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My Skin Feels Too Tight

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My Skin Feels Too Tight

At the end of a bad day – or week – sometimes nothing soothes me. Not my Daddy’s kind words. Not the promise of a treat. Nothing. I’m twitchy and aggravated. I snap easily. I’m testy. If I could, I’d stomp my feet, cross my arms, and pout.

My skin feels too damn tight.

That’s become our code. It’s not a clear, calm explanation so that he understands what he needs to do to help me. No. It’s whiny, clinging, petulant. “Daddy! My skin feels too tight! I hate this feeling!”

But, he’s learned that what I need most of all is raw domination. Don’t be nice. Don’t be kind. Be Dominant. Be rough. Be primal. Make me forget. Get me out of my head.

That’s the thing with most submissives I’ve met – we can get trapped in our heads in a heartbeat. I know  my mind is constantly turning and whirring. Thoughts, ideas, memories, and to-do lists all compete for space and attention in my mind.

Sometimes it’s too damn much.

The last thing I need or want is my Daddy to be sweet and nice to me. But I don’t always have the words, in the moment, to express myself. I need him to be rough and hard. I need the appearance of anger and brutality. I don’t want nice. I don’t want loving. I want to be used. I want to be scared. I want him to be mean. I want to be made to forget everything.

Until he learned what my code meant – hell before I learned what it meant – he would rack his brain to try and make me feel better. Invariably I’d cry into the phone, confessing all sorts of hurts, perceived or real, from the previous day or week. I’d chew on everything that had upset me, worrying them like a dog gnaws a bone.

One day, in the middle of rehashing the same grievance for the third time in one conversation, he said, “Enough!” His voice changed, becoming harsher, meaner. I squeaked and whimpered. But I also squirmed and clamped my thighs together against a rush of desire.

Before I knew it, Daddy had me pinching my nipple, one then the other, until I cried out. Then he walked me through multiple orgasms, one right after the other, with no break. At the end, my body was sore and the slightest touch could send me into orbit. His voice never softened or wavered. He used me as surely as if he’d been in the room with me. When he was done, I was a puddle in my bed, exhausted.

“How do you feel, babygirl?” I giggled at him, unable to form words or even thoughts. “That good, huh?”

More giggles. Finally, “Thank you, Daddy. My skin doesn’t feel so tight anymore.”

Ever since then, it’s become our code for a bad day, a bad week, a bad moment – and the relief that I desperately need, but I can’t always express.

© Kayla Lords

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