But then A. found out his favorite sweater had been shrunk in the dryer -- the second favorite sweater to suffer such a fate -- and he was in no mood to be ordered about. So he came in, sat down on the bed next to me and suggested a nice Daddy/little girl incest scene. All while stroking my hair and calling me his little girl.
I tried to resist, dear reader. But...but...I really like being his little girl. Especially if there's a bath and ice cream involved -- the ice cream my reward for being such a good girl in the bath. Though, truth be told, I was too wiped out to splash him even if I really really wanted to (which I did).
There wasn't meant to be any spanking necessarily. Just lots of
Don't ask me about how long I've been on the computer. Don't ask me how long I've been on the computer... I mouthed to the bedspread.
"And how long were you on the computer today?"
See, this was the deal. I woke up too early and couldn't get back to sleep. I decided to try and fix the ending of a (non-kink) story but when I became tired enough to sleep again, the next door neighbor started hammering away on the other side of my bedroom wall. I was too tired to actually do something productive, but couldn't sleep because of the hammering. So I started websurfing and reading more about the Israeli raid on the Free Gaza flotilla and before I knew it four hours had passed (in my pre-illness life I was a specialist in the Israel/Palestine conflict). This is supposed to be a light computer week for me meaning that I'm not supposed to spend more than three hours in total on my Mac.
When A. isn't here, it's been very easy in that sort of situation to simply not count those hours. And I initially intended to do that even with him here. But as the day wore on, a moral tug-of-war between me and my conscience ensued. And when he actually asked me point blank, it became a lot harder to lie than it is if I simply write a number on a piece of paper or Numbers spread sheet and, with the cushion of several days, quote that back to him.
So, I told him the truth: 4 hours before I got up, 2 1/2 intermittently afterward.
"But you told me a minute ago that you were doing fine with your schedule?"
And then I confessed how initially I wasn't going to tell him.
"Now I have to spank you," he said almost dejectedly. "And that's a stroke per minute."
Which, of course, I had completely forgotten about while I was ignoring my time limit.
"Well there were extenuating circumstances..." he said contemplating.
Yes! Very extenuating!
"And I wasn't actually intending to spank you tonight..."
In the end I got far short of 210 strokes -- 12 with the despised ruler and many more with his hand. A very stern warning followed: next time he would most certainly enforce the stroke-per-minute penalty, even if it was 210 strokes.
Such a merciful Daddy.
I did wake up today a bit disappointed that I'd let him bamboozle me out of my Princess Natalie night and determined that I would reassert my dominance again soon.
Of course, I also determined to be a good girl on the computer. At least for the rest of the week.