Daddy's World

by Ava Sinclair

  I reluctantly rise and tuck Kit back into her bed. I am quiet as I leave the room and shut the door behind me. As I walk down the hall, I pull out my CommuniPort and send a message demanding that Matron Blunt meet me in my study.

  I pour myself a drink to take the edge off the anger I feel towards the cold woman who was charged with the task of bringing Kit here. At the sound of the knock on my study door, I down the rest of my drink.

  “Come in.”

  “You wanted to see me, Senator?”

  “Yes, Matron Blunt.”

  “Is it about your ward? If you need any assistance with her behavior I’m happy to assist. I was quite hesitant when you requested Matron Lang. C24—”

  “Kit,” I correct the Matron. “Her name is Kit. And you are not allowed to depersonalize her.”

  The matron tucks her double chins down as she scowls. “I’m not depersonalizing her, but she’s a ward and until she completes the program, that’s how she’ll be seen. It’s the Paternas way. As director…”

  “As director, you answer to the Order of the Patriarchy,” I say. “Or are you forgetting your place, Matron? You serve at the leisure of the Senate.”

  She smiles and bows her head in what is supposed to be a show of deference, but I can see the sentiment does not extend to eyes that flash with resentment. “I understand, and if I have displeased you or Senator Thane…”

  “Dropping names are we, Matron Blunt?” I put my hands on my hips. “Let me remind you that while Senator Thane may have referred you for this post, a word from me carries the same weight.”

  “Of course, Senator.” The words are accompanied by a tight-lipped smile.

  “Now.” I cross my arms, no longer trying to hide my disapproval. “I was informed by my ward that you set a course directly through the Drift Field on your way to Paternas. Why?”

  Matron Blunt folds her hands behind her back. “Senator Daley, yours was no ordinary selection. She’s a rebel leader. Left unbroken, she’d have the potential to influence others here who are—”

  I cut her off. “We do not break women here, Matron Blunt. Paternas was founded to reform women through paternalistic care and guidance. You were hired to facilitate that mission, not to subvert it with some authoritative doctrine.”

  “I assure you, Senator. I am not seeking to subvert anyone, least of all an esteemed leader such as yourself.”

  “Good.” I turn away. “I’m glad we understand each other. And I expect someone with your credentials will have no problem remembering that any threats of execution of a ward, or blows to a ward’s face, will earn you or any other heavy-handed Matron a letter of dismissal.” I turn back. “Is that clear?”

  “Abundantly. And if I have exceeded my authority, it was only because of my deep commitment to the … core values of the patriarchal order.” The matron clasps her hands. “If I am overbearing, it is only because I am fearful of any influence that would disrupt the divine vision of New Bethel.”

  “Leave the vision to the leaders, Matron Blunt. If you feel compelled to please the Patriarchy, you can start by remembering your place.”

  “Of course, Senator.” She folds her hands beneath her pendulous breasts. “If I may inquire…how is your ward doing?”

  “She’s coming along nicely. I could not be more impressed. It’s encouraging how quickly people flourish when treated with kindness.”

  “How wonderful. Do you think she’s settled enough to meet some of the other young ladies, yet? I understand this will mean reuniting her with some former denizens from the Warrens.”

  I keep my expression neutral. I wonder how Kit will react to the changes in former rebels who once stood shoulder to shoulder with her against the government. Will she be disappointed to see how easily they’ve adapted to their new lives? I’ve spied Gavin and Trina several times lately. Trina looks at my friend with such adoration. She looks at him with the kind of total trust I hope to inspire in Kit. Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t deepen our private bond before exposing her to the group dynamic where she’ll surely here more of what is expected. What if it causes a setback?

  Matron Blunt is waiting for an answer. She has softened her face to affect an expression of patience, but I note the cunning in her eyes and am reminded of what Linda said. She’s always watching, like Senator Thane.

  “I think she will be ready soon,” I reply with more certainty than I feel.

  “Excellent.” The matron smiles broadly, clapping her plump hands together. “I look forward to it more than I can say.”

  Fourteen

  Kit

  I’m over Daddy’s knee. I’ve done something—something naughty—and now I’m going to be punished.

  I can feel his muscular thighs under my belly. I can feel the cool air of the room raising gooseflesh on my bare bottom. Daddy has raised my dress. He tells me he is sorry he has to do this, but a spanking is the best way to impress on a little girl the importance of obeying the rules.

  My heart is hammering in my chest. I am so scared, but I am also filled with a sense of expectation. I’m waiting for him to bring his hand down on the smooth skin of my exposed bottom. I am waiting for the pain of correction. But I am waiting for something else.

  Daddy starts to spank me. He is not gentle. It hurts. It hurts so very bad. Stinging heat on stinging heat. I am squirming. I am begging. I am writhing on his lap to the extent I can, but I can’t move much.

  Daddy is strong. Daddy is stronger than I am. Daddy will spank me as long and hard as he wants. He’ll spank me until I cry.

  And I do. I feel a catch in my throat, then a burning lump I cannot swallow. I wail in pained sorry at having disappointed him, at how bad it hurts. Tears trace a hot path down my cheek, running into my mouth, which is opened in a childish bawl. I beat my hands into the chair legs below me, sobbing.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry…”

  “Are you going to be a good girl?” he asks. “Answer me, Kit. Kit…”

  “KIT!” A voice is calling my name, but it’s not Daddy’s voice. I open my eyes to see Matron Lang standing in the corner of the room. “Young lady…did you hear me? It’s time to wake up.”

  I blink my eyes as my caretaker comes into focus. She is fixing me with a quizzical look. It takes me a moment to realize it was just a dream. I feel myself flush.

  “Sorry.” I push the cover back and sling my legs over the side of the bed. The sunlight that has filled my room every day is absent. Thick clouds have filled the sky and rain patters against the eaves. “It rains here?”

  “The atmosphere has been replicated to mimic Earth. The weather cycles aren’t as frequent, though. It rains once every few months, but when it does, it can last for days. Unfortunately, this means outdoor activities are cancelled.

  I was hoping Roman would show me more of the propagation projects he’d hinted at the day he took me to see the butterflies. The surge of disappointment I feel mixes with the frustration and confusion of my dream. It doesn’t help when the matron points out that I talk in my sleep.

  “What did I say?” I ask hesitantly. I’m about to take a bite of waffles when she makes the casual observation.

  She doesn’t reply. Instead she asks a question. “What were you dreaming about?”

  “I can’t remember.” It’s a lie. I push my food around my plate with the fork as I play the dream over in my head. I can still feel Roman’s legs under my belly, the weight of his muscular arm, holding me in place, the pressure in my chest that broke free as a sob. I bring my hand to my face, half-expecting to feel tears, but there are none.

  “Are you not hungry?” Matron Lang nods at my plate. “Belgian waffles are my favorite.”

  “Do you want some?” I ask.

  “No. I ate already.” She smiles. She has a very lovely smile.

  “Matron Lang, can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask.” She’s laying out a navy-blue dress and matching shoes. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

/>   “Do the matrons marry?”

  She doesn’t look up at me right away. Instead, she smooths the front of the dress she’s placed on the bed.

  “No. Most are older women, past child-bearing age.”

  “You aren’t old.”

  She’s visibly tense. “True. But I can’t have children. I had a condition in my early twenties that caused me to have very heavy periods. It got so bad that I became very weak, very sick. I almost died, and I would have if the third government doctor hadn’t approved the operation I needed on appeal. I got my hysterectomy in the nick of time. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “You had to get permission? “Why would anyone try to stop you from having an operation to save your life.”

  “If it had been any other organ, the government wouldn’t care.” Her tone is hard, then she seems to catch herself. She walks over to me. “Listen. I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s not the kind of thing you need to worry about, Kit.”

  I ignore her. “So you can’t marry?”

  “Kit...don’t ask so many questions. It’s better this way. Not every woman wants to marry. Eat your food.”

  I pick up my fork, but realize I’ve lost my appetite. “Just because you can’t have kids doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to love someone.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t love someone.” The matron’s back is to me, her voice as tight as her posture. “I just said I couldn’t marry.”

  I turn my attention back to my food. I try to imagine Matron Lang in a dress, walking in the field or holding hands with some tall, handsome man. I wonder who she had in her past, who she loved, and if he married another.

  After breakfast, she tells me to wait for Daddy, who is coming to see me. She tells me to entertain myself with my books. Although she’s performed her duties with the same kind efficiency, I regret the conversation that has left her seeming quiet and preoccupied. I want to ask her if she needs to talk, but I know she would not, so I walk to the bookshelf to pick out a book. I feel slightly anxious, so I reach for one of the vintage picture books on the third shelf. It’s called Mary’s Mayhem, and is filled with idyllic images of a young girl dressed very much like me.

  Mary was a pretty girl

  With pretty flowing hair

  Who laughed and played all the day

  Without a stress or care.

  I turn the page, skimming over the stanzas of rhyming verse to focus on pictures Mary’s antics, from putting a fat spider in the governess’ bed to refusing to eat her dinner to getting her party dress muddy. The character of Mary is rendered in a manner that makes her age hard to discern. In some pictures she appears young. In others, she looks like a youthful adult.

  I flip through the book, admiring the flowery illustrations but find myself stopping at one in particular.

  Mary’s misdeeds have caught up with her. She’s standing in a corner, the hem of her dress tucked into the waistband. Her hands are folded at her back, and she’s staring over her shoulder at her bottom which is burnished a splotchy pink. She’s clearly been spanked, and I can’t stop looking at the pictures.

  I study it carefully— from the hue of her punished buttocks to her baleful expression. Mary is biting her lip, and tears are running down her face.

  I shift in the chair where I am sitting and turn the page. Mary is happy again, playing in a fresh clean dress. A man in a suit is smiling down at her. I don’t need to read the accompanying verse to know this is her daddy.

  Mary has been corrected now.

  Daddy’s hand gave her a sting.

  But she is still is his sweet troublemaker

  And he wouldn’t change a thing.

  I turn back to the previous picture of a crying Mary in the corner. I think of my dream, of how real it felt. I move my finger down the illustration of the girl in the picture.

  “Kit?” Roman’s voice startles me, and I slam the book shut, feeling a flush of heat come over my face as I do. I feel as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong, yet I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m reading, just as I was told to do.

  “Ah, Mary’s Mayhem. I had that one written especially for you. Do you like it?”

  I rise quickly and take it return it to the shelf, carefully pushing it into place. “It’s all right. More a children’s book, really.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with children’s books. Many of them are very instructive, even for adults. Besides, you’re here to have a childhood. That includes children’s books.”

  I pick another one from the shelf. “This one, then.” It’s a book on butterflies. “I was hoping we could see them today. Or maybe some other things out of doors. But Matron Lang said the weather is too bad.”

  “It is.” He settles in a chair. “The sun will come back soon enough. But there’s no rule that says one can’t discover things indoors.”

  “What kind of things?” I ask.

  “Come here, Kit.” He beckons me over and pulls me into his lap. I try to relax. It’s easier than it once was, but still doesn’t come naturally. Roman brushes the back of his hand across my cheek. “Matron Lang said you called out in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?”

  “No.” I feel myself tense at the question.

  “A good one then?”

  “I didn’t have a dream.”

  He sighs and leans back, arching a brow. “No dream at all?”

  I don’t respond.

  “She said you called out.”

  I’m unable to meet his eyes.

  “What did you dream, Kit?” When I remain silent, he asks me again; this time the question carries the weight of authority. “Tell me.”

  “Dreams are secret.”

  “You don’t keep secrets from your daddy.” He takes hold of my chin, turning my head so that I have to look at him. “Besides, I told you a secret, remember?”

  My guilt is instantaneous as I remember his revelation in the butterfly house. I take a deep breath, dropping my gaze as I give him the honest answer.

  “I dreamt you…punished me.”

  “What kind of punishment?”

  Why is it so hard to say the word? “A spanking.”

  “How did I spank you?”

  “Over your lap.”

  “And your dress? Was it down?”

  I want him to stop. I don’t want to tell him any more. But at the same time, I do.

  “It was up.”

  “And your little panties?”

  There’s a curious throbbing between my legs. Arousal. I wriggle a bit on his lap, hoping a shift in position will halt it. But he shifts, too, and the sensation only gets stronger.

  “Down.”

  “So in your dream I spanked you on your bare bottom. Do you know why?”

  “No. I didn’t dream about what I did wrong. Just about the spanking.”

  “Matron Lang said you called out, ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’”

  “Oh.” I put my hand over my face.

  “You’re embarrassed?” he asks.

  I can only nod. “I don’t like talking about nightmares.”

  “Nightmares?” Roman shakes his head. “I don’t believe you had a nightmare. Nightmares are dreams about thinks we don’t want. This was a dream about something you long for.”

  “You think I want you to spank me?”

  “Yes.” His answer is blunt. “How did the dream end?”

  “I don’t know. I woke up.”

  “No. There was a resolution. Think.”

  “There wasn’t!” I’m starting to get exasperated. “There was no resolution. You spanked me, I cried, and…”

  He points at me, cutting me off. “That’s it, Kit. You cried.”

  “How is that a resolution?” I feel defensive because I know where this is going. I already know the answer. It dawns on me even as I ask the question. I cried with him once, but I need more. I need the release.

  “Kit, there is nothing wrong with displaying your emotion. It’s safe here. There is nothing
wrong with the need you feel, the need to be spanked to tears.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “You do. Only you’re such a good, smart little girl that you don’t do anything to warrant a spanking other than the first one I gave you. At least, not until now.”

  “Now?” I stare up at him, dumbfounded. “What have I done?”

  “It’s against the rules to lie to your daddy, Kit. I asked you if you’d had a dream and you denied it, even though we both knew this to be false.” His answer is accompanied by action. Roman has already shifted my position from being cradled to being turned over and pushed face downward over his lap. My heart begins to thud in my chest as I feel his strong arm encircle my waist, pulling me tight against his hard body. I feel the air against my bare thighs as my dress is lifted, feel his fingers hook in the waistband of my white cotton panties. I whimper as he tugs them down over the mounds of my bottom. He doesn’t stop lowering them until they are to just above my knees.

  “You must always be honest with daddy, little one. Little girls who lie get spanked very, very hard.” I feel him shift and glimpse the arc of his arm a split second before his hand descends across the crest of my bottom with a burning smack. The room echoes with my cries.

  The first time Roman spanked me in the room after I’d thrown the chair at him, he’d been silent and purposeful. The only sounds had been my screams of anguish and the splat of his hand against my skin. This time is different. This time he lectures me as he spanks. He tells me that a good little girl never, ever keeps secrets from her daddy, punctuating the words by tilting me forward to land alternating spanks on the base of my bottom cheeks until the twin stings have me kicking my legs and wailing.

  I’m aware that my legs are spread in this position, which has me tilted towards the floor, that the air of the room is caressing the inner labia that must be visible between the spread outer lips of my pussy. I’m also aware that despite the pain, I am growing wetter by the second.

  “Such a bad, bad girl,” Roman says, his spanks now landing three at a time on first the middle left buttock and then the right. “Such a bad, naughty girl.”