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You retrieve them from a plastic grocery bag and hand them to me. I bring them up to my face and inhale your scent. Should I call it a scent? Or an aroma? Or is it a bouquet? It is intoxicating whatever I call it, and then I run my tongue along the dampness and taste you for the first time. Second-hand taste, but satisfying, just like standing next to a smoker when you desperately need a puff on a cigarette, but don’t have one yourself. I ask you to turn around. You ask why. I tell you that I am getting your surprise ready. You turn around. I unzip my pants and pull my cock out through the fly, and I stroke myself to orgasm and cum into your panties. You couldn’t help yourself and you turned around mid-way through my self-pleasure and watched me as I filled your panties with my cum. I hand them to you. Your wet panties now filled with my cum. ‘Damn you are naughty,’ you say to me. ‘But I like it,’ you add. ‘What do I do with my panties now?’ you ask. I hear people come into the. I whimpered ‘no, Daddy, not here, people will see!’ Ignoring my pleas, he told me to bend over. When I continued to protest, he took me by the neck as if I were a wayward kitten, and pushed me over a stone parapet. He swatted my bottom hard a few times, and almost immediately, the cherished ritual burst the ugly bubble of self pity I’d surrounded myself with. Clad as I was in thick rip-stop fabric, I wasn’t in any real pain, but tears ran down my face nonetheless. What better proof could there be that I belonged to him? He knew exactly what I needed, and shocked bystanders didn’t exist for him. He finally let me up, hand still on my neck, and pulled me into his arms. ‘I love you, I own you, and you are beautiful, much more so without any lingerie at all. Now, no more pouting, do you understand me?’ And I did. Finally. A sudden thunderstorm often clears the air, and so it is with me. When I have acted foolishly, I am punished. Not because he is angry with me, but because he knows.
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