No, Daddy, No!: a collection of father spanks daughter stories

by Perry Symon Fowler

  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, she 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.

  ---oOo---

  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 fainted. 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.

  "Noo," 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 underwire 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, 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, he 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 red.

  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 piteous squeals. 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 orbs.

  "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."

  ---oOo---

  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 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, thinking, 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. Her 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 jean skirt, Tracey glanced imploringly over at her father, begging him not to disgrace her this way:

  "Please Daddy, I don't want a spanking. Please don't make me take off all my clothes, please don't spank me Daddy, not on my bare bottom. 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 of 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 an 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 underwired bra 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 sleeves 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 preparing himself for 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. "Come 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 su
bmission, 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 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 woman; 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.

  ---oOo---

  And so it began.

  Years of practice standing in good stead, John was both swift and thorough. His broad, square shoulders flexed beneath his business shirt as he layed in with his intractable right arm. He quickly reduced Tracey to a kicking, squealing little girl. His hand slashed from right to left, raising a mellow, rose sheen over her clutching, pumping bottom-cheeks.

  Arching her spine like a prima ballerina, Tracey squirmed and shook on John's lap, gasping as each thunderous stroke seared her flesh. John was spanking her terribly hard this time, flailing his palm over both sides and lashing down to her mid-thighs. Tracey twisted and bucked her hips in agony, feeling enormous tears pooling in her eyes.

  "Aooww, Daddy no, please don't! Ow! No! Ow!"

  Her pleas for clemency were immediately drowned in a welter of sharp, burning smacks. This was a true spanking: hard and fast and utterly merciless. Wide, crimson prints began to creep over every inch of her quavering heinie. Increasing his speed and force by perceptible degrees, John's hand blurred in its swiftly wheeling descent.

  Tracey ambled her bottom back and forth in a frantic attempt to evade those bright, burning palm-kisses. She wailed like a child as her buns warmed to a fierce, scarlet flush. Her spankings were nothing less than an ordeal of fire. Once she felt that first, furious whack reverberate over her tender white bottom, she couldn't wait for her punishment to be over.

  At the same time, the knowledge that she would have to endure this red-bottomed outrage for (at least) the next five minutes only added to her feelings of helpless betrayal. Being a girl, she had absolutely no say in the length and magnitude of her discipline. No matter how much it hurt, she would have to lie passively over her Father's knee, begging and weeping while her naughty young peaches were tanned bright crimson. John was the final authority in this regard. He would decide how long her derriere would suffer beneath his hand, and not all the tears in the world would alter his judgment.

  ---oOo---

  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." That was the thing she hated the most about the Persuader: she wasn't allowed to wriggle her hips while it was being applied to her firm young bottom. While Tracey found it virtually impossible to stand still during a paddling, the consequences of 'escaping' were unthinkable. It was so unfair.

  "Daddyyy," she simpered as John lifted the paddle into the strike zone.

  Stretched completely across the table, Tracey grasped the far end with her fingertips, bracing her cheeks against the dreaded first blow. She closed her eyes in terrified anticipation. Although she'd only suffered the Persuader a handful of times over the last five years, she feared it more than any other weapon in her Daddy's extensive arsenal. She would have preferred virtually anything to the blinding pain of the paddle.

  Time seemed to have slowed to a snail’s pace. Tracey couldn't understand how this could be happening to her. Here she was, a seventeen-year-old girl bent over her daddy's writing desk with her panties slipping down to her ankles. Her buttocks pumped erratically as she waited out the awful silence. The seconds ticked endlessly by, marking off the instants until the axe fell.

  The paddle swept down in a hissing descent.

  Tracey shrieked as it caught her across both haunches, rocking her forward against the side of the table. A bolt of agony ripped though her derriere, lancing down both legs like a rictus of fire. Her buttocks clenched in convulsive reaction. The paddle rose and slashed down again before Tracey could draw her next breath.

  John nodded his approval, poised at the zenith of his back-swing. There was nothing quite so satisfying as the sight of an errant bottom turning red beneath a good, stout length of cherry wood. He could actually see her plump, round cheeks darkening with each thunderou
s stroke. He increased his force, accelerated his velocity. Three failing grades!! He'd make damned sure the girl didn't forget this evening for as long as she lived.

  The paddle wheeled up; its polished, ebony surface glinted momentarily over John's right shoulder, then cut into Tracey's straining thigh-tops. A tremendous flare of pain fireballed through her nervous system, wrenching an ear-splitting wail from her throat. She clutched her melons tight around the cleft, struggling to hold her legs taunt and motionless. She had to keep completely still, she knew from bitter experience what would happen if she budged half a centimeter from her position.

  "It hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts." She scrunched her face up into a knot, baring her teeth in a grimace of suffering. The paddle flashed over her swollen chubs, crimping the flesh with each stunning contact. He was targeting the soft bulges overlapping her thighs, hitting the same two spots over and over. It was utterly painful. Tracey trembled with suppressed misery, screeching from the pit of her belly.

  The spanking wound on, minute after minute, stretching out through the long Autumn evening. The crack of the paddle echoed through the house, filling the main corridor and shaking the pictures on the wall. Tracey's frenzied squeals could be heard half a block away: doors and windows were opening throughout the neighborhood.

  Elderly couples began drifting out onto front porches, reminiscing over better days, better times. Veterans and retirees ventured out into the cool night air, pipes in hand, tobacco at the ready. Their seamed faces were lit with gentle pleasure as they listened to the sunny-bottom symphony taking place down the road.

  "Sounds like young Tracey Lane's takin' another whuppin'."

  "Ayuh, reckon John's usin' the paddle this time."

  "The Persuader; ain't that what he calls it?"

  "Ayuh, that's what he calls it."

  "Takes you back some, don't it?"

  "Ayuh, sure does."