=my sissy pillow book=

Daddy clicked the television off and called me over to the rocker. He had me pull down my panties and bend over his lap. Time for a spanking! I needed one, too. I'm not sure why, just on general principles, I suppose. Oh…wait.  I do know why. Cause I'm a naughty little, sissy! That's why! That's the answer Daddy wanted to hear when he asked me why I was getting a spanking. I've been taught that it's the right answer to virtually every question I'm asked. Let's put it this way: it's never the wrong answer. 

Every once in a while, Daddy pauses between slaps to ask me why I'm being spanked, do I know?

"Cause I'm a naught little sissy, Daddy."

"Good girl," he says, and resumes. 

Smack!
Smack!
SMACK!

—Oh!— 

I must have needed a spanking even more than I realized, because it took a while for it to really start stinging. Of course, Daddy wasn't slapping me nearly as hard as he could—or has on occasion. I was almost going to ask for it harder, but I learned my lesson the last time I did. Besides, before I could even think to ask, it really did start to hurt a little. 

Daddy paused briefly to give me a bit of a fingering. Then he resumed the spanking. 

When he was done warming my bottom, he had me pull up my panties and march myself off to the bedroom. There he told me to lie down, and, standing by the side of the bed, he worked my panties back down to my frilly ankle socks. He then proceeded to lightly diddle my puny, limp, little clittie. He made it a point to point out that there wasn't much left between my legs, which, ironically, woke up the little that is there. 

"When I jerk off," he said,  "I take it in my hand and give it a good yanking up and down. Like I were fucking someone with it. When a weak little sissy like you  masturbates, she just lightly tickles it with her fingertips."

He said this while lightly stroking my clittie with his thick, rough-tipped finger. 

"Let's see if I can find that special spot," he said, having found it already, and knowing he had, by my squirming reaction to his touch, my little squeaks and squeals, my "oh Daddy…Daddy…Daddy…"

Well, you don't need to be Madame Blavatsky to predict what happened next. 

Madame Blavatsky gets it right again.

I quickly got pretty excited, then very excited, so excited I was wetting myself with excitement which Daddy sneeringly pointed out.

"You're wetting yourself you fucking pansy. Look at you wetting yourself like a little slut. Is that what you are? A little pansy, a fucking sissy faggot?"

"Oh yes Daddy," I squeaked.

"Say it. Say it in your lispiest most faggoty voice, you pussy fag, you pansy queer."

I'd have said anything at this point. Confessed to the Kennedy assassination, to 9-11. I'd have agreed if he asked me if I'd like him to cut my throat. I was arching my back desperate not to lose contact with that miraculous, rough-tipped finger of his. It felt like the finger of God reaching down in that section of Michelangelo's painting on the Sistine Chapel. 

"I'm a queer little pansy faggot Daddy," I lisped.

"Say it again."

"I'm a queer little pansy faggot Daddy," I lisped again.

"Keep saying it."

I did, over and over, like a mantra. And enlightenment was coming. I could feel it building up. 

"Don't stop," Daddy ordered, in one of his harsher tones.

I felt like saying the same thing. "Don't stop." Only my "Don't stop" would have been in the form of a plea. I understood the implication of his order. If I didn't stop repeating the words "I'm a queer little pansy faggot, Daddy," he wouldn't stop touching that magical millimeter to two on my clittie. I said the words faster and faster as Daddy's touch increased in tempo, so light, so tantalizing, so deliciously just…not…quite…enough. 

"I'm a queer little pansy faggot Daddy." The words were baking my brain, warmed by the feel-good sex-hormones flooding my body, the sentence was reforming my consciousness as it passed sentence on my life. "I am a queer little pansy faggot. I belong to Daddy. I'm his toy, his fuckdoll, his sissywife. He can do whatever he wants with me or to me." 

I came hard, kicking my feet, my head thrown back, illuminated by a kind of higher sissy consciousness. The orgasm seemed to last a long time. Then it seemed to come back again, only further away, like thunder from a storm that was moving on. I lay there, murmuring thank-you Daddy thank you. Meanwhile, he took up some of the liquid I'd leaked and smeared it across my lips with his fingers. It was without taste. Impotent. Nothing more than lubricant, in case he wanted to fuck me. This is all I could produce anymore from my clittie: a little wetness to make it easier for a man to fuck me in the ass.

It's all I should have ever been able to produce from that otherwise useless appendage.

I'm a queer little pansy faggot. It's what I've always been. Daddy's girl. His sissywife.

How could things get any better? Only one way: ice cream! Daddy suggested that we have some and it was probably the only thing—short of the sheets having caught fire—that could possibly have roused me out of my relaxed state of euphoria & gotten me out of bed at that point.