Daddy's Little GirlMy first step-father used to tickle me horribly, lying me down on the floor as a very small child in our kitchen, and taking his foot and pressing down on my middle, shaking it violently back and forth while he and his college buddies would stand over me laughing and laughing while I begged for him to stop and begged them to make him stop. But none of them ever would. Thinking on this now, I wonder, where was my mom at the time? I'm remembering that usually she would be either in the front room, reading a book (she loved, and still does, love to read, sort of escaping some reality or something, diving into her books entirely,) or she would be present, sometimes laughing with the others at her own daughter's predicament, while putting in once in a while to my step-father to stop the whole show, and let me up. It must not have been very convincing, her plea to him for her little girl to be given a stay of such demeaning execution, for I can't recall him ever doing so. I can remember him telling her that she didn't understand that since I was a child, of course, I was enjoying it, as all little girls love to be tickled on their tummies. I must've been different though, because I don't recall ever enjoying it for a second. The sensation of the movement of his huge Daddy foot on my middle back and forth and back and forth, and I would look up and see them all standing above me, looking down, and I can recall the frustration of neither being able to derive the strength to move his big foot off me, nor even the ability to stop my head from ******* back and forth on the kitchen tile so I could actually focus on the party of sadists surrounding me.
Eventually, I would be so overcome by the sensation, I would have to pee, and I would tell him this throgh precious caught breaths, in front of them, which was so embarrassing, and beg him to stop so I could pee. And then every time, right before I peed all over myself, he would let me up so I could tear up the stairs to the only bathroom in that big house. I would sit in that bathroom, trembling and peeing and wondering if it would be "safe" when I left the bathroom and went downstairs again. Sometimes, my step-father would have me go a second round, even inviting the other men to join in torture of his little girl. But the worst thing wasn't the helplessness of the situation, the sensation of the tickling, the pure humiliation at being so helpless before so many men at such an early age (5 or so,) but the worst part of it was the psychological realisation that to anyone watching, it would appear that I was entirely enjoying myself at the hands of these men. I think the very worst part of it would be that every time through every horrid moment of the torture I knew full-well that tickling me that way would literally look like I was begging for more, as I would find myself breathless, laughing hysterically, begging them to stop, to let me up, to not do this to me now, or ever again. I remember every single time, I would think to myself, beneath the overall sensation of being forced to laugh and to laugh while the pain of tickling set in, that if I just submit this time, this next time, this next time after that...maybe if I submit to them, they'll not want to do it ever again. That never happened, or at least not in those years. I think he might have quit when he stopped seeing those guys so much, when he graduated college and wasn't as home so much, because he was a manager at an office. I would've been at least 9 or 10 years old by then.
Looking back and realising that may have been the only reason that my father ever stopped that particular torture of his little girl when she was just so young, is sobering. It means perhaps it wasn't just a novelty thing to do; making your child giggle and giggle and laugh on the floor like that, while some of your best college friends laughed along with her...It means that perhaps he and then those of his college friends who were witness to the act truly enjoyed what they were putting me through. It was horrible, and I think that they were all really sadists enjoying my pain of having to go through all of that at their feet. My father was very weird that way, when it came to me.
So, I suppose this is why to this day, I hate being tickled, and in a relationship of slave and Master, I put it as my only true "hard limit" during my training by him. I've been known in the past before we were together to take out teeth as an adult, if I was able to get to my attacker within range of them, and woe be to they who chose to make my feet their target of such torture. So I've always hoped that my Master, full-well knowing now my past history of being tickled as a small child, won't request that his slave drop her final, one hard limit in training, that he doesn't ever take a mind to force me to endure such a horror again, now that I'm all grown up. However, truth is, he has me call him "Daddy," not Master at all anymore.
It does make me wonder if he will ever do any of the other things my step-father put me through as as his little girl. But then I think, no matter, really, as I consider that for me to re-visit that which was a horror when I was little and helpless at my father's hand, might be welcomed, even embraced when presented by a loving Master to guide me to the truth of things. I might find that, in fact, I love it, when I couldn't ever before as a small child. Perhaps even, at some point, my Master's training can teach me to love what my step-father did to mean to me, possibly his forcing my body and my mind to revisit my childhood could actually show me that, in his way, he did truly love me and what he did then was just his way of letting me know I was always "Daddy's little girl."