The Spanking of Teenage Daughters - Book Two

by Grace Brackenridge

  "Nope. Here, I'll make it easy for you."

  She crawled out of bed and went to her dresser. Rummaging in the bottom drawer, she found what she was looking for.

  "I bet you didn't think I still had this," she said, her tone disdainful.

  She tossed the souvenir paddle on her bed next to me. Her mother had originally purchased that paddle. Grace gave it to me as her gift on Father's Day when she was seven. My daughter thought the paddle made her a 'big girl'. She even badgered me to use it on her.

  After her first 'big girl' spanking with the implement, Grace lost all enthusiasm for Pop's Popper.

  In fact, I hadn't used that paddle on my daughter since she was 9 years old. When we banned spankings at 12, it was Maria who was giving up her favorite parenting tool.

  "Grace, we don't have to do this."

  "But we do! You're the lawyer. I've broken the contract. So hit me. I don't care. But I'm telling you this. I don't care how hard you spank me, I will NOT - I repeat - I will NOT clean Mom's bathroom!"

  "Very well, young lady, put those panties on and get over my lap."

  "No! If Mom can spank my bare butt, so can you. I do NOT care. Because, no matter what, I am NOT cleaning my mother's disgusting, grungy bathroom. Now make a lap for me."

  Grace lay down over my lap and pulled up her nightgown in back. "See what your wife did to me?"

  Indeed, the blotchy impressions of Maria's palm covered Grace's pert, round buns.

  "Grace, one more time. Please clean the bathrooms. Let's avoid all this."

  "Nope. I already told you. My decision is final."

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  Even as a child, Grace stubbornly refused to cry until well into a spanking. Now as a teen, she seemed even more determined.

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  Her fists clutched her bedspread and her legs kicked wildly, but she made no attempt to roll off my lap to avoid the paddle.

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  She squeaked through clenched teeth with each punishing stroke.

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  Finally, she broke.

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  "Bwa-aaa-aaa-ahh-hhh-hhH-hHH-HHH!"

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  "Wha-aaa-aaa-ahh-hhh-hhH-hHH-HHH!"

  ---oOo---

  I always followed the rule that breaking Grace's resolve marked the halfway point in a spanking.

  But since she took about 30 or 40 strokes before she broke this time, I didn't have the heart to continue. After another half dozen strokes, I threw the paddle across the room.

  I held my sobbing teen on my lap. And yes, I shed a few tears of my own.

  Sitting on my lap, Grace clung to me as she sobbed and then while she sniffled.

  "Well, Grace, I guess you win."

  "My butt doesn't think so," she sniffled reproachfully. "That was a HARD one."

  "No, Grace, you win. You showed me and you showed your mother that you're the most stubborn person in the house."

  "I don't call it stubborn," she sniffled.

  "What do you call it?"

  "I dunno. I just don't call it stubborn."

  "Well," I sighed, "you win. You forced me to punish you in a way that I had hoped we had abandoned in this family. You stood up to your mother, proving that you're more Sicilian than she is. And when your mother gets back, Round Two of the Sicilian wars can begin all over again."

  My eyes began to water. "Congratulations, Grace. Excuse me, I need to get up now."

  She crawled off my lap and lay on her side. "Where are you going, Daddy?"

  "I'll try to do something useful," I replied, picking up her paddle and taking it over to the dresser where she had tucked it away years ago.

  But instead of putting back in the bottom drawer, I lifted it over my head and...

  WHACK!

  Grace gasped, wide eyed, as I broke the handle off the paddle. Then broke the blade into two parts.

  "This is going in the trash," I said. "It has no place in our family anymore."

  I reached for the doorknob.

  "But where are you going, Daddy?"

  "I'm going to clean the bathrooms," I declared. "At least you and Maria will have to find something else to fight over."

  I slammed her door behind me.

  Downstairs, I realized I was too upset to do much of anything. I took the paddle pieces out to the garbage can, slamming the lid down once I had disposed of the fragments.

  I went into the garage and tinkered with the engine on the lawnmower. I finally got it to start, but I didn't feel like mowing the lawn.

  I went back inside for a drink of water. I decided to go upstairs to check on Grace.

  She wasn't in her bedroom.

  What if she ran away from home?

  I felt a sickening sense of panic, imagining the worst possible scenarios.

  Then I heard Grace humming a song.

  I entered the master bedroom and found Grace in her mother's bathroom.

  "Hi, Dad!" she said cheerily, as if nothing had happened to her bottom. "Say, this idea of wearing rubber gloves is a good one."

  She held up her right hand, clutching a sponge with her yellow Playtex glove.

  "What changed your mind, Princess?"

  She shrugged. "When you said I won, I sorta felt sick to my stomach. And then when you said YOU were going to clean the bathrooms so Mom and me wouldn't fight about it..."

  Grace shrugged again. "I just decided maybe I could lend you a hand."

  "So which bathroom do you want me to clean?" I asked, half seriously.

  "Oh no! I'll clean them all. I just I thought I'd start with this one. I want to be done in here by the time Mom gets home."

  ---oOo---

  Maria returned after a very, very long walk to three sparkling clean bathrooms.

  That evening, Grace went to the movies with her friends.

  Maria didn't say much of anything all evening.

  I, too, was lost in my own thoughts. Something was wrong in our family. And the more I thought about it, the more radical my ideas became.

  When we crawled into bed around 9 o'clock, Maria finally asked, "Okay, Roger, how did you get Grace to clean those bathrooms? You didn't help her, did you?"

  "No," I replied. "She was quite stubborn at first. Finally, I had to paddle her. Bare bottom."

  "Oh really?" Maria sounded pleased.

  "After that, Grace decided to clean the bathrooms. I offered to help. But she said she wanted to clean them all by herself."

  "That's bad parenting, Roger. You should never have offered to help. What if she had said yes?"

  "Then I would have helped her."

  Maria shook her head. "You're a bad father, Roger! You're too weak!"

  As is usually the case when we discuss parenting, Maria's agitation grew.

  "Maria, I want you to be quiet for a minute. I've decided to institute some new policies around here. That paddling I gave Grace. That's the last spanking that girl will ever get."

  "Says who?"

  "Furthermore, I don't like the way you conducted yourself today. First, you slapped our daughter's face."

  "Not that hard!" Maria replied defensively. "Besides, she provoked me."

  "But what gives you the right?" I asked, my voice low and cool - the same one I use when negotiating contested labor-management contracts.

  "Because I'm BIGGER than her, Roger! She's MY daughter and if she dares to question my authority, she WILL suffer the consequences."

  "I'm glad to hear you say that," I replied evenly, kicking back the covers. "I think that's a good way to run a family. You can slap or spank our daughter, because you're bigger than her."

  I sat on the side of the bed. "Maria, does it look like I've put on any weight lately?"

  "No," she shrugged. "You're a big man. You carry your weight well."

  "So would you say I'm bigger than you?"

  "That's a stupid question! You're 6-foot-4 and I'm guessing you weigh about 195 pound
s. Of course you're bigger than me."

  "Good!" I replied. "Then we're agreed. Now, since I'm bigger, I'm telling you never to strike our daughter again. Not on the face. Not on the butt. Not anywhere. Not ever."

  "Who died and made you the Emperor of Rome?" she demanded indignantly.

  "Well, you did," I replied evenly. "You said you can slap or spank our daughter, because you're bigger than her. Well, I'm bigger than you. So the same thing applies to you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  I grabbed her arm and pulled her over my lap.

  "No, Roger, I'm not in the mood for foreplay. Sometimes a little hanky-spanky is fun, but not tonight."

  "Oh Maria, you foolish, foolish woman! This isn't foreplay. Far from it!"

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

  I spanked that woman harder than any man had done since she was 16, when she dared to defy her Sicilian grandfather. Maria had told me once about that harrowing razor stropping.

  I held her down over my lap until she stopped crying. Then I spanked her again.

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

  She sobbed like a teen.

  Eventually, I pushed her off my lap. "Go to sleep, Maria."

  I rolled over with my back to her. Weeping, she got up and went into the bathroom off the master bedroom.

  I heard her fill the tub that her daughter had so dutifully cleaned earlier that day.

  She stayed in the tub a long time. I dozed off.

  I awoke with a start, aroused. Maria was under the covers, her mouth around my manhood.

  Maria is not fond of fellatio, but I am.

  My sense of fair play eventually got the better of my self-indulgent pleasures.

  I extracted myself from her mouth and pulled her up so our lips could touch.

  "You're not the bad parent," she whispered. "I am."

  "We both are still learning," I replied.

  "Roger, can I ask you something?"

  "Sure, what?"

  "How come you've never done that to me before? You know, the real kind? Not the sexy kind."

  I shrugged in the dark. "I guess I've always felt like it's spousal abuse. Now, frankly, I don't care. Call the police if you want. I'm sick of living like this."

  "Well, so am I," Maria replied. "I like the new rules. I'm going to stop hitting Grace. I'm going to try anyway. But you have to do your part."

  "And that is?"

  "Spank me. Spank me hard. That's what I grew up with. That's what I understand. I don't want that for Grace. So help me stop myself."

  "You do realize what you just said is fraught with paradox."

  "I don't care about that," she replied. "I just want you to stick to your guns. Be a man."

  I thought for a long time. "Okay."

  "Now," she said coyly, scooting up to tease my tongue with her dark, hard Sicilian nipple, "I want to make love. But first, I want you to spank me."

  "Really?"

  "I've never complained about this before, Roger. But even in foreplay, a woman with my kind of upbringing really needs to FEEL it. Do you know what I mean?"

  "You mean something like this?"

  Maria squealed as I forced her over on her stomach, the covers back, and smacked her well-spanked buns with new fervor.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  "You bastard!" she squealed. "You motherfucker! I'm not letting you fuck me!"

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  "Bastard! Motherfucker!"

  But then she laughed.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  When I rolled her over, she put up only the slightest resistance.

  "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!" she prayed as I entered her, wet and tight.

  I went for the long, slow strokes. In and out. In and out. Like a whipsaw, splitting her womanhood open.

  "On top! On top! On top!" she insisted.

  I rolled over on my back.

  Maria clawed my chest, a woman impaled. A woman in a frenzy.

  She tossed her long, black hair, still damp from her bath, making animal-like noises that only repressed Catholic girls know.

  She squealed when she came, pounding her Sicilian fists on my chest.

  Then, relieved, she tortured me by rocking back and forth, taking me to the edge.

  "No, not yet. Don't break my toy!"

  That went on for an incredible length of time.

  "Fuck!" I exclaimed at long last, ejaculating in several spasms.

  Maria fell asleep quickly, snoring softly.

  I looked at the clock: 10:17 PM.

  I sighed. I should check to make sure Grace was home.

  But sleep got the better of me.

  ---oOo---

  At Sunday breakfast, the turmoil and trauma of Saturday seemed like a million years ago.

  "How was the movie?" Maria asked Grace.

  "Kinda stupid. The guys wanted to see an action-adventure. Nothing but long chase scenes."

  "I'm sorry you didn't have a good time," Maria said sympathetically.

  "Well, we did some theater hopping at the multiplex. I got to see this really edgy love-romance movie. I liked that one."

  "It wasn't R-rated or anything, was it?" Maria asked, concerned.

  "No," our daughter replied, "you couldn't actually see anything. Most of the interesting stuff was off-camera. Mostly sound effects and dialogue you could only overhear. Sorta suburban. A couple trying to resolve their differences. I think you guys could have related to it."

  Maria shrugged and changed the subject to Grandma's operation and recovery.

  But as Maria chattered on, I caught Grace looking back and forth at her mother and me.

  My lawyerly instincts told me Grace was keeping something from us.

  ---oOo---

  "Hey Dad."

  I looked up from the lawnmower. "Oh hi, Princess."

  After breakfast, I decided to tackle the yard work I put off the day before.

  "What are you doing?"

  I looked up at her. "Grace, you can see exactly what I'm doing. So I assume you're trying to talk about something else, but you don't know how to start. So, Grace, what's up?"

  As a labor negotiator, I have developed some discernment over the years.

  "Daddy, if I told you I got home at midnight last night," she asked, "would you spank me?"

  "No, Grace. We don't do that anymore. But if you want to talk about what happened yesterday..."

  "Daddy," she pressed, cutting me off, "what if I told you I got bored at the movies and took the bus home from the mall? What if I told you I got home at 9 o'clock? Would you spank me then?"

  "Grace, you're not making sense," I replied somewhat irritably. "Your curfew is 10 o'clock. Why would I spank you for getting home..."

  Then I paused, slowing putting the pieces together. "Grace, did you get home at 9 o'clock?"

  "Not exactly. Maybe 9:10."

  Because of my work, I have developed a good 'poker face'. But as I looked up at my daughter, my face blushed.

  She giggled. "You're blushing, Daddy."

  "Exactly how much did you hear?"

  "It wasn't like I had my ear pressed to the door," she smiled and shrugged. "But you guys were really LOUD!"

  She slipped her hands in the back pocket of her tight designer jeans - which is no small trick.

  "The house was dark. I wasn't even sure you guys were home. But when I came up the stairs, I heard you telling Mom about that paddling you gave me... You said that was the last spanking I would ever get. Well, since you guys were talking about me, I sorta decided to sit outside your door in the dark."

  My daughter shrugged. "Then things just got curious-ier and curious-ier."

  "So I guess you heard..."

  "Did I hear? Daddy! I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call 9-1-1! I never realized Mom was such a big crybaby."

  I shook my head, my face beet red.

  "Anyway," said Grace, "if you want to spank me for eavesdropping, that's okay."

  I shook my head again. "So w
hen did you stop eavesdropping?"

  "When Mom went into the bathroom and filled the tub," Grace replied. "I figured the movie was over."

  I nodded, relieved.

  "That WAS the end of the movie, wasn't it Daddy?"

  "Yes," I replied. "I dozed off while your mother took her bath."

  Technically, that's the truth.

  "I'm glad that's the end," said my daughter. "I'd hate to think you and Mom did something - you know - like really KINKY after she got out of the tub."

  Then Grace smiled, winked at me, and turned away.

  She took a step or two and then looked back over her shoulder, shaking her wavy red hair.

  From my vantage point, kneeling next to the lawnmower, Grace looked a hell of a lot more mature than her 14 years.

  "You know, Daddy, half of my DNA comes from Mom. It might be hard NOT to spank this little butt of mine. A lot harder than you think."

  She gave her taut, denim-encased derriere a saucy little wiggle, giggled, and walked away.

  Almost Legal

  "But why not?" pouted Jenny Redall.

  "You saw the TV news," replied Lloyd. "I got a record. If it wasn't for your mom and her friends, I wouldn't have any customers."

  "That was years ago," said Jenny impatiently. "You paid your debt."

  "You don't understand," said Lloyd, shaking his head. "To you and me, it was just a film. And how was I to know her ID was fake? But still, I'm registered as a sex..."

  "That's so unfair!" exclaimed the 16-year-old.

  Lloyd shrugged. "I'm just lucky your mom still lets me work here."

  "My mom is the best lawyer in the whole ACLU!" said Jenny proudly. "She's not like that. People change. People reform."

  "Still, it's risky."

  "What's risky about it? We aren't doing anything bad. It's perfectly legal."

  "We're sneaking around behind your mother's back," replied Lloyd. "Just because it's legal for your mom doesn't mean it's legal for me."

  "But I'm sixteen," replied Jenny. "I'm an emancipated youth. Don't I get a say?"

  "You're still a minor living at home," retorted the man in the dirty overalls. "And besides, this bare-bottom stuff..."

  "But that's how I want it!" she whined. "Ever since that sleepover at Rachel's house when I was eleven. Just that once from her dad convinced me."