Daddy’s hotel punishment

hotelDragging me backwards by the hair, I’m almost lifted off my feet as he forces me back towards the bed. My hands reach up instinctively to stop him from ripping it out at the roots. The rest of my body clumsily tries to leap backwards in an attempt to be one step ahead, easing my punished scalp.

I’d been deliberately naughty, I know; reaching for the big girl drinks in the mini bar was strictly against Daddy’s rules. We’d arrived in the hotel just that afternoon, a beautiful luxury hotel which Daddy had kindly booked as a treat for his little.

The typical brat, I’d pushed it too far this time. He didn’t need any reason for slipping his belt out through the loops and thrashing me with it, of course. Any given reason was cause for an extra cruel beating.

I was regretting that insolent, naked walk over to the little refrigerator now, but it was all too late. Even the “sorry, Daddy” was trapped in a silent whisper at the back of my throat. All breath save the painfully drawn in necessary gasps had now been taken by him. By Daddy’s hold on my hair with one hand, while the other pulled the belt swishing through that last loop which he then dropped noisily on to the bed near my wriggling body.

That was deliberate of course. He knows the effect it has on me, pulling his belt through quickly like that. With his fiery temper fuelling the motion, the noise cutting through the air almost like the slice of a crop. It promises a world of discipline from Daddy to his little girl. Loving correction, he calls it.

I call it hurty. Very, very hurty and not very nice at all. The belt lash marks don’t leave for a week and a half, throughout which every time I sit down I audibly wince. He just gives me that smile when he hears it, adding to my utter humiliation and powerless surrender.

And it was about to happen again. I finally found some extra power in my lungs and begged him not to…

“Please, Daddy… not the belt… I’m sorry, I’ll be good…”

“Too late, little one. You knew what would happen, we’ve been through this. No stealing from the fridge.”

His grip tightens in my hair, on the top of my head, and pushes my face down into the pillow, removing any chance of a reply, even if I had a decent one, which I don’t.

My body starts to shake involuntarily and I can almost feel him grinning. I just know this is making him hard, too.

He likes having me in such a predicament of fear and bondage at his hand, unable to talk, move, or do anything except what he wants. To be Daddy’s little ragdoll, thrown around and beaten and fucked. Hard. Raw. Painful. Perfect.

I hear him pick up the belt and his knuckles fleetingly graze the curve of my waist as he does so. I moan softly from within the depths of my pillow muffled hell.

He loosens his grip on my hair then, but keeps his hand flat against the back of my head, firmly.

“If you move your head an inch, this will go very badly for you indeed.

My advice is to be a good girl for Daddy and keep your head exactly where it is right now. I don’t even need a reply. You’re going to be a good little for a change and do as I say.”

Oh, fuck. My chest lurches with… something… excitement? Fear? Lust? The trickle between my legs is definitely the latter. The telltale nerve connection that forms an invisible bond between my throat and my clit is back, stopping off en route at my nipples.

There’s a soft, high pitched sound in the room suddenly and I realise with horror that it’s coming from me: fearful whining.

He removes his hand from my head completely, then. I actually don’t dare move a muscle. Apart from the damn trembling that’s occurring from shoulders to toes. Plus the ever increasing rivulets of betrayal at the apex of my clenched together thighs.

Probably my imagination, but a sudden calm before the storm. I know he’s raising the looped belt, holding the metal buckle and the other end in his fist, poised to strike.

He has perfect aim.

The thwack rips through the air like a knife through paper. The pain sears across the ridge just underneath the fleshiest part of my bottom, delivering that masochistic blend of torture and ecstasy.

I have no idea how long this will continue. All I know is that I must be a good girl for Daddy, I must obey and I must remain still.

I must suffer for Daddy to be happy with me. Afterwards I must beg forgiveness and be a good girl again.

There were 40 lashes altogether. Daddy said it was the same as the alcohol content of the big girl drink I was trying to steal. So I’ll remember.

Daddy left me on the bed to writhe in the glowing pain after he’d finished. He put the belt back on and told me not to move.

I could hear him pad deliberately over to the fridge and then grab a bottle of something. The slight pop as he opened it.

The sting as he poured it over my beaten and thrashed behind, mingling with the pain as he licked the wounds and consumed his drink at the same time.

Daddy undid his belt again… and undid his trousers too. Without even taking his clothes off as he climbed on top of me, he pulled my sore cheeks apart and repeatedly fucked his little girl in the ass, using more drizzled drink as the only lubricant.

I wasn’t allowed to move for a long, long time.

I didn’t sit comfortably for weeks.





– Cara Sutra

Please share your thoughts!

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.