I really am a terrible brat. No patience, shocking temper, prone to stomping, flouncing, and most of all pouting.

He’s learned to identify the pouts now. There are different varieties, you see. Real ones, play ones, accidental ones, ones that get me in trouble. From the very outset, the pouts have been part of our relationship. I remember it clearly: lying in bed, trying to get him to do my bidding (pointless exercise), pouting for all I was worth. It’s a pretty little pout, you see, and had always  gotten me my way before. He merely laughed and said “those won’t work on me”. We’ll see about that, I thought. But boy did I have another think coming.

He can tell now whether I’m hungry, sad, upset, horny, mischievous or just plain bratty based on the set of my lower lip and chin. And far from it having no effect at all, it does serve one purpose – it makes him contrary and mean. He mocks me, laughs at me, sometimes spanks me, and sometimes “plays the poutolin” by wibbling my lower lip with his finger. All actions designed to infuriate me, and all very effective.

He loves nothing more than to see me wound up and helpless to do anything about it. If I give cheek back, or snap,  I’ll get a spanking most likely… and despite his short memory he has no problem remembering what I’m owed. If it sounds terribly cruel, it is — but more often than not, all this teasing ends in my giggles.

Because that’s just what I need, you see. A man who won’t give into my horrid temper and spoiled nature. A man who doesn’t give me what I want, but gives me what I need – even if that is a bit of discipline.

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