No, Daddy, No!: a collection of father spanks daughter stories by Perry Symon Fowler

Author:Perry Symon Fowler [Fowler, Perry Symon]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: LSF Publications
Published: 2016-09-03T04:00:00+00:00

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It was John's accustomed practice to break off after five minutes, resting his palm and allowing his little girl a few moments to catch her breath. During this quiet, stinging interlude Tracey would hang panting over his knee with her bottom huge and red and sore, listening in tearful silence while John subjected her to another tirade of broadside scolding.

Tracey was grateful for these brief, gasping respites, but lying over her Daddy's lap with her swollen cheeks on full display was embarrassing in the extreme. The study was bordered by three large bay windows. The curtains were usually thrown open whenever Tracey was being punished. Most of her neighbors would be settling back to watch the festivities, having been alerted by her shrill cries that Tracey Lane was due for yet another spanking.

John invariably made her apologize for her misconduct and admit that being spanked was a just and fair reward. Sniffling and stammering like a six-year-old, Tracey was made to recite a catechism of shame and guilt and woeful, childish sorrow.

"I'm sorry I let my marks fall off, Daddy," she whispered in a small, fretful voice. "I've been a very naughty girl, and I know I'm getting exactly what I deserve. I've been spoilt and lazy and selfish; and I need a good spanking..."

The humiliation involved in actually asking for a good, hard spanking was utterly indescribable. Worse still, her faltering admission signaled the end of her rest period. Tracey's tummy closed into a collection of tight, shivering knots: she knew what was coming next.

"OK, little lady," John said, slapping her none too gently on the tush. "Get on your feet and bend over the desk; it's time you felt the paddle."

"Daddy - nooooo," Tracey moaned as she climbed off his lap and traipsed lightly over to John's cluttered work station. Leaning gingerly over the edge of the desk, she thrust her hot, pulsing rear out towards the central window, affording the neighbors a magnificent view of her bottom. Her head was spinning with conflicting emotions; fear and embarrassment surged through her veins with feverish intensity. Her heinie was already burning with the white heat of a sharp, stinging hand-spanking. The scathing caress of the Persuader would be absolute torture.

"Please Daddy," she begged in a hopeless, little-girl whimper, "don't spank me with the paddle. I can't stand it; you don't know how much it hurts. Please Daddy, don't-"

John dismissed her pleas with an impatient scowl and placed his left hand on the shallow valley of her back. It was too late in the evening for remorse. He picked up the long, dark, cherry wood paddle in his right hand. Surfaced on both sides with a film of gleaming black varnish, it looked mean and flat and unspeakably vicious. It was John's favored instrument of justice; the one implement he could trust to impress his views on Tracey's saucy young cheeks.

"Now - keep your heels together and your legs straight, young lady," John warned her, "you move so much as one inch to either side, and I'll make sure you don't sit down for a month.

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