Anything He wants

DADDY BENDS ME OVER

“Are you ready, babygirl?”

I nod, almost imperceptibly.

The look on my stepdad’s face borders on anger. “I’m serious. Out there”-he points to the the door leading out of the preparation space to the gymnasium-“that’s real competition. It’s going to be way tougher than what we went through before. I need to know right now if you’re good to go.”

“I am! I swear, daddy.”

I’m not-not at all. But I can’t tell him that. It’s not that I’m afraid of him -he does get angry, but he’s never hurt me-it’s just that I don’t want to ruin this for him. If I let my own anxiety out, it might make him anxious, which will definitely ruin our whole routine.

And we’ve worked so hard to get here.

For the past eight months, we’ve been training on weekends and the occasional weeknight for the daddy-daughter dancing competition. It was a small dance tournament started a few years ago that’s erupted onto the national stage recently, bringing all sorts of fame and fortune to the daddies and daughters that competed.

I mean, seriously, we’re at the regionals for chrissake! The next step is the final national competition where you get crowned as the country’s top dance pair for the year. It’s like a dream come true for us-for me, especially.

This whole thing was my idea: I’ve been addicted to dancing every since I was a little girl. It wasn’t until my stepdad came into my life a few years ago that I finally decided to pursue my dreams. He pushed me, and I responded, trying my damnedest to become a great dancer.

I’m lucky to have him, and I’m lucky the competition allows for nonbiological stepfathers to fill the role of the deadbeats that should be there.

Eck, I don’t want to even mention that turd anyway.

Lucky, like I said. Whenever I felt like quitting, daddy’s been right there to push me, to be critical when I’ve needed it. If I’m doing something wrong, he’s been there to snap at me, show me a bit of tough love. At first it was hard to deal with, but it didn’t take long to really appreciate what he was doing for me. He was fighting for me, fighting for my dreams. He wanted me to succeed even when I wasn’t sure I could. He took time out of his few days off every week to train with me and make us the best.

It’s worked, too. We’re at regionals, right? We went through the county and the state competition, taking first in both to get us to this point. We’re good at it, but every time we’ve advanced, my anxiety attacks me harder. I’ve yet to slip up, habit taking hold and getting me through each routine.

But now…

The regionals…

I don’t know if I can handle it this time. I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack. Each step is closer to the televised national competition. Daddy snaps his fingers in front of my face, bringing me back to this world. “Focus,” he demands, “you know the steps to each routine.” I nod, not saying anything, not wanting my dry throat to croak and signal my nervousness.

“All right, get ready.”

I grab my outfit, a somewhat Flashdance inspired number-the movie I was addicted to when I was a kid. It’s all red, with a small top that barely covers my tits and a slit halfway down, splitting open and showing more of my stomach; a pair of panties, exposing the curve of my ass; and one red stocking up to my right knee. I tore a number of holes in the stocking, giving it a beaten-up look. I thought it would convey all the energy and work daddy

and I have put into our training.

Daddy really likes it for other reasons.

He thinks it’s sexy as hell!

He told me that after I showed it to him-a surprise I had been building up to him for weeks. He eyed me up and down, which made me blush super hard. I had no idea if daddy would like it or not, but I didn’t expect that response at all.

I think after he saw my embarrassment, he tried to cover it up by saying that sex sells: if I look good, then it’ll win brownie points for the judges.

But it definitely felt like something a little deeper than that. But, whatever. I gotta let those feelings go. I have to settle down and prepare for our dance.

“All right,” daddy says after we get dressed, “let’s do some stretches and limber up.”

Each team has their own prep room to get ready before they hit the stage, so I don’t feel embarrassed bending over in my outfit, since there’s no one there to see me.

Except for daddy, that is, but he’s doing his breathing exercises. It’s weird to be worried about people seeing me, since I’m about to go out in front of a gymnasium full of people. But, I don’t know, they’re so far away, it’s like they don’t count.

After I stretch my arms, I work on my back and lower legs. Bending over at the waist, I suck in air and push my limits, touching my toes and exhaling slowly. I can feel the tug on my hamstrings, but more so, I can feel the touch of daddy’s hand on my back. I jerk involuntarily, frightened at the sudden contact.

“Remember your breathing, babygirl. You seem incredibly tense.” I turn my head away from him, not wanting to acknowledge how nervous I am. The warmth of daddy’s hand on my lower back feels insanely comforting, but I know my face is etched in worry.

I just don’t want him to know.

But I’m pretty sure he does.

“All right,” he says, waving me up, “we have an hour to practice.”

I stand up straight. “I thought you said we’d take this time to simply relax. You said you didn’t want us to get in our own heads.” “I did, but I changed my mind. You seem like your letting tension get the better of you.”

I shake my head, meekly responding, “No.”

“Well, then come on. One time through should be enough to make sure.” Daddy offers me his hand, but he isn’t asking. His words are barely masking distrust and agitation. I’m not sure what he’ll get out of testing me, but I sure as hell don’t want to let him down.

So we break into our Latin dance. It uses a lot of twirling and close contact, daddy pulling me in close to his body and rotating himself against me, his hand across my lower back and his other holding my hand high above us.

This is my favorite dance together. Each time we do it, I feel incredibly close to daddy. There’s a reason why people say dancing is a metaphor for sex. All the close grinding, the bare skin of our bodies touching, the hands barely containing themselves above the boundaries of decency. Daddy’s hand usually slides down and touches my ass crack plenty of times. He ends up chastising himself for it, since it’s not proper hand placement and a slip up of form, but I know that every time it happens, my body immediately tingles. I swear his does too, or at least stiffens in all the right places.

Now, though, daddy’s form is perfect. Our training is kicking in and the routine goes fluidly.

Except for the very end. I should have known I couldn’t maintain my composure long enough, even if only in a practice session. When daddy bends me over, dipping me in his arm as the final maneuver of our routine, I go far too stiff. I’m supposed to bend easily, my back going limp in daddy’s arm, my stocking-adorned leg in the air. It’s supposed to look like I collapse, having completely spent myself in my display of vigor, daddy supporting me in my last moment of exhaustion.

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, my anxiety turns into stiffness, and when I fall into the dip, my back doesn’t bend anywhere near enough. I end up kicking my leg up out of habit, but since I’m not bent over correctly, the flying leg sends me teetering and I roll right off daddy’s arm, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Are you okay?” daddy asks, stooping down to help me up.

But I jump to my feet, wanting to show that I’m not bothered by it at all.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Daddy’s helping hand folds across his chest over his other one. “So,

what was that about?”

My face burns up. I can’t believe I was so foolish to believe I could hide my angst. You can’t hide that from someone who spends so much of their time mere inches away from you. They know you, whether you want it or not.

“I…” I don’t know how to choke the answer out of me. Admitting it is going to hurt me as much as him.

“We don’t have time. Out with it.”

The courage never rises in me; instead, a mix of fear and resignation pull the words from me. “I’m too nervous. I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

Daddy shakes his head, staring at the ground. I don’t know what to expect. He’s strict, but he’s comforting. Hardships like this tend to bring out the soft side of him.

This one does not. “What was the one thing I told you when we started dancing?”

I look down at the floor, my feet turning in and out as I think about it. I honestly can’t remember. I’ll know it when I hear it, but I can’t for the life of me recall what it was.

When my silence goes on too long, daddy intervenes. “Never lie to me.

About your work ethic, about your schedule, about your nerves. Anything.

That was my one rule to ensure we achieved our best. I asked you repeatedly if something was wrong, and instead of telling me the truth, you wasted our time by lying to me.”

I’m such an idiot. I can’t even look daddy in the eye, because I know I failed him. “I’m sorry, daddy. I was scared. I didn’t want to mess us up.”

“Those are excuses.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“I could have started a while ago getting you over your anxiety.”

I look up at him. “Really?”

“Yes, but now we’re running out of time, and daddy has to take matters into his own hands to make sure all the tension is erased from your rigid body.”

“How?”

“I need you limber and relaxed.” He sits down on the bench. “Come here.”

I shuffle my feet over. When I get close, daddy grabs me by the hand. I think he’s going to guide me down to the seat next to him, but instead he pulls me over his lap.

“What are you doing?!” I cry out, kicking my feet as they come off the ground.

“You lied to me. Now you have to face the consequences.”

“Daddy, we don’t-”

He pins my upper back across his legs.

My pitch elevates as I see his hand lift up. “-have time for this!” My toes curl as his big hand lands across my tiny rump. Oh my god! He

just spanked me! I’m a grown woman, and I’ve never been spanked in my life.

“No, daddy, stop! This isn’t fair!”

Not only does daddy ignore me, but his hand slips under my waist band and pulls my shorts down, exposing my bare ass.

The power of daddy’s strikes are like nothing I’ve ever felt before. His palm strikes my naked ass, the skin burning as his power ripples through my fat. He’s furious in his slaps, giving me not a second to react to the previousContent (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

strike before the next one torches me. I want to complain, but the only thing I can mutter is a tiny yelp with each impact. The hits are so primal I can’t even vocalize my frustration, instead enslaved to the beating.

And enslaved to the uninhibited arousal.

The primal doesn’t just lend to obedience, it lends to a sexual awakening as I lay across daddy’s lap. My gut tightens with each smack, reacting not to the pain but to the growth of pleasure. My own inability to talk or stop daddy

only seems to inspire my libido, feed my submission, and moisten my cunt as

I squeeze my thighs together to hide my shame.

I grip onto the bench with one hand and lay my other hand on daddy’s leg as his spanks become harder, shifting me across his thighs. The burn in my ass is intense but numbing as well, the repeated strikes desensitizing me.

But my pussy aches all the more, causing me to flinch excessively, anticipating every spank just before it happens. I have to bite my lip in order to stop me from moaning.

I can’t…

I won’t…

I shouldn’t enjoy this…

Just as I feel I’m about to give in and let out a gut wrenching moan, daddy relents, pushing me onto my knees. My butt stings as I sit on my feet, the cheap carpet offering no support.

I sigh, happy I didn’t utter any sexual sounds. I rub my butt’s tenderness, in both an effort to ease the pain, and to somehow re-spark that pleasure I’d been feeling.

Unfortunately, my hand isn’t able to do the job that daddy’s performed so well.

But now that my arousal is dying, I have to ask. “How was that supposed to relax me, daddy?” My tone much more obedient than frustrated, unsure of why my punishment occurred but not complaining about it happening.

“That was just the beginning. I wanted to get you riled up, because when you orgasm, it’s going to feel all the better when that pent up energy is released.”

My mouth is agape. My mind has to go round a few times before I can form my thoughts. “Wait? Did you say orgasm?”