The girls are at it again, this time, while on a once in a lifetime vacation to the Outer Banks. Swimming, sun, naughty times and discipline ensue as the ladies get some quality time with their daddies.
Each woman is working through something in her relationship on this trip. Carrie is wondering if she would like to try being a Little. Jessica is plagued by dreams that leave her confused and aroused. And Buttercup wants to know if she will finally be able to call Jake, Daddy.
This is a novella with characters from Sweet Texas Love and Dirty Texas Love but reads as a standalone. Come enjoy the fun as the girls figure out what happens when young ladies don’t follow the rules.
Publisher’s Note: This fun romantic adventure contains elements of domestic discipline, power exchange and sensual scenes.
Adult only vacation with my two best girls and our daddies… yes please!
Me and Wes, Jessica and Ray, Buttercup and Jake. Three couples, three girls, three Daddies, seven nights. And an excuse to wear nothing but itty-bitty bikinis, lie on the beach tanning, and drink Ray’s famous margaritas all day—for a week!
How did this come to be?
I’ll tell you.
None other than my amazing mother-in-law, Mama, and her boyfriend, Harry. The two most energetic senior citizens in the state of Texas. Wanting a little time to spoil the grandkids, they offered to take—get this—all four grandkids… to Disney World… for a week! Jessica’s three rambunctious sons—not grandsons by blood, but by heart—and my sweet little Rose—who will help keep all those big boys in line.
Jessica’s sister-in-law, Buttercup, and her husband, Jake have no plans for kids anytime soon, but the newlyweds have been crazy busy with their business and could use a break from it all.
So, I had the brilliant idea for the six of us to get away together for a week while Mama and Harry and the kids are at Disney.
Where are we going?
Outer Banks, North Carolina. A two-hundred-mile-long, narrow chain of islands with a sound of brackish water on one side, the ocean on the other. We will be staying in Corolla, on the miles-long stretch of shoreline that is in between the town of Corolla and the Virginia state line. It’s only accessible by 4WD vehicles—very remote and isolated. But we’d have the town of Corolla nearby for groceries and a few cute little restaurants and shops if we got stir crazy.
The beaches are gorgeous. And even have wild horses. When I was researching different beach options I had read that the Corolla Wild Horses are often spotted along the beach, walking by the oceanfront, or even in neighborhoods. Which pretty much was the deciding factor in picking Corolla.
The perfect place to relax and drink Ray’s famous margaritas.
But I’ll have to keep an eye on my drinking. I do not want to get in trouble with my husband-Daddy, Wes, on this vacation.
Or do I?
I could already imagine myself laying out on the beach, face resting on my towel, my golden tan body covered in oil. The sun warming my shoulders, my back. The other girls disappearing as Wes makes his way over to me. His hand stroking my barely covered bottom, his finger snapping the elastic of my tiny bikini bottoms. Whispering, “Did you put on sunscreen?”
Me replying, “Of course not, silly. I’m here to tan. I’ve got enough oil on me I’m probably flammable.” Stretching my arms out to show off the sun kissed glow.
“Naughty, naughty girl.” His hand would rub both the cheeks of my bottom. Then, smack! “I was very, very clear with you to put on sunscreen, young lady. Little girls who don’t listen to their daddies get spanked.” Another, smack, would land on my ass, making my pussy throb.
I would jump up, protesting something like, “Oh, Daddy, please don’t spank me! I’ll put on sunscreen!” But he would have that spanking man look in his eyes. I would take off running down the beach. My heart would be racing, knowing what would happen when he caught up to me. Then, his arms would be around me and he would pull me to the ground, throwing me over his propped-up thigh. My barely covered bottom wiggling in the air for all to see. My hands pressed into the sandy beach, my head hanging down, blonde curls touching the sand.
My husband is a strict daddy and never delays a punishment. The thought of all those eyes on my bottom, Wes holding me pinned in place, made a thrill run through me.
“Trying to run from me, little girl?” he would ask, his ridiculously strong arm pinning my waist against his thigh, his other hand hovering in the air, about to spank my bottom. I would struggle. In my struggle I would look up to see a few curious beach goers trying to avert their eyes—and failing miserably. Who wouldn’t want to see a pint-sized blonde getting her bottom spanked on the beach, by her hunky cowboy husband?
I would moan, “Oh, Daddy, please stop. This is soooo, embarrassing.”
“If you don’t want to be spanked on the beach, you’d best listen to your daddy.” I think I remember hearing Wes say something similar when we were on our honeymoon in Mexico. Where Wes most certainly did spank me on the beach. Delicious.
And maybe he would again. I could picture it now—his hand coming down on my rounded ass, the slaps stinging my skin, the shame of the loud smacks, ringing out over the public beach. My hands pressing further into the sand, the sharp spanks creating a fire over my entire ass. Then, my bottom in so much pain, I’d be yelling, “Please stop, Daddy!” Not even caring who heard me.
My bikini bottoms would be soaked from my throbbing pussy. Wes would finish the spanking, stand up, flipping me over those broad shoulders to carry me off to the bedroom and have his way with me. Most likely slamming me from behind, doggy style, till I was screaming his name.
How did a grown ass woman like me end up with a Daddy in the first place? I’ll tell you. Well, I won’t tell you the whole, sordid story—we wouldn’t have enough time.
Please refer to, Daddy Mine & Forever Daddy for the whole scoop.
But I will explain to you what our daddies mean to us women. At least to me and Jessica. I have no idea if Buttercup secretly calls Jake, Daddy, but that man sure acts like a Daddy.
It’s not what you might think. There is no age play in our relationships—no coloring or dressing up or baby talk. I totally see why women would love it—just not something I’ve tried. Hmmm…maybe on this vacation… Though technically, isn’t spanking an adult woman age play in its own right?
I know it’s not the norm. No other friends of mine get thrown over their husband’s knees when they’ve been naughty. When my married friends have a fight with their husbands, it usually leads to screaming, or name calling, or saying things that they don’t mean and can’t take back. Or, they just have a marital spat, don’t talk to each other for a few days, then things go back to normal.
That is not an option when you have a Daddy for a husband. Everything is laid out in the open right then and there. And if the fight was a result of you being, well to put it bluntly—a brat, then you are probably going to get an attitude adjustment—courtesy of your husband’s hard hand.
Fighting and ignoring each other sounds terrible. I’d take a Daddy any day.
When we say, Daddy, we don’t mean, my father.
We mean, my Dedicated Daddy Dom.
Husbands who spank their wives when they are naughty. Call their woman, ‘young lady”, and ‘little girl’. Spoil them rotten when they are good—and correct them when they are bad. Men who demand to be the head of their households. They know what an awesome responsibility they hold, and they do not take their jobs lightly. Providing for, protecting, and nurturing their families.
Are our men perfect? No. But they sure try their hardest to be the perfect husband for us. Husbands who make their wives their number one priority in life.
It is. In fact, these relationships are one hundred percent swoon worthy.
Except once in a while when they aren’t.
Like when we girls are really bad. And get punishment spankings.
Yes, the aftercare is amazing, but sometimes when your man is paddling your ass so hard that tears are flowing down your face and you are begging him to stop—you have a few second thoughts about this whole Daddy situation.
Or when you are standing in a corner, your red, sore bottom hanging out of your pulled down panties, sniffling and sobbing. Just knowing you are going to be sent to bed early to sleep on your tummy. And on occasion, we girls even get grounded. It can be pretty awkward explaining to your lady friends that you can’t go out on a Friday night because your husband was not impressed with how late you came home the week before. Instead of hitting the just opened posh wine bar with your friends, you are in your pajamas by nine o’clock.
Yeah—those times you second guess your decision to be a Daddy’s girl.
But then there is the rest of the time.
When your daddy brings you anything you want while you are sitting on the couch late at night, craving snacks. Insists on carrying anything that weighs over ten pounds. Kisses and cuddles, pet names and little presents just to see you smile. Dotes on you, cherishes you, spoils you rotten.
Daddies are the best.
And thanks to this trip, we get a full week to be spoiled and spanked with sun and swimming.
Now I just need to find the perfect house for us to spend this magical time in.
I’m the self-appointed house hunter. And I’m trying to stay within the budget Wes gave me. But, come on. These houses are beyond gorgeous! And we needed three master bedrooms—no sharing bathrooms, thank you very much—and an awesome kitchen so Ray can cook all my favorite, oops, I mean everyone’s fave dishes.
I found a cute little teal beach house that was just darling. Balconies outside of every window. Huge gourmet kitchen. Pleasant looking homes on either side. And right in our price range.
But then as I was looking at the little white calendar for availability, another house popped up. Even cuter than the teal one. A yellow three-story house with shutters and porches and decks, the surrounding houses spread further apart. I clicked on the photos and the kitchen was even bigger than the one in the teal house. And… there was an eight-person hot tub on the back deck.
This one was just a teensy bit more expensive than what Wes and I had talked about. Surely, he wouldn’t mind the splurge for the hot tub bonus. What’s sexier than having a margarita with your man, in a hot tub overlooking the ocean?
As I was checking the availability for the yellow one, my eye was caught by… the perfect beach house. I mean, this was a once in a lifetime trip, why not book a once in a lifetime house, right?
Navy blue with white shutters, the house stood four stories tall. But all those stairs weren’t a problem because, get this—the house had its own elevator. The kitchen had double ovens—a clear win for Ray—a twelve-person hot tub—the other would have been a little tight—and a pool. With a tiki bar.
There was a long, wooden walkway that led from the house, over the dunes, straight to the ocean. No other houses in sight. The views from the house must be incredible. You could see the sound from the front of the house and the ocean from the back. And was that a wild horse in the corner of the picture? I clicked on the little calendar. The house was booked solid every week for the next six months—except for the week we were going.
Was it fate?
It was perfect. It was the house.
Only one itty bitty problem. It cost twice what Wes had budgeted.
I sat at the computer, tapping my bottom lip with the tip of my pen. I couldn’t take my eyes off that house. Sticking the pen behind my ear, I clicked over the pictures again. Four bedrooms, five bathrooms, game room, pool, pool bar, outdoor shower, hot tub, gourmet kitchen with wine fridge, dining room that sat twelve. Huge living room complete with giant TV, movies, and—yes please—a karaoke machine.
Picking up the credit card that sat beside me, I tapped the corner of it on the desk. Should I? Shouldn’t I?
Everyone would love this place. We would have the time of our lives.
But what would Wes say when he saw the bill? More importantly, what would he do? Sometimes, he let me push the envelope of our budget—he was a spoiler after all, but other times… let’s just say my husband has a hard hand.
Pushing the thought of my angry cowboy husband from my mind, I filled in the credit card info, hovered the mouse over the button that said, submit payment no refunds. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I clicked.
My eyes popped open. The screen of my computer said, Enjoy your stay!
An uneasy feeling come over my tummy as I looked at the total cost. House, plus linen rentals, plus hot tub fill up, and then the extra couple hundred to heat the pool—what’s the point of having your own pool if it’s too cold to swim in—top that off with taxes and fees and… uh-oh.
The bottom line cost was well over twice the number Wes had given me.
This house had best be as amazing in person as it was online. My ass depended on it.
Now to just peruse the internet for the perfect string bikini.