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When you forget that you even *have* a safe word . . .

I have never safe worded out in 16 years. I've never even come close to feeling as if I needed to.

But I came as close as I ever have so not long ago.

Granted, I absolutely deserved the severity of the punishment I was given. And it was delivered with one of the most severe implements we have – a long, wide, leather strap that has been the bane of my existence since Daddy got it.

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Not cumming *or* going . . .

OMG.

I’ve experienced it before, but never as badly as this.

I was recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia, and I was put on a medication that has a terrible, terrible side effect.

Anorgasmia.

I can’t cum.

For the second time, Daddy did everything he could think of – things that would normally have me literally screaming the house down, panting, shaking, crying . . .

Nothing. Nada. Zippo.

No, that’s not right.

Not nothing.

I felt aroused. I did.

I just couldn’t get *there*.

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"But it's on *SALE*!"

“Do you need me to find a quiet corner of this parking lot, young lady?” he asked me, in *that* tone of voice.

I’ll admit it. Even after all these years together, I gulped hard.

Meekly – much more so than I had been prior to him saying that - “Uh, no, Daddy.”

We were having a discussion . . . okay, I was being . . . uh . . . a bit . . . strident about something I wanted to get just before Daddy gave me the “Princess drop-off” at the door of the grocery store.

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The not girly girl

I’m not a very “girly" girl.

I don’t have a closet full of clothes. I don’t have multiple pairs of the same shoe in different colors. I don’t even carry a purse.

Daddy doesn’t allow me to wear makeup, and I’m allergic to most scents (although I love them anyway).

But I do love pink, especially pink roses.

So, as the only daughter I’ll ever have, poor PeeWee never had a chance! I think everything she owns is pink – from her pink, gingham checked and ruffled harness to her pink wire crate and coordinated bed.

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Weekend Away

 

Tonight I was leaning down over her, almost conspiratorially, and murmuring reassurances and tokens of adoration that were more like sounds, than actual words, in the lower, slower register of my voice, which seems to comfort her.

She looked up at me and her eyes were so sad -- well, not so much sad, as kind of imbued with the ongoing wince of a pain that there's just no answer for.

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Bedtime Rituals

Every night when I climb under the covers after having let PeeWee out:

“Did you tinkle?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And use your eye drops?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Night time meds on board?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Are you hurting? Do you need to take some Tylenol so you’ll sleep comfortably?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Want the fan/air/heat off?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Are you and Miss Whee all comfy-cozy under the kivvers?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

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