Dad and My Diary

I know, it was stupid. But I was young… and I never thought my Dad would find my diary, let alone read it. Plus, I tried to keep everything in code.

Of course, looking back now, I’m sure it was obvious. To my 13-year-old mind, I was being so clever. It was a plain old spiral notebook, just like the ones I used in school. A plain red cover, nothing on it to give away the contents inside.

It wasn’t really a diary, not the way most people think of a diary. It was more like a scoreboard, with all the relevant stats: who, when, where. But I kept a lot of details, which was part of my undoing.

Details like how long they were, how thick. What they tasted like — salty, musty, whatever. The texture, how hairy, the size of their balls. What their come tasted like, how much came out, and where they came – on my face, on my little tits, all over the bed.

And I recorded how old they were, of course. Between 13 and 23.

But it was the number of boys that bothered my Dad the most, though. There were so many! By the time he found it, I had about 50 entries in my notebook.

I didn’t fuck them all. Only a few got to stick their cock in my young pussy, and only when I was so turned on I had to have it.

But then my snooping Mom found my notebook. She couldn’t figure it out, though. She knew it was something bad, she just couldn’t quite put two and two together. So, she just gave it to my Dad.

And things changed with him.

He was always a disciplinarian. Not mean, just very… firm. When we got in trouble, it meant finding our own switch, and getting a few good whacks with it.

Always in “the position”. He’d stand me up, make me grab my ankles, and let me have it.

But once he found my notebook, he added quite the little twist: he would have me “drop my drawers” for these punishments.

I can still remember the embarrassment I felt that first time. My pants and panties around my ankles, bent over fully. I couldn’t see him, but I could *feel* him behind me. And I knew how exposed I was… I knew he could see my little asshole, my 13-year-old pussy lips.

I wondered – could he see how wet I was getting? Could he tell that my labia was swollen red with lust? Could he see that my breathing was shallow and quick, that I was almost orgasmic?

But he wasn’t using a switch this time… no, whatever it was that I had done, the switch wasn’t enough. So, he used his fraternity paddle against my bare ass.

I can still see it with perfect clarity… dark, polished wood, the greek letters Pi Kappa Alpha emblazoned across it, his name and university year along the side.

And the sound… there is nothing like the sound of that paddle hitting my bare bottom.

Even just the memory puts butterflies in my tummy, and a tingle in my clit. I’ve been conditioned.

We never spoke about why he would only punish me like this when Mom wasn’t around. When it would happen, I would just go with it… I wonder if he knew that my nervousness was equal parts anxiety and anticipation?

But it opened a door for me, one I could never close. I used it… to free the dirty girl inside me. Deep down, I *knew* he had to feel it. Even my young mind could sense his lust.

So, I would torment him. I would sleep completely naked, knowing he would wake me up by coming into my room and flinging the sheets off me. I would position myself so that he would have a clear, unimpeded view of my tender pussy.

I would pretend to be asleep, wait for his footsteps up the stairs. I would spread my legs, angle my body towards the door, use my fingers to separate my labia, so he would get a good look at my clitty.

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