It doesn’t matter how much time I spend at the gym. The moment he bares my bottom and tips me over his knee, I feel like a helpless little kid. I can squirm and kick and try to cover my reddening cheeks, but it doesn’t help. He grabs my hand, holds me in place, and doesn’t miss a beat drumming on my butt.
Sometimes I fantasize that I’ll grow bigger and stronger than him. My attempts to avoid his palm raining down will finally work, and he’ll realize that I’ve outgrown such a naughty-boy punishment.
But I know it isn’t true. No matter how physically big and strong I get, he’ll always be bigger and stronger in the ways that matter. Dad is in charge, of me and my butt. As long as I’m misbehaving, he’ll be there to make my cheeks sting and my face blush. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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