..perhaps some things did make more sense in thiscontext. From a young age, I was always fascinated by my mother'sthings. The silkiness of her dresses... The stretch and hold of her oldfashioned girdle. The colors and scents of her cosmetics, and theshine and glitter of her jewelry. By the time I was 8, I would takeany opportunity when she was out to put on one of her outfits, andmake up my face. I always took precautions, and was never caught,despite a few close calls. By my early teens, I. I hardly felt the sting of the first sting as he brought the stick down again. I hugged the tree harder as the stings began to blossom and multiply. I looked into his face, etched with focus. As the whipping continued, I tried to wrestle away as they landed and the spreader bar rattled and didn’t let me move. I laughed at how much it hurt and how my pussy was betraying me, as she always does. Daddy didn’t laugh. My ass and hips felt fiery red and I kept longing to be held in Daddy’s strong,. More

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