age differential, but I could always tell it was something that bothered him. In the bedroom, there were some things he simply refused to do.
It’s no secret that I love being spanked. When I was in my twenties, I held on to a few boyfriends way too long just because they were so damn good at spanking me. And it wasn’t just the feeling of their hands smacking my ass that got me off, though sensation was a big part of it, obviously. It wasn’t even the shade of crimson my cheeks turned when they’d been spanked to perfection, though that was a factor as well.
Best of all, I loved the lead-up to a spanking. I loved the words. I really got off on being told what I’d done to deserve such treatment. Maybe I’d left my clothes on the floor like a grubby teenager. Maybe I hadn’t turned off the lights after leaving a room. Maybe I’d forgotten to take out the garbage when it was my turn. There was always a reason for the spankings, and that’s what I loved to hear.
My sweet husband Frank wouldn’t go for it. Any of it. He wouldn’t spank me for any reason, and he wouldn’t even spank me for no reason. He wouldn’t spank me at all, and I knew the age difference was to blame. When we’re out in public, people often mistake Frank and I for father and daughter. It’s an easy mistake. I’m young enough to be his daughter, and we even look fairly similar. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve come to expect it, but it’s always troubled Frank.
He brought his anxieties into the bedroom right from the start. Sure, he’d fuck me. He never had any problem with that. He’d watch me from above while I sucked his cock in the shower—that was always his favourite. I think he enjoyed watching me sputter as the water and soap mingled in my throat. Then he’d pull me up onto my feet and spin me around and fuck me from behind.
Frank always made me come harder than any other man. Still, when you love something, it’s not so easily forgotten. Frank could make me come forty times in a day and I’d still miss my spankings.
He didn’t have to tell me why he felt weird about it, and why his response to my request was always an outright no. He found the idea of himself in the fatherly role unsettling. To Frank, spankings would put me in the underling’s position in our relationship. One day I just told him outright that, hell, I would always occupy that place! I was nearly thirty years younger than him! I loved him and I was attracted to him, and I learned a hell of a lot from having him in my life. If we couldn’t play with the difference in our ages, it would always be looming over us, and I didn’t want that.
About a week after that conversation, Frank came home from the dollar store with something incredible: it was for the shower, a back scrubber with bristles on one side and a hand shape made from hard plastic on the other. He joked about it, saying that’s what they used to warn would happen if you masturbated—you’d grow hair on the palm of your hand. When we’d both finished laughing, his demeanour turned serious and he told me to get in the shower.
I wasted no time. I hopped right in.
By the time Frank entered the bathroom, I was already naked and soaped up under the flow of warm water. He stripped and came in after me, with his hand in hand. I watched him smack the plastic against his palm before telling me to turn to the side. The fierce look in his eye stayed with me even as I pressed my tits against the tile.
Frank’s body had been blocking the shower flow, and he passed from my left side to my right so it would fall on me again. He must have wanted to watch the water recoil off my flesh as he brought that big brush down against my bottom. His intentions were obvious, and when he couldn’t see me, I smiled.
I asked Frank if he was going to spank me and he said, “You bet your ass I’m going to spank you.” I asked him what I’d done to warrant it and he said, “You told me something I should have known—that you’re nearly thirty years my junior and my job is to keep you in check.”
It was a bit of a stretch as far as causes for punishment went, but I was just happy my husband was finally going to whoop my little white ass. “So keep me in check,” I said to him. “Show me who’s in charge.”
And, boy, did he ever! I turned my head to watch as he brought the hand-shaped paddle brush down against my pretty cheeks. He struck them both at once, right along my ass crack. Water surged up off my skin in healthy droplets, and my pussy clenched at the long-missed sensation.
Frank turned me to the side so the shower was over my head and spilling down my back. He spanked my left cheek and then my right before I even got the chance to turn around, but I could feel the sizzle against my skin and the water ricocheting off my ass.
When I turned to look into his eyes, I found Frank’s gaze firmly fixed on my ass. That’s when I knew he’d fallen in lust with spanking. He gave it to me from below, and then again from above. Water splashed everywhere. He spanked my thighs, inside and out. And then he dropped the paddle-brush and went at my ass with nothing but his bare hands.
This was exactly what I’d been waiting for. Frank called me his naughty girl. He wrapped an arm around my chest and squeezed my tits while he smacked me again and again. Every strike landed in the same spot. I was in heaven, but it hurt like hell. It was such a pang I even tried hopping out of his grasp like a rabbit from a trap, but Frank had me cornered in the shower. Even the falling water sizzled against my skin. I squirmed and squealed as he kept at me, but my man had got a taste for spanking and nothing would stop him now.
Over the course of one shower, Frank bombarded me with four lost years of spankings. His deep voice echoed off the tile when he growled, “Who’s your spank daddy?”
Like a good little girl, I told him, “You are.”
Post a Comment