Such nostalgic sentiment was completely lost on Tracey. She was aware of nothing outside the hail of fire dancing over her hindquarters. John was focusing on the delicate fold of skin immediately below her bottom, the sensitive junction of leg and buttock. The Persuader thundered down with devastating force, exploding over thigh and cheek like the clap of doom.
Tracey fought to hold her position over the table. Her fingernails dug into the oaken desktop, her fanny-tops jiggled with repressed torment. There was no alternative. She had to stay put, no matter how much it hurt. If she made the slightest attempt to avoid the paddle, John would add another minute to her sentence. One for each time she moved.
Her punishment continued, each scathing swipe of the Persuader driving Tracey closer to the limit of her endurance. Losing all notion of time as the storm of pain descended, she pushed up onto her tip-toes, thrusting her bottom directly into the path of the paddle.
---oOo---
It was the longest spanking she'd ever survived. It was also the most thorough. John had laid the Persuader over every available inch of Tracey's tush and blazed a trail halfway down the back of her legs. Her bottom had attained a rare fluorescent tint that could best be described as magenta. It seemed to shine with a brilliant inner radiance, glowing crimson around the fringes. You could almost see the heat shimmering around those tense, wobbling buttocks.
Tracey's discipline had clocked in at thirteen minutes. Thirteen endless, insufferable minutes, bent over her daddy's writing desk. Thirteen interminable minutes, from the moment John raised the Persuader over Tracey's bottom. It had been an epic of endurance, the kind of ordeal forming the basis of an urban myth. John stepped back to study the results of his painstaking hand-work, rasping his chin with the back of his palm.
Yes, he'd done very well.
Justice had been served, the sentence carried out. Those lush, curvaceous globes were covered with long, garish stripes; an intricate lacework of marks over the tops of her thighs. The Persuader had worked its magic once more: John could take pride in a job well done. Might even open a bottle of Rye afterwards to celebrate. Wasn't often a man had the opportunity to spank his daughter's bottom the color of a cherry.
Tracey lay spread over the table weeping into her folded arms. Her slender legs dangled nervelessly from the desktop, her undies clinging precariously from her slim left foot. She was sobbing in abject humiliation: John had hurt her; he'd shattered her will and crushed her fragile ego (just as he had a thousand times before). She'd been stripped of every last shred of dignity, forced to submit to his masculine dominance. She had dropped her own panties and surrendered herself to John's paternal judgment as if she were nothing more than a disobedient child. And her poor little bottom was so very sore.
John finished his examination of Tracey's palpitating buns with a fatherly pat on the rear, then walked slowly around to the back of the desk. Leisurely unfurling his sleeves, he paused by his plush, leather-bound armchair, looking thoughtfully down at his chastened daughter. He'd fulfilled most of his parental responsibilities, but there was still one more thing to be done.
"Well, I guess that's enough," he said, making himself comfortable in armchair, "straighten up and stop that crying. The spanking's over; it's time we set a few more ground rules for you to follow." He spoke in a firm, business-like voice, adopting the tone of a man who expected his merest commands to be obeyed. Immediately and without question.
Tracey slipped off the desk, flinching slightly as she pulled her underwear back up to her waist. The elastic dug into her seared bottom, stinging like a horde of tiny wasps. Standing to attention, she cupped her hands modestly over her breasts. She felt totally naked beneath the filmy haze of her scanty white pants. Unable to meet her daddy's gaze, Tracey stared down at her feet. Secret tears continued to drip from her small round chin.
"Now," John continued in that brisk, clipped tone, "that spanking was only a brief sample of what you'll get if you fail another subject, young lady. You are grounded for the next four weeks ..."
Tracey listened in mute acceptance to her father's post-spanking lecture, nodding agreement to each of his numerous conditions. At this point, she was prepared to accept virtually anything John said; she wasn't willing to risk another excursion over his lap. Her freshly smacked bottom throbbed and stung, keeping pace with her galloping heart. It would be smarting for days to come, she was sure of it.
He spanked me, she thought, biting back her sobs as best she could. The memory of her humiliation filled her entire consciousness, she could think of nothing else. She wanted to throw herself down on her bed and cry into her pillow the whole night through. The knowledge that John had put her across his knee and spanked her like a naughty little girl was more than she could bear. It was, in many ways, actually worse than the pain he'd inflicted on her with the Persuader.
He'd paddled her naked bottom in front of the entire neighborhood. Everyone in the immediate vicinity was a witness, even those who hadn't actually seen her discipline first-hand would have heard it from the front doorstep. John had thrashed her firm, young bottom while she screamed and wept and pleaded for mercy. There could be no doubt as to who was having her tender young bottom smacked. By tomorrow morning, word would have spread around town. How would she ever be able to go out in public again?
"OK," John concluded, breaking through Tracey's melancholy thoughts, "that's all for now, little girl. Up to your room, and don't forget what I've told you." He leaned back in his chair, giving his daughter a long, measured stare. He'd be willing to lay odds she'd be back over his table inside a month. Hardly worth the effort of hanging the Persuader back up over the mantelpiece.
Tracey nodded, downcasting her eyes like an unhappy child. She turned and bent over to pick up her clothes, showing John her tushie one last time. Her fiery, blushing cheeks were clearly visible through the gossamer fabric of her panties. Watching that glorious, nubile heinie shifting from side to side, John found himself nodding his approval once more.
No doubt about it, the girl had a beautiful little bottom.
Especially from this angle.
Breakfast at Suzie's
The snow was just starting to flicker in the breeze as I walked up to the Robinsons' back door. It was seven-thirty Monday morning and I figured I'd have time for one of Mrs. R's world-famous cheese and bacon omelets before the school bus arrived. With a few shakes of pepper and a dash of Tabasco, the aroma could water your mouth from two streets away. Even now, I can still close my eyes and smell the eggs poppin' and sizzlin' in the frying pan. It was one of those things you never seemed to forget, no matter how old you get.
Suzie Robinson was another.
I'd been living next door to Suzie and her folks since about my sixth birthday. We grew up together, playing in the same front yards and watching the same cartoons, all of that small town, picket-fence kinda stuff. I used to drop in at her place for breakfast on the way to school almost every day. My Mom didn't like me "mooching off the neighbors," as she called it, but then again, she'd never tasted one of Mrs. R's omelets. Anyway, I wasn't just going over to raid the Robinson's refrigerator, contrary to popular opinion. I was going over to see Suzie.
I guess I loved Suzie back in those days. Everyone did. Hell, it was impossible not to. She was a slim, pretty girl with long blonde hair and a sweet, shy smile; the kind you used to see on those covers Norman Rockwell used to paint for the Saturday Evening Post. Her soft, blue eyes were warm enough to melt the snowman in our front yard. It's funny; I never seemed to meet girls like that when I started dating a few years later. Must've been the last of a dying breed or something.
Anyway, I brushed the snowflakes off my face and rapped on the doorpane, already tasting those bacon rashers on the back of my tongue. I always waited until someone came to answer the door, although everybody in the house must have known who it was. I waited for a few moments, slipping my backpack off my shoulder, then heard someone approaching: light, skittish footsteps,
a girl flitting barefoot across cold linoleum.
I got a bit of a surprise when Suzie turned the knob and looked out.
She wasn't dressed yet. She stood half-hiding behind the door, wearing nothing but a little pink vest and a pair of white cotton underpants. Her hair was spilling over her bare shoulders in a blonde waterfall, as if she'd just stepped out of the shower. She stared out at me, blushing all the way to her hairline, and I figured it was because she wasn't wearing anything.
I tried to be a gentleman and not look too hard, but my eyes kept swiveling back to her long slim legs every few seconds. This was the first time I'd ever seen Suzie undressed. She usually wore jeans or those long, tartan skirts with the big safety pin, so I'd never realized how pretty her legs were until then.
"Steve," she said, opening the door a little wider, then cast a frightened glance over her shoulder. I suddenly realized that her reddish glow wasn't just embarrassment. Her eyes were huge and wet, her cheeks had the luster of fresh tears. She'd been crying. Crying hard by the look of things.
"Hey," I said, trying to keep my eyes off her underwear, "What's wrong?"
Suzie stepped back, looking anxiously out towards the living room again, then gestured me to enter.
"Come inside," she whispered, biting her lower lip as if to hold back a mouthful of sobs. I stepped forward, dropping my pack on the kitchen floor, scattering snowflakes across the lino. Suzie backed up a little, her features working. She looked miserable. Scared and miserable.
"Jeez, Suzie," I said in a low voice, "what's happened?" I was getting a little scared myself by then. Maybe her dad had keeled over with a heart attack or something. I'd never known her to cry over nothing, so it had to be pretty serious.
"I just had a fight with Mommy," she replied, in a tiny, struggling voice. "A big one. Daddy's really angry with me." She started weeping out aloud then, unable to hold back the flood any longer. I stood gawping around like a stunned trout for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. I'd had arguments with my parents, sure, but nothing like this. I looked about the kitchen, groping for some word of comfort to offer her, but none came to mind. I was a boy, most of my conversation revolved around baseball cards and catcher's mitts.
I caught myself staring at her panties again and noticed how cold the kitchen was. With the door hanging open and hot plates turned down, the room felt like a freezer. Suzie's arms and thighs were buzzing with gooseflesh. Her clothes were folded over one of the kitchen chairs. That seemed sorta odd to me, but at least it gave me something to say.
"Look, why don't you get dressed?" I asked, pointing to her skirt and sweater. "It's colder'n the north pole in here, Suze. Your feet must feel like slabs of ice."
Suzie's blush darkened; two bright crimson spots stood out on her cheeks, as if she'd only just figured out she was practically naked in the doorway.
"I can't," she replied in a desperate, pleading tone, "I'm not allowed. Daddy told me to wait here in my undies. He - he said he's going to spank me!" Her voice broke completely at the end there. Her words rushed out in a quavering stream, literally ringing with panic.
"What am I going to do Steve?! He's upstairs getting the hairbrush right now. Daddy spanks really hard, and ... and he ..." Her words trailed off, leaving the last thought unspoken. Her complexion had assumed the hue of a ripe summer tomato. I had a good idea what she was unable to say out loud but decided to keep it to myself. I shifted uncomfortably, taking a hesitant step towards the door.
"Look, Suze, maybe I'd better ..." That was about as far as I got. Suzie grabbed me by the arm with both hands, imploring me to stay put, driving her fingers into my scrawny bicep.
"No, Steve, don't go, please, he'll be down any minute. Please Steve, I don't want a spanking."
"But -"
"Maybe he won't spank me if you're here, Steve. Maybe he'll let me off with a warning, please Steve-"
"Suzie -"
She pulled me closer, looking up at me with enormous, terrified eyes. Her small round face glistened with tears.
"Don't leave me here alone, Steve," she whispered.
And my heart went out to her. Here she was, the sweetest little girl I'd ever known, crying on my shoulder and begging me to be her knight in shining armor. I bit my lip, looking across the living room towards the staircase. Bill Robinson was a big, beefy guy, I didn't want to get him angry. The smartest thing I could've done was excuse myself as gently as possible and head down to the bus stop. This was none of my business, and she'd get over it eventually.
But then again, Suzie was a friend, one of my closest. Not exactly my girlfriend, but I'd grown pretty fond of her over the years. I didn't want to see her take a whuppin', no matter what she'd done to earn it. How could I up and walk out on her without a backward glance? Who knows, maybe Mr. R had calmed down while he was upstairs getting the brush. Maybe he'd decide a stern rebuke and two weeks grounding was more in order than a smarting bottom. Maybe Aunt Jessie's prize porker was gonna sprout wings and fly first-class to Sunny California.
"Look, Suze," I said, closing the back door to shut out the breeze, "when he comes down, tell him you're sorry." I didn't much envy her chances, but I figured I had to do something. I mean, a real man doesn't run out on his friends in their hour of need, look at Garry Cooper in High Noon.
"Apologize to your mom too, that always helps," I continued, putting on my most serious face, the one I saved specially for heart-to-hearts or down-home spanking advice. "Then promise 'em it'll never happen again, scouts' honor. That always works with my folks when I'm in dutch." Of course, I didn't mention that neither of my parents believed in corporal punishment. Nor the fact that my old man was an entirely different kettle of fish to Big Bill Robinson.
Suzie released my arm, but the dread never left her features. Now that I'd agreed to hang around, a rather unpleasant idea was occurring to her.
"He ... he won't spank me in front of you, will he Steve? I mean, he wouldn't do that, would he?" Her lower lip was trembling again. Suzie could imagine nothing worse than having her bottom smacked in public, even before an audience of one.
While I fumbled round for an answer which didn't involve the words, 'Yes, I think that's precisely what he'd do given half the chance', Suzie turned towards the living room, her expression tightening with fear. She put a hand to her mouth, stepping back towards the table. The answer was descending the staircase, carrying a black, wooden hairbrush in his right hand. We could hear his boots clicking on the polished cedar steps like the hooves of judgment. Suzie swung back to me, her eyes dancing with near-hysteria.
"He's coming!" She started whimpering in a little girl's voice. "He's coming, Steve, he's coming down here right now!"
She burst into a new storm of tears, looking towards me for support, as if there was anything I could do to help. As if there was some way I could convince her dad that this was all some kind of misunderstanding: Suzie was really sorry, she didn't mean anything by it, honest to God she didn't, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die, stick-a-needle-in-my-eye. How's about we just sit down, put it all behind us, forget it ever happened? Life goes on, live and let live, amen and hallelujah to that.
Mr. Robinson's heavy footfalls approached the archway. I felt Suzie's shoulder touching mine, and suddenly realized what her daddy was going to see when he stepped into the kitchen. Here I was, the fridge-raiding delinquent from next door, standing next to his half-naked, adolescent daughter. I hurriedly placed two long strides between us, thinking it might have been a good idea to skip the free meal this morning.
Not that there were any on the menu today, the way things were shaping up.
---oOo---
Bill Robinson was one of those heavy-set, broad-shouldered men you always seemed to find hanging around building sites and demolition zones. A big, muscular guy - not tall, but stocky: solid like a brick wall (which was sort of appropriate, considering that he owned a small construction firm in town). Old fashioned, too; a firm believer in truth, justice and the
American way. The kind of person you always called 'sir' to his face and never got smart with under any circumstances, not unless you wanted his bootprint on your heinie as he showed you to the door.
Not that he was a monster or anything. He was tough, but he wasn't stupid or mean (unlike many of our neighbors back in those days). I'd always gotten on well with him, and he seemed to like me in a brusque, dismissive way, calling me 'Steven' when he was in a good mood and ignoring me completely at all other times. He'd coached my baseball team a few years back and often took us out for hotdogs after the game, although he harbored a secret vice for pizza, beer nuts and pretzels. In short, he was a typical family man of the early eighties, more Archie Bunker than Mike Brady, more Bud than Heineken.
He didn't seem to notice my presence as he stood in the kitchen's archway, staring down at Suzie through narrowed eyelids. All thought of plea-bargaining left my mind as I looked up into that granite visage. Nothing I said or did would have made any difference. Hell, I shouldn't have even been there in the first place. Much as I hated to admit it, Suzie was on her own this time.
Mr. R looked mildly annoyed rather than angry, but I knew from long acquaintance that appearances could be deceptive. He was furious, utterly furious, and he intended to teach his daughter a much-needed lesson. Suzie would be catching the bus with a hot, throbbing bottom this morning, and she'd feel herself damned lucky to be getting off so lightly. Bill Robinson wasn't a man to be trifled with, as she was about to find out.
"All right," he said, absently tapping the hairbrush against his left hand, "we have some business to attend to, young lady."
Suzie immediately lapsed into a flood of sobbing pleas, begging his forgiveness with wild promises of good behavior. Her skin was suffused with a delicate rose flush, her face was radiant with brilliant, pink heat.
"No, Daddy, please don't," she cried in a high, quailing tone. "I'm sorry about everything, really Daddy, please don't, I'll never do it again ... please don't Daddy, please don't spank me. Please don't spank my bottom-"
No, Daddy, No!: a collection of father spanks daughter stories Page 7