This is an erotic story that is considered taboo, and parts may make you laugh. It’s just fantasy. If you don’t find the roleplay scenario of “stepdaughter and daddie” enjoyable, it’s probably not for you.
“When I get home, I am going to bend you over my knee and spank you, Kindall Nicole. You have really crossed the line this time.”
“But Daddieee, I’ve made your favorite --”
“Not another word,” he cuts me off.
“I’ll be home soon. You’re going to learn your lesson this time!”
"Oh, but Daddieee, I have a surprise. I made your favorite dessert. Nana's recipe. And I did all the chores. I even cleaned your office. And I even pressed your pants that were in the dryer. They’re hung up and ready for you to wear," I say with such speed that I have to catch my breath.
But there is no sound coming from the other end of the phone.
"Daddie? Are you there?"
Hm, that's weird. Surely he didn't... hang up on me? No... surely not. He wouldn't. Would he? I bet an important call came through and he hit the wrong button by accident.
He did sound mad… and he used my first and middle name. What was that all about?
Here we go again. This makes twice in one week. He has been so moody lately. Ever since his girlfriend broke up with him three months ago.
. . . . . .
An hour later, his entry through the front door makes the sound of a cracking thunderbolt. I am a little taken aback, because typically I don't hear him come in when I’m upstairs and my TV's on.
I pause Sex and the City and wait for the familiar whoosh of a newspaper or stack of mail to drop onto the foyer table, the familiar sound of shoes being kicked off onto the floor.
But all I hear are footsteps pummeling down the long hallway. Fast-paced, angry footsteps that echo all the way upstairs where I am.
Yep, he's in another one of his moods. I guess today was the perfect day to make his favorite dessert.
Any minute now, he will be at the end of the hall, and I know he will go into the kitchen to get an ice-cold Coca Cola, his daily ritual when he gets home from work, one of the first things he does before going upstairs to his home office.
While he walks to the refrigerator, it will be humanly impossible for him not to stop in front of the kitchen island for what's waiting for him: the elegant crystal cloche displaying his favorite dessert.
When he approaches the upstairs staircase, he won’t be able to miss it, because it's in bird's-eye view. And I purposely left the kitchen light on.
I even thought to place a gold taffeta runner underneath the cake pedestal and surround it with two mini vases of flowers. Very Pinterest-worthy. I even remembered the powdered sugar on top, which he insists upon because ‘If it doesn't have powdered sugar, it's not Mama's recipe.’ That’s what he always says.
It would take the willpower of seven men to keep him away from homemade chocolate chess pie. There's no way he can resist at least a taste. Not in a million years.
And when he sees it, he will be so happy. He’ll remember that I’m a good girl, his sweet Kindall, and he won’t be in a bad mood for long.
. . . . . .
I patiently wait and listen for the sound of a silverware drawer to open, the sound of the cloche being lifted from the crystal pedestal, the sound of a knife to clank against it as it slides through the silky chocolate. And any second now, I know I’m going to hear him pop the top on his soda.
But all I hear are heavy, fast-moving footsteps. And creaking. Creaking that makes the staircase moan as if it will give way.
The steps move closer to me with each loud thud, quick and rhythmic like a Fou drum.
Is he coming straight up to his office? Oh my gosh, what if something really bad happened today. Something serious. Did the market crash?
I grab my phone to pull up the news: "Harris says Trump's comments on women are 'offensive to everybody;'" "Judge declines to block Elon Musk $1 million voter giveaway as billionaire seeks to move case;" "U.S. turns to China to stop North Korean troops from fighting for Russia."
As I scroll through, nothing about the stock market comes up in the headlines.
Then what could possibly have him in such a hurry to get upstairs? Maybe a work emergency?
I hear his footsteps draw nearer, and I listen for the sound of his office door to open. He always keeps it closed.
But all I hear are footsteps edging closer. And a few chimes of his phone.
Is he coming straight up to my room?
No, I'm not nervous. Should I be?
. . . . . .
The one-hundred-year-old mahogany door bellows twice, and I feel the floor shake underneath me.
“One minute, Daddie,” I call out in my sweet voice.
He immediately plants himself in the wingback chair near the window and fixes his eyes on mine.
“Did you try the pie?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. I am just as interested in why the heck not as much as why he rushed to come up to my room. There's always something very urgent for him to tend to when he gets home, a trade or a video conference, so I usually don't even see him until I bring dinner up to his office. I know what he said on the phone, but I didn’t think he’d come to talk to me without first getting a Coke, without getting a bite of pie, without checking his trades. This is very odd.
His steel-blue eyes are cold and more distant than usual. His gaze remains fixed, even after a long silence. A very long, uncomfortable silence.
The silent treatment is not really his style. He usually is very casual and brief when it comes to any sort of parenting. Usually he says something hard to take seriously, like "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know." "Go easy on my credit card." Yes, our issues are usually about money. My spending habits. But in my defense, Daddie is a big spender, too. It's hard to take what he says about money seriously, because I know he can afford it. And I know he likes spoiling me. It stems from his guilt of working all the time.
Should I ask what this is about, I debate to myself. Or just let him give me the silent treatment, make him think he’s in charge.
This actually might have something to do with a fraud alert from the bank. Why he hasn’t told them I am allowed to use his cards and to not be suspicious about charges from places like Honey Birdette or transactions that don’t fit his profile, I don’t understand. Otherwise, he doesn't usually notice my purchases. In fact, he doesn't even open his credit card statements. And I know this because they are usually piled up on his desk, still sealed, until they eventually fall into the floor or wastebasket.
Oh gosh, what if he asks what I've bought? Do I tell him the truth, that I ordered sex toys and lingerie? That would be mortifying! I just had to have the hot pink Venus vibrator and Gemini G-spot toy that just came out. And when I saw those pink lace crotchless panties and the Sophie leopard lingerie set from Honey Birdette, I had to have them.
I could just say "underwear," and leave it at that. I doubt Daddie even knows who Honey Birdette is. But if he's already talked to the bank, they may have told him what the charges are for. How embarrassing. This could lead to a very awkward conversation. And maybe that's why he hasn't said anything yet?
But hold on a minute. Really, it could be any number of purchases I've made in the last 72 hours, so I just need to stay cool. Yes, stay cool, Kindall.
As I continue trying to look unphased, I can't help but notice how stiff he is. How his hands are tightly wound, as if cemented together. They are positioned between his legs, which are firmly planted on the floor like stone pillars. He looks eerily similar to a gargoyle you see at the entrance of a dark and creepy mansion. He’s so still.
During his typical workday, it’s nothing for him to sit behind his computer for 12 hours. But he will often tap his foot, recline his chair, or smoke his e-cigarette.
I guess this confirms he hasn't had a work emergency, because he probably would not be sitting here right now, staring at me.
. . . . . .
The sound of singing birds breaks the silence. I turn my head, eager to be distracted, but Daddie's icy reflection is mangled amongst the pair of Redbirds across the windowpane. It leaves me with a very sunsettled feeling.
Reluctantly, I return my eyes to his. But still, he’s silent. And now I’m starting to wonder what I’m in trouble for. I must be in trouble for something. The urge to bite my fingernails becomes overpowering. But the last thing I want is to look guilty. I look back at the window to try, yet again, to put my focus elsewhere, but the birds fly away, leaving us in silence again.
Complete silence. For another whole two minutes.
“Ting, ting,” his phone makes two high-pitched chimes.
What’s really interesting is he hasn't moved an inch. Not even to see what it is, or who it’s from.
Soon enough, he has to make some sort of sound: a cough, a yawn, something. Any minute now.
I really do not want to sit here the rest of the afternoon. I have a nail appointment.
“Ting,” my phone chimes.
I could leave it. I probably should leave it. But, it’s just an arm’s length away, I deliberate. And you know what, I am starting to find sitting here a little agonizing. Being made to sit here. In my own room, for heaven’s sake, without even knowing why. But you know what, I am a grown adult. And Daddie hasn’t even said what this is about, meaning technically I’m not really in trouble yet. So I reach for my phone to see the message that's popped up.
When my eyes meet his again, I see his expression is no longer stoic. By the wrinkly frown that’s appeared on his forehead, I’m guessing he’s annoyed that I’ve dared to check my phone. Well, that makes two of us.
I silently take pleasure in the fact at least I got some reaction. But that’s not exactly what I’m hoping for. I want him to say something. Say anything.
But he doesn’t. He just continues watching my every move. Watching as I tap the screen to clear the notification for my appointment — the appointment I need to leave for soon. Watching as I put my phone down. Watching as I twirl my hair, occasionally pulling the ends down to look for signs of split ends, something I only do if I’m extremely bored. Watching me uncross my legs and fidgeting my foot.
I’m sure — no, I’m positive I look as bored as I feel. Like I have better things to do, like I have better places to be right now.
Whatever this is about, I think he will go easy on me, like always. I can talk my way out of this. If he ever starts talking, that is.
. . . . . .
I look down at my phone again to check the time. If I don't leave right now, I’m going to miss my appointment. But before I can formulate my excuse out of this situation, he says, “We need to talk. I don't know if I’ll ever trust you with my credit card again. You have really pushed my limits this time, literally, Kindall.”
Well, I've heard that before. But Daddie has some pretty high credit card limits. I think he might be bluffing.
"The Tesla order has been cancelled," he says in his deep voice.
“CANCELLED!" my mouth opens with a high-pitched shriek.
So this is what this is about. The car. I just knew he’d let me keep it. How could he say no to his sweet Princess? Well, the day isn’t over yet. And I know just what to say.
“But it’s supposed to arrive in time for my birthday, and you said I could have anything I want for my birthday.” Yes, a very strategic emphasis on my birthday. I usually get exactly what I want, because I was told from a very tender age you can have anything you want for your birthday, Sweetie.
"And I’ve told everyone it will be here on ‑‑"
“That trip to Ibiza is out of the question," he firmly cuts me off, turning my expression from shock to “if-looks-could-kill.”
"But Allisa needs the funds by next week so she can book it. It's our annual trip, Daddie," I try to sweet talk.
"Do you understand the gravity of this? You have authorized my card to make a big -- no, a huge purchase. This is not one of your typical shopping sprees. This is a car. A car, Kindall. Remember what I told you about big-ticket items? They need to be run by me first.”
Yeah, yeah. Here we go again. I maintain eye contact, outwardly appearing unphased, unbothered. Like I really don't understand what the problem is. As badly as I want to roll my eyes, though, I have a trip to salvage, and my dream car is at stake.
"No, you wouldn't understand. Because you are spoiled. So incredibly spoiled," he says, shaking his head in disapproval. "You know what the problem is, you are out of touch with reality!" his voice raises ten decibels louder.
I’m really fighting the urge not to roll my eyes now. Daddie just called me spoiled. Such a big revelation. Of course I’m spoiled.
"Tell me this, what girl your age gets the things you do?”
We both know that I pretty much get anything I want. Well, except for this Tesla, apparently.
“Answer me,” he directs sternly.
Oh, he really does want me to answer this loaded question. But that’s not in my best interest. If I'm going to turn things around, I'm going to have to ask the questions.
“Why did you give me your credit card if you don’t want me to use it?” I skillfully avoid the question. But that sounded sassy. Probably too sassy for a girl who’s got a trip to Ibiza coming up.
“Why am I not surprised you’re trying to justify this? Why am I not surprised?" Each of his cheeks have a circle of pink, like the little teapot ready to be tipped over and poured out.
I can see his blood pressure is rising. His cheeks start to flush when it is. I still think he’s overreacting. We’ve been through this many times before. What has gotten into him?
And then I realize, it’s not just about the car. It’s the fact Daddie hasn’t been laid in three months. He’s simply frustrated in more ways than one.
Daddie needs a release. Daddie needs sex. Sooner than later. Because it looks like he’s about to blow a fuse. "Just because I’m successful doesn’t mean you get everything you want. And it damn sure doesn’t mean you get to buy a frigging Tesla with MY credit card! You think you have me wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?”
Inside, I'm laughing now. Because yes, I have Daddie wrapped around my little finger. Just the way I like it. Because I always know the right thing to say. “I’m reallyyy sorry. And I promise, I won’t do it again.” I give him my very best puppy-dog eyes.
“For some reason, I’m not convinced,” he scoffs, his jaw clenching tighter. “You’re going to have to show me you're sorry this time. I don’t remember the last time you’ve had any real consequences, and I think that’s the problem. You get off the hook too easy."
Consequences? Like a punishment? I don’t think he’s ever said those words to me. “I know you’re mad. But I swear… I really didn’t think –” I carefully choose my words “-- you’d… mind.”
I instantly regret my shaky delivery. “I didn't think you'd mind because I’ve got a 4.0," I quickly blurt out.
But his snide laugh says he's not in agreement. “So you actually think you deserve a Tesla because you’re a good student. Is that right? Am I hearing you correctly?”
“For my birthday,” I cautiously insert.
“For your birthday,” he says flatly. It’s so evident how disgusted he is with me and how much trouble I’m actually in. But I still think I can work my magic. Because the rationally-thinking Daddie would see I deserve a new car for my birthday. The Daddie that I know and love wants to reward his Princess for being a high-performing student. And, again, he can afford it. So why shouldn’t he? His sex-starved brain just needs a little help understanding.
“Yes. For my birthday,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Well... you know that I am very happy about you being a good student. And I’m very proud of that. But let's just get down to the brass tacks, shall we? You got a new car before you started college. So don't you think it would be extravagant of me to buy you another car?"
No, I don’t see it that way. Because Daddie gets a new car every year. And the brat in me is dying to tell him that. "You always trade in your car every year.”
“Need I remind you who’s in charge? Who you answer to?” His cheeks are no longer pink, but red. And I’m starting to wonder if he took his blood pressure medication this morning.
“Ting” my phone chimes again. I reach over to grab it before silencing it.
“So that text is more important than what I have to say?”
“It’s a notification that I missed my nail appointment,” I explain. A part of me hopes he will consider that as a punishment. I've been looking forward to that appointment all week.
“I suppose that was going to be on my card, too. If I hadn’t got home when I did, you’d be at the nail salon right now, texting your friends about your new Tesla.” Exasperation echoes from his cheeks, now cherry red to match his forehead. And the vein in his right temple is bulging, making me worry even more.
“Daddie, did you take your blood pressure medication?”
“Don’t change the subject! You’re probably the reason I need blood pressure medication!”
I silently watch as the vein in his forehead grows even more prominent, and I wonder if Daddie might just have a heart attack.
. . . . . .
“I meant what I said. I’m going to bend you over my knee and spank you. Come here,” he motions me towards him.
But I don’t move. I’m waiting for him to chuckle about what he just said. Some cue that he is not serious. Does he really think I’m actually going to let him spank me?
“You know I’m a little too old for that, right?” I try to rationalize with him. The thought of him actually bending me over his knee brings a smirk to my face.
“I don’t think anything’s funny,” he says authoritatively, his eyes a shade darker. “You’re gonna take this spanking, or –”
I try to remind myself to breathe between his pause, awaiting his next words. The sentencing he’s about to carry out.
“–or you’re not going on that trip. And driving, we may have to put that on pause for a while. From now on, you obey me, or things are going to get very hard for you."
No driving? For 'a while'? What does 'a while' mean? There's no way he can be serious. He knows that’s the worst thing he could ever threaten.
“I said I’m sorry, and you said you’re taking it back,” I whine.
"Sorry’s not gonna work this time," he says, pulling me over the knee of his starched khakis.
. . . . . .
For the next few seconds, I think about resisting. I think about running out of my bedroom and hiding in one of the guestrooms. He needs some time to cool off. He needs his blood pressure medication. Maybe a stiff drink. He is taking this too far. Apparently I should have waited for a better time to buy a car. Until he was less stressed, less on edge, or at least until he had a new girlfriend. This was just bad timing on my part. Really bad timing.
“Daddie, is it possible lack of sex has made you upset?” I’m clutching at straws right now. Anything to make him see that he’s not thinking clearly.
But he doesn’t respond. I realize, this is the first time I haven’t been able to talk my way out of trouble. He actually means it. He’s going to take away my most important possession: MY CAR. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m willing to do anything to get back on his good side. Even take a spanking.
What’s a little spanking going to to hurt, anyways? Not having a car is way worse. Not going to Ibiza with my friends? Way worse than any spanking. Plus I'll get to laugh with my friends about this later. And eventually I’m going to tease Daddie about this.
. . . . . .
As I lie still across his lap, I wonder how I’m going to keep from laughing. Yes, I’m upset about all of this. But still, the thought of being a grownup in college and him spanking me is comical.
I try to hold it back. I try so hard. But I start giggling. And it’s so hard to stop.
Smack.
I instantly regret not being able to hold back. Daddie's punishment has officially begun and I now worry he’s going to make up for all the years he never spanked me.
Smack. Smack.
“You still think this is funny?” he asks.
No, I don’t think this is funny anymore. Daddie's hand is strong. And apparently, it has a mind of its own. I feel it grab the hem of my dress, lifting it up my lower back.
“What are you doing!” I exclaim, pulling my dress back down.
“You won’t think a real spanking's funny. This is how I was spanked, bare-assed.”
The thought of him ‘bare-assed’ and bent over for a spanking makes me struggle to hold back from giggling again. That is, until I feel the next smack that’s harder than the last ones.
"Why aren’t you wearing panties?” he sounds surprised. And curious.
I feel my face turn hot pink, realizing he has full view of me.
Truthfully, I don’t always wear panties, but I really don’t want to say that. It’s not the type of thing you say to your stepdad.
“I forgot to put them on. I was in a hurry.” I lie. But I’m still just as embarrassed. And still confused as to why it mattered. I can’t help but wonder if he knows I’m lying, when suddenly I feel him pull my dress back up again.
Before I can pull it back down, he grabs my arm and stops me. The closed palm of his right hand takes the first slap to my bare cheek, making the sound of a cracking whip.
There is no longer an urge to giggle. Not even a little. And realizing that nothing is between his hand and my bare skin, makes me feel weird about this. This doesn’t seem funny anymore. Is this what a “real” spanking is? I’d only seen kids get spanked. But they had their clothes on. Considering my age, it seemed like this wasn’t the appropriate punishment. That maybe it was a bit too hands on.
As his hand slaps one cheek to the next, it starts to sting more and more. How much longer is this going to last? I’m ready for this punishment to end, but it seems like he isn’t. In fact, it seems like he’s enjoying it.
Until this point, I’ve been holding back my moans. But now my cheeks are sore, and I’m tired of pretending they aren’t. I've submitted. I’ve been punished, and now it’s time for him to cool off… and most importantly, rethink what he said about my car and Ibiza.
“You aren’t gonna do that again, are you?”
“No, Daddie.” I say in a raspy voice, his hand still slapping my cheeks, which most certainly are red now.
“Are u still mad?” I dare to ask. I’m hoping he says he forgives me, but he doesn’t say anything. And he doesn’t stop. “I’ve learned my lesson, I promise,” I plead.
His hand rests on my right cheek, and I wait, anticipating it to raise and then smack me again. But this time, it doesn’t. It remains still.
It’s over now. Daddie feels I've been thoroughly punished. He’s probably going to give me a hug now. We’re going to go downstairs and eat pie. And everything’s going to go back to normal.
But Daddie has other ideas.