Taste me, Daddy

I roll my eyes and scoff. "For what?"

"Maya Louise, did you just roll your eyes at and sass your Father?!"

My eyes widen at that tone.

My step-Father is ex-military, you see. He served for many years before I was born, until I was ten or eleven years old, at which time he was medically discharged and awarded a purple heart; he saved his entire SEALS team during a shore mission gone wrong, which is when he was injured. He was gone for months, sometimes years at a time before that discharge and then he was suddenly home twenty-four- seven; it was quite the adjustment for all of us.

My mother had me and my sister when she was quite young and she was over in her head in water when our real father left her for a waitress and skipped town. The man whom I call my father is not my biological dad but he has been more than that to me. I was only a few months old when he and my mother got married so I don't remember anyone else apart from him being my father. I had always called him Dad or daddy.

As a little girl, I used to love hearing him tell me stories about how he saved people in other countries, how he loved tasting their incredibly different foods and wearing their vastly different clothing; I used to marvel in his descriptions of other countries, other oceans, other languages.

That was back when I was the little kid who loved it when her Daddy finally came home after being gone "for forever." That was when my Daddy came home between missions. That was when he was Daddy and not the man who came back to us after that discharge.

The man who came home after that medical discharge was cold, distant, quiet, but commanding. He ordered us all around; my mother, my older Sister, and myself; and he expected immediate obedience. He was ridiculously strict when it came to everything from watching television: "A waste of time. Pick up a book, instead!" to going out with friends: "Who are their parents? Why haven't your Mother and I met their family, yet? You can go out with them after we meet them. Until then, you can go and do your homework."

I used to love it when Daddy came home from missions.

Now? Not so much.

I mean...of course I'm glad that my Father survived because I know that some families weren't so lucky. I'm grateful and thank God every day that he not only lived after the attack that could have easily claimed his life; but that he came home whole, with his entire team also alive, and that their wounds all healed well. I love my step-Father and I'm happy to still have him; I just wish my Daddy had come back, instead, but Mama says that war changes a man and that nearly dying changes him even more.

It sucks.

My playful, fun, and funny Daddy was gone and, in his place, is Daddy Drill Sergeant.

That's the voice he's using; the Commander's voice. "Answer me, little girl"

We've been playing this game since I turned 18 a few months ago. He says something parental and I say something back that I know will make him mad because I want what happens next. He pretends not to know what I want, what I look forward to, and he pretends he doesn't like it, too. He likes it, though. He likes it because he gets hard every time just like I get soaking wet for him. He knows he can have me because I've never fought him on it.

I let him touch me, spank me, get hard for me.

I just have to be careful that I don't push him too far because his anger sometimes wins out.

I blink wide eyes. "Daddy..." I reply carefully. "I'm not a little girl, anymore."

Wrong answer; I know it instantly.

His eyes narrow. "So you think you're too grown for my discipline, do you?" he barks angrily, his face turning red and that vein in his temple throbbing visibly. "You think that turning eighteen means that you can do whatever the fuck you please?" he demands loudly and crosses his thick arms over his chest; he spreads his legs a bit, the stance of a Commander addressing his troops or, in this case, one troop. "In my house? Living under my roof?"

I struggle to breathe normally, but he's so hot. "That's not what I was saying, Daddy! I-"

"And now you're talking back to me, again!" he snaps, cutting me off; his biceps, well-formed from decades of working out to stay in peak physical condition for the military, flex beneath a fitted white t shirt that clings like a second skin. "You are out of control, Maya. You've gotten away with a lot in my absence, thanks to your Mother, but that stops now." he states calmly, his voice low and even; it's scarier than shouting. "I think you're spoiled and ungrateful. You need to be reprimanded for staying out all night-"

"But it's tradition!" I stupidly cut him off and gasp when I realize my error; but I'm so wet.

"...and for being disrespectful." he spits venomously, then he turns his back to me and walks from the foyer toward the living room. "Now, Maya!" he calls, his voice echoing from the other room in a no- nonsense tone; his shadow moves along the wall, then shows him sitting down in the wall opposite the windows in the living room. "Don't make me call you, again."

I swallow hard and step down the

two steps, then around the banister; I drop my head, my chin resting against my chest demurely. I glance up at my Father through my lashes to find him glaring at me; my body shivers, my skin erupting in

a bit fearful. With his temper being what it is, I'm not sure which Father this is that is going to be putting his hands on me. I don't want to get hurt. "Daddy, please..." I whisper nervously as I meet his eyes. "I really didn't mean to seem disrespectful. I'm a good girl! I've always been a good girl."

goosebumps, and I'm actuallel. 14

"Close the curtains, Maya."

I swallow, my gaze drifting to the windows. "Daddy-"

"For every time that I have to repeat myself or you are disrespectful of my authority, Maya, you will receive two additional spanks to your ass." he warns, his eyes locked with mine and the vein in his temple throbbing thickly as he grits his teeth. "You are currently at fourteen, little girl. If you want to be able to sit down for dinner when your Mother gets home with it in an hour or so, I highly suggest you close the curtains."

I swallow, again, my mouth and throat bone-dry. "Daddy, you can't-"

"Eighteen." he cuts me off, his eyes narrowing, again.

I pout at him. "No! Fourteen plus two is sixteen, not eighteen!" I cry despairingly.

"I told you that you would get two more for each time that I have to repeat myself..." he replies calmly, then he scoots backward on the sofa and drapes his arms along the back as if lounging with friends instead of discussing the reddening of my ass. "I repeated myself at the end of that warning and you've just sassed me, again. Want to push for twenty?"

I take my lower lip between my teeth

and shake my head, then hurry to pull the drapes across our living room windows; I stare out into the street as I walk along the picture window, glance at my neighbor in her garden across the way, and shake my head at how normal that is compared to what I am currently preparing for. I'm already soaking wet as I pull the drapes so that the window is completely covered, then wrap my arms around myself protectively as I turn back to face my Father; I wasn't cold before this moment, but now I'm chilled to the bone.

My Father has only spanked me three times before this: the first time was when I was thirteen and it was because I dared to put make up on for school when I knew that it wasn't approved until I was sixteen, the second time was the day of my sixteenth birthday because he had caught me kissing a boy at the bus stop after school when he surprised me with a rare pick up. (We lived a short twenty minute direct- route public bus ride from the school, why waste the gas?) The third time was the week after my eighteenth birthday.

I had forgotten a towel when I went to shower and decided to risk a mad dash to my bedroom only for my Father to be right there in the hallway between me and my bedroom door. I hadn't even tried to cover myself, I was that shocked to see him there. I hadn't even fought back when he had grabbed my bicep to practically drag me by the arm to my bedroom; I hadn't said a word when he closed and locked my door, then dragged me toward my bed. I had gasped when he pulled me down over his knees and again when his hand made first contact to my bare ass.

I had bitten my lip to keep from crying out when his hand rained down blow after blow while calling me awful names and telling me that he had raised me better than I was behaving. I stopped feeling pain around the fifth or sixth slap to my flesh, my pussy blooming between my legs. I remember moaning and him pausing a second before a felt a lump beneath my belly; I remember adjusting myself a second before he spanked me, again, harder. I didn't moan that time, but I felt my pussy creaming and waited for the next hit.

He had dumped me from his lap after fifteen slaps to my ass and stormed from my room.

I didn't like it either of the first two

elf

times way back then, but that third time...I pout hoping to convince my Father that I'm not looking forward to this and glance at him as I await my next instruction; my head tilts as I examine my Father in what looks to be a relaxed state, slouching backward with his arms on the couch that way. I examine his sun-kissed, almost Hispanic-looking skin tone on a corded neck. I allow my eyes to drift over the fitted white t-shirt, follow the rise and curve of firm pectoral muscles downward toward a defined six-pack. My eyes, as if of their own accord, settle over the limp length of his manhood as it rests along his thigh beneath the jeans pulling taught over thickly muscular thighs.

Fuck. My Dad's hot...

I want this so badly!

"Maya." he growls angrily and snaps me out of my daze. "That's twenty."

I pout, again, but say nothing; I can't believe I thought he was hot! He's an asshole.