Punished by Her Daddy - Book 3: a collection of father spanks daughter stories

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But you know what? We change lives. And I’m going to argue that we change lives precisely because we force open that too-small box that most human beings think they live in. The deputy then concluded no crime had been committed. The Public Affairs Officer for the Sheriff’s Department refused comment on the incident. Switched!: Whilst Sara is being driven home from school by her mother, having been suspended, a freak of nature occurs and mother and daughter find themselves in each others' body! Sara is due to be punished when her father gets home, but who is actually going to get spanked now? I thought the beating was excessive. If my daughter was missing for three days, I’d be angry, but I’d be more relieved she was alive. Clearly, if she felt she could leave for three days at that age, there’s something going on at home. He needs to beat himself because he lost control a long time ago.

Recently I read that national radio host Tom Leykis urged his male listeners to "hit on" female victims of incest and sexual abuse: "If you think that a woman's more likely to put out, or more likely to be good in bed because she has a history of abuse, is it wrong to try to find that out and then go for the gold?" At first I cringed in anger that the comment had been made, but then I cringed in shame, knowing that in some ways the comment described me. I had been promiscuous. I had gone out of my way to make sure that my lovers thought I was a talented sexual partner. Over 21 years of parenting four sons I have found that spanking or “whupping” is an evergreen topic which can instantly spark heated debate among parents. During my adolescence and all through my 20s I accommodated men sexually as a way of getting attention, as a way to feed my emotional needs: "He loves to have sex with me, that must mean I'm special." It was all-important to me that I be the object of someone's, often several someones', sexual attention. It made me feel whole, complete, energized. When I was in the middle of third grade, my parents decided farming was not going to be their future and Dad found a good “regular job”. So, my family moved down the highway to the bigger town of Hondo.

I thought it meant that I was special. I didn't know it would turn sex into an act of shame.

About a year ago, I happened upon this statement about the Monitor in the Harvard Business Review – under the charming heading of “do things that don’t interest you”: I could hardly wait for him to reach into my panties and give me that tingling feeling. I didn't know then that I was having orgasms; it would be years before I learned that word, and even longer before I admitted to myself that what I experienced was orgasm. But sometimes the incest felt good -- that special feeling, all that attention and love and affection from my nice daddy. And he was, in my young mind, my nice daddy; he hugged me and put Band-Aids on my skinned knees and sang Sinatra songs to me.

It was a habit I kept for a long time after those days -- I'd make myself come but not in the presence of others. It was like a vestige of Daddy; for a long, long time, only Daddy would make me come. Chris gave me a lot: He replaced my father as the man who kept me front and center in his gaze, something I so desperately needed. But here's the catch, something I didn't think about until recently. How did the girls know? How had this rumor managed to get passed down? Who else played with Mr. Bernard? The abuse stopped when I was 9, and I became a voracious masturbator. I longed to relive the sensation that had grabbed me between the legs and had felt so good. I would lie on my stomach and rub around the outside of my vagina until I came. Sometimes I used the stream of water from the bathtub spigot. My father once walked in on me taking a bath and masturbating in that way, and he didn't say a word about it. My whole life, I have been haunted by an intersection between shame and pleasure. As a young child, I was hurt again and again and led to believe that it was my fault, and that if only I weren't bad, my dad wouldn't do those things to me. But at the same time, I thought I was special because it was happening. I'd tell myself, "Look how much my daddy loves me," but still I knew it was bad and that I should be ashamed. And sometimes I liked the way it felt, but a lot of times I was scared. And I knew that if I told anyone, he would hurt me. No Talking after Ten: Lauren's father delivers a bare bottomed spanking to remind her to obey the rules.That’s an individual call that depends on the person,” he says. “If it were me responding as a patrol officer, I would call my sergeant for advice. But personally, I would tell that child, ‘Your mom wanted me to be here because she loves you. She wants to make sure she didn’t harm you because she loves you.’ Then I’d give the child my card and tell him or her to call me if they ever need anything.” I was desperate, and needy. I rarely saw my dad, and when I did he was cold and dispassionate. He didn't treat me the same way, and I wasn't his No. 1 girl. I no longer held his attention, and I was no longer his obsession. I felt that I'd lost his love. Even at home with my mother, I would crawl into her bed to sleep at night. Meanwhile, at Dad's house, the abuse continued. I'd go to sleep, genuinely fall asleep, and he'd get in bed. I'd wake up and feel his warm skin, his erection against my bottom, his breathing in my ear, the slight scent of Budweiser on his breath. One afternoon, there was a spanking after a sexual encounter and the link between sex and shame became permanent in my brain. I believed that I had let the sex happen, and that it was my fault; I believed that I was the bad one. What some parents – and most kids – may find surprising is that any branch of law enforcement would offer to stand witness as a parent spanks their kid.