The following story depicts non-consensual physical discipline between adult and teenaged participants. Those offended by graphic descriptions of corporal punishment should read no further. This is entirely a work of fantasy, and does not advocate the abuse of minors in any way, shape or form. All characters and events represented herein are completely fictional.
THE PERSUADER
1.
Tracey Lane was in trouble.
Big Trouble. Vast trouble.
Enormous trouble.
Monstrous trouble.
More trouble than she could shake a stick at.
Trouble beyond the ken of mortal man.
Her mid-year report card had arrived with the morning post. Revealing a grand total of three terminating grades, it was one of the lowest scores she'd ever brought home. Understandably, her Father had been considerably less than amused. 'Furious' was the adjective which leapt immediately to mind.
John had promised her a good, hard spanking over his knee. He had warned her earlier that day, just after lunch. He'd been tempted to take her straight over his lap and peel her panties all the way down to her heels right there in the kitchen; tanning her wayward little bottom while she screamed in pain and outrage.
But that would have been far too quick and painless. Three failing grades required considerably more than a passing smack on the fanny. It needed a real, honest-to-god spanking; long and sharp and exquisitely thorough. The kind of spanking that could be anticipated for hours in advance and savored for hours afterwards.
John had resisted the call to swift justice with admirable restraint. Gathering up his papers and returning to work, he left Tracey in the knowledge that her pert, young bottom would be spanked the color of a ripe cherry the moment he came home that evening.
That moment was now.
2.
He was back.
It was 5.53 and she'd just heard the car door slam shut in the driveway. The second she'd dreaded all day had finally arrived; in a matter of minutes, she'd be summoned down to the study, where she would be made to bare her bottom like a naughty little girl. The image spiraled through her mind with heart-stopping urgency. Going over John's knee always left her weak and gasping; literally breathless with humiliation.
There were very few things she dreaded as much as having her pretty young buttocks revealed. It was embarrassing, it was shameful, it was an utter denigration of her adolescent sexuality. Her emotions swirled like two gigantic waves colliding in a boiling sea. She hated being punished like an errant six year old; made to apologize for her misdemeanor and ask for a well-smacked bottom.
Sitting on the sofa with her legs folded beneath her, Tracey listened to the front door open. John walked into the foyer, his footsteps pausing outside his study. She started squirming impatiently, wishing her punishment underway and complete. How much longer would he make her wait? Fear and embarrassment seemed to stream though her belly in alternating currents. She could already see herself draped over his thighs with her creamy, white fesses staring at the ceiling. Worse still, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. John was tall and exceptionally strong: once he decided her behavior warranted a spanking, her fate was sealed. He was far too powerful to defy; Tracey had learned long ago that resistance was completely useless.
3.
John Lane wasn't Tracey's real father. He wasn’t even her step-father, not in any official capacity. In the modern vernacular, he was her Mother’s defacto husband, which made him a kind of common-law father. Not that it made much difference; she’d had come to think of him as her ‘Daddy’ in virtually every sense of the word. The course of time and literally hundreds of spankings tended to cement even the most unlikely familial relationships.
The spankings had started almost the same week Tracey had moved into the John's large, rambling Brownstone. John had warned her from day one that he'd tolerate absolutely NO misbehavior. He was her Father now, he'd accepted responsibility for her care and upbringing. This meant there were going to be some serious changes in her life.
She'd have to treat him with the respect he deserved, observe the rules he set for her, and obey his directives without complaint. The penalty for even the slightest sign of rebellion would be swift, immediate, and direct. She'd be taken straight across his knee for a red, hot bottom!
The message was plain, direct, and crystal-clear: Do as you're told ... or else.
Being a rather willful young thing at the time, Tracey had decided to test her new Daddy's prime directive. She started out with a covert vendetta of furtive backtalk and passive defiance; moping around the house and answering every comment with a snide remark. Like most girls her age, she reveled in being naughty, believing she could get away with just about anything.
Nothing could have been further from the truth, as she quickly discovered.
Tracey's ‘secret revolution’ had been quashed before the end of its first week. Following a minor argument over the breakfast table, John had summoned her down to his lavishly furnished study for a good, long spanking over his knee. It was the first of many she would receive over the next half a decade.
Although she'd initially protested that John had no right to spank her (‘No, NO, you can't, you CAN'T!!’) Tracey had very quickly come to respect her step-father's authority in her life. John was omnipotent, his judgments irreversible: the second he sent her (often wailing in sorrow) to wait in his study, she knew her fate was assured. She could count on going to bed with a hot, throbbing bottom, her cheeks glowing with a luscious, carmine brilliance.
Which was exactly what Tracey could look forward to tonight.
4.
The summons finally came.
John's voice, low and calm and resonant with command, boomed along the main corridor:
“Tracey. Down to the study, thank you.”
Tracey nearly feinted. Her time had finally come: she was going to be spanked. A cold finger stroked her heart. Biting her lip, she rose off the sofa, self-consciously adjusting her clothing. A frantic pulse ticked in her throat as she left the living room and headed down to her step-father's study.
“NOOOOOO,” she groaned quietly, feeling that familiar sense of childish fear seeping through her tummy. He no longer sounded angry, but that meant nothing in itself. She'd failed three subjects; there was no way he'd let her off with a trifling five minutes over his lap. The rules were really quite simple, after all.
Every time she did something naughty, Tracey had to strip down to her panties for a bare bottomed spanking. That was the routine John had established from the beginning. Disrobing was entirely mandatory; she was even required to remove her under-wire bra right in front of him.
Once she'd finished taking everything off, John would call her over to the spanking chair, where she'd have to take her panties down to her calves. Following a brief inspection of her bottom-tops, Tracey would be stretched over his knee and her punishment would begin.
John had a preference for old-fashioned hand spankings. Something of a expert in this area, John ensured that Tracey's discipline was always hard, fast and unusually long, lasting at least five minutes and sometimes extending on to ten. By the end of the session, Tracey would be gasping for breath, her tushie clapped up to a hectic, simmering shade of purple.
If she did something really bad (such as failing three separate units), John was likely to follow-up her customary hand spanking with a dose of the ‘Persuader’. That was Daddy's pet name for the long, cherry-wood paddle he had hanging on the wall of his study. He kept it over the mantelpiece for just such occasions. The image literally froze the blood in her veins. The Persuader was perhaps the most formidable instrument she'd encountered over the course of a thousand spankings. Its varnished wooden surface never failed to raise blisters halfway down her thighs. The very sight of it was enough to reduce her to a sobbing, wailing child.
Tracey dragged her footsteps as she approached the study. The heavy, brown mahogany door lay wide open; glaring neon light spilled complacently out into the hallway. She hesitated at the threshold, shivering with anticipation as she always did. Once she stepped through that luminous rectangle, her spanking would be imminent: nothing on earth would divert John's wide, blunt hand away from her smooth, naked fesses.
“Daddy -?” she called, suddenly aware of how brief her skirt was, how much thigh she was exhibiting beneath that tight, blue denim hemline. A radiant, rosy flush began to rise through her belly and breasts and throat, working its way up to her cheeks.
“In here, Tracey.”
4.
Following his accustomed program, John subjected his daughter to a prolonged lecture, focusing on both her domestic and academic performance over the last two months. She'd been warned again and again that she was expected to keep her marks up; this was her senior year, one of the most important crossroads of her education. She had no excuse whatsoever on this occasion, no one to blame but herself, and she knew she deserved a good, hard spanking across his lap. John concluded his tirade by informing Tracey that her bottom would be kissing the paddle once the 'hands on' stage of her spanking was over.
Tracey gasped in dismay.
Not the paddle!!
She bit down hard on her lip to stifle her protests; she knew that arguing would only make matters worse. The merest hint of rebellion could result in an extra ten whacks of the Persuader on top of everything else. And that was something she was desperate to avoid at all costs.
Anyway, it was time to undress.
Tracey's hands trembled slightly as she unbuttoned her blouse. Her heart was turning flip-flops in her chest: she felt feverish with shame and trepidation. John had flung open the windows to the study, allowing half the street prime viewing of her impromptu striptease. Tracey dropped the blouse to the floor, virtually swooning with humiliation. Disrobing before her Daddy was degrading beyond all description.
Unzipping her blue stonewash jeanskirt, Tracey glanced imploringly over at her father, begging him not to disgrace her this way:
“PLEASE Daddy, I don't want a SPANKING, pleased don't make me take off all my clothes, please don't SPANK me Daddy, not on my BARE BOTTOM, it's AWFUL, I'm sorry about the report card, I couldn't help it ...”
She stepped out of her discarded skirt, knowing that her pleas were completely futile. John was determined that her punishment should be witnessed by the entire neighborhood. It was no more than she deserved. She'd been insufferably naughty, letting her marks slip away over the last eight weeks. He was going to give her everything she'd earned (and a little more for good measure, let's not forget that). Very soon, she'd be taken over his lap with her naked bottom-cheeks pointed rudely out the window.
Turning her gaze to the floor, she reached back and unhooked her white satin brassiere, allowing the straps to slide loosely off her shoulders. There was always instant of speechless, shivering tension as she took off her bra. She was a large, busty girl possessing a classical, Jane Mansfield figure – a regular ‘D-Cup Delight’ was how the girlie magazines would have described it. Hesitantly dropping the under-wire to the carpet, she stood up with her unfettered breasts on full display.
Tracey was weeping openly; these final moments before her spanking were demeaning in the extreme. Her huge, dark nipples throbbed and pumped in time to her galloping pulse. Wearing nothing but her high-cut panties, she felt utterly vulnerable, completely subject to her Daddy's whims and wishes. Her hands twitched nervously as she tried to decide where to place them. She was blushing all the way to her hairline by now.
Tracey looked over at her father.
John had seated himself on the spanking chair and was rolling back his with an air of breezy confidence. His tanned, handsome face was set in lines of rigid purpose: his daughter had been inexcusably naughty, and he was going to give her the spanking she deserved. He'd been looking forward to it all day long, and he planned to claim complete satisfaction as she danced and squirmed over his knee.
“All right, young lady,” John said, beckoning with his right hand, “over here, and get those panties down.”
Moistening her lips, Tracey stepped across the floor and paused before the Spanking chair. A deep inhalation filled her lungs; she leant forward and slipped her gleaming satin underpants down to her knees. Cool twilight air whispered across her cheeks, teased the backs of her thighs. She began sobbing in quiet acceptance of her fate. Baring her bottom was the penultimate act of submission, she always felt as though she was dissolving in a flood of simpering, feminine humility. There was no way out, no place to hide.
Tracey bent down to touch her toes at John’s command, presenting her bottom to his unwavering scrutiny. He’d had left her with no options; she waited in patient, quivering silence while John ran his fingertips over her tense, twitching buttocks, checking her bikini line and patting the gentle bulges of her upper thighs. Her bottom was a thing of wonder; John always took a few moments out from his schedule to run his gaze over those orbs of fleshly delight.
“OK,” John told her, giving her fanny a brisk slap, “over my knee, young lady.”
Smothering a tiny, breathless sob, Tracey straightened up, turned, and crept over her step-father's lap. Lying placidly with her face turned toward the floor, she whimpered with shame as John lifted her into the most comfortable position. She was being inundated with complex sensations; her entire body seemed to be hot-wired with expectation. Her cheeks clenched uncontrollably, pumping back and forth. In a very few seconds she would be crying out with the pain of a hot bottom.
Stretched over her Daddy's knees, Tracey tearfully reflected on her juvenile status: she was a girl, slim and sweet and childlike; John was a man, her Father; the highest authority in her life. He made the rules, he set the penalties. When Tracey crossed the line, John had every right to take down her panties and spank her bottom. No exceptions; no excuses.
TO BE CONTINUED