The Spanking of Teenage Daughters - Book Two

by Grace Brackenridge

  ---oOo---

  Uncle Matt thinks I'm reminiscing about my daddy spankings back when I was ten, but I'm actually comparing Uncle Matt's most recent effort to one particular event that happened at Mom's company holiday party at work last Christmas.

  Maurice and I slipped into the supply room...

  Everybody else was partying on the other side of the heavy steel door...

  But I'm off-topic again.

  Another story, another time.

  ---oOo---

  "Well, I know you love your daddy's memory, Grace," says Uncle Matt, trying to sound like a big, tough guy. "And I hate to bust your bubble, Grace. Your dead dad isn't all that."

  "Hey, don't talk down about my dead daddy!"

  "When you get up the third time," Uncle Matt assures me, "you're going to be sorry. And you'll have a new top spanker and a new top spanking to remember."

  "I don't know," I say. "My daddy was a really, really hard spanker. And that isn't even the worst part. His spankings lasted – like - forever! Super-long spankings just stick in my memory longer. So don't start bragging just yet, Uncle Matt."

  Even though my buns are throbbing, I'm so ready!

  I lie down and pull up my cheer skirt.

  I wad the uniform in my fists-for spanking stability.

  A gal's gotta hold onto something, right? A girl worries - especially if she's a teen. When I'm getting a bare-bottom spanking, what should I do with my hands?

  Inquiring minds want to know.

  "Aren't you going to pull down your panties?" Uncle Matt asks.

  "NO! Do I have to do everything, Uncle Matt? Don't you know how to pull down a girl's panties?"

  ---oOo---

  I'm taking a chance here.

  Maybe Uncle Matt is too chicken to pull down my panties - all on his own.

  But see what I'm doing?

  A girl's panties come down for a variety of reasons, including urination, defecation, and corporal punishment.

  If the girl's in college, add sexual intercourse and cunnilingus activities to that list of reasons for the removal of a girl's panties.

  A real masculine college man should have had many opportunities to help co-eds with their panties, in anticipation of the last two activities listed above.

  So I'm sorta implying that maybe Matt is sexually inexperienced. Maybe he hasn't had many opportunities to pull down a girl's panties. Or maybe he just doesn't like girls.

  See what I'm doing here?

  By the way, I know what you're thinking. This 15-year-old sure seems to know an awful lot about spankings, sex, and sexual identity issues.

  Trust me, I'm not that special. Kids nowadays just know more stuff earlier.

  Plus, my life experiences are not that common.

  But again, I'm drifting off-topic.

  ---oOo---

  "You're right, Grace," Uncle Matt says sarcastically. "I'm not doing anything. You're doing all this hard work. And what is that hard work exactly? Oh, I know. You have to lie here and cry. Poor Gracie! How hard you must work."

  He snorts in disgust.

  Then he jerks my panties down.

  Not just enough to spank, either.

  Uncle Matt yanks those suckers halfway to my kneecaps.

  "And all I'm doing back here," Uncle Matt says ominously as he pats my buns, "is giving you a faggy, limp-wristed spanking...

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

  Those rapid-fire spanks thunder over my buns like a machine-gun blast. Okay, I've got Uncle Matt in a real foul mood. I suspect I'll pay dearly for all my taunts.

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

  Yes, I am paying dearly for all those taunts.

  Like Dr. Frankenstein, I'm feeling a little uneasy about what I've just invented.

  Uncle Matt is definitely giving me a monster spanking!

  We're way past the fun-and-games aspect of a good, basic corrective spanking.

  There's absolutely nothing enjoyable about the intense pain I'm experiencing.

  But until the pain gets above a certain threshold, I can't completely surrender. If I can't surrender, than I can't escape.

  ---oOo---

  Escape from what?

  Escape from all my responsibilities.

  For a teen daughter, living with a single widow carries a lot of responsibility.

  Mom is that brooding kind of Catholic widow who takes the idea of One Soul Mate Forever too seriously.

  Mom needs a man in her life.

  And for her age, she's attractive enough.

  But Mom is so dour, most eligible bachelors run and hide.

  Since Mom can't find a husband, I have to deal with all her crap.

  I have to take care of things...

  Like paying the bills...

  Like calling the plumber if the toilet won't flush...

  Mom doesn't make much money. Plus, she hates computers, which is ironic for somebody who works for a software company.

  So I keep the family budget...

  I make sure there's always a little money left over at the end of the month...

  ---oOo---

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

  But when I'm in my spank zone, all duties, responsibilities, and obligations just wash away.

  "WHA-AAA-AAH-AHH-HHH-HHH-HHH-HHH!"

  When I wail like this, I feel good. Cleansed. Free.

  Mom's boss understands that. And his partner really gets it.

  But like I said, that's a complicated story for some other time...

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

  "Bwaaa-aaa-aah-ahh-hhh-hhH-hHH-HHH!"

  ---oOo---

  This time when Matt puts me up on my feet, sobbing, I refuse to take his rejection.

  I sit on his lap again.

  I make him hold me and comfort me.

  If you're going to give a cute little redheaded cheerleader three spankings in a row, you at least owe her that much.

  I sob snot and tears all over the front of his shirt.

  When I'm finally able to speak, I sniffle, "That is my very best spanking ever, Matt. May I have a little kiss?"

  I turn my cheek.

  But at just the right nanosecond, I spin my neck faster than that girl in The Exorcist.

  I plant a firm kiss right on Matt's lips.

  Hot! Hot! HOT!

  But when I try to go French, he balks.

  Good for Matt.

  Our relationship can't go any further than this.

  He's 24. I'm 15.

  I get it.

  If Matt is going to screw somebody, he should screw one of his own peers at State.

  Matt's a teaching assistant. 'A' for a lay. If he screws one of his co-ed students at State, it's only unethical.

  If he's going to cross that line with a student, it shouldn't be with his niece's high school friend. If he screws me, it's statutory rape.

  Like I said, I get it.

  I can't consent, because I'm underage.

  But that just what the law says. Social morays. Cultural values.

  Right now, my body would fully consent in a New York minute.

  ---oOo---

  Nobody ever learns about my three clandestine spankings and the one that Paige got. We three keep them a well-kept secret.

  I certainly didn't tell Mom. I didn't tell her boss. I was tempted to tell his partner. But I don't want him to up his game. Maurice's spankings are intense enough already.

  Since my spankings, Matt and I chat on the phone from time to time. I'm totally honest with Matt, like I am with mom's boss and his partner. Spankings really bond us together.

  I'm glad Matt and I didn't have sex.

  Screwing each other would have screwed up the friendship.

  Also, Matt is totally honest with me. For example, Matt told me that his mother spanked his bare bottom when Matt was my age. How humiliating! His mother also used punitive enemas. How gay is that? Matt still feels humiliated. All those are stories for another time.

  I also know that Mat
t is banging one of his students. Over the phone, we've chatted about the ups and downs and the ins and outs over the phone.

  So I decide to text Matt today.

  In the message, I remind him of our "special time together." I ask him when he can "do me again." I tell him I'm "always available" after cheer practice.

  A few minutes ago, he sends back the following message: "Don't text like that. If I get hacked, somebody might get the wrong idea."

  Matt feels paranoid, because he's banging one of his students. Matt worries too much. At State, everybody is screwing everybody else. Nobody will even notice.

  I text him back: "So spank me. I mean it, Matt. Tomorrow after cheer practice. Or I go to the authorities."

  I don't know who the hell the "authorities" might be.

  Mom?

  Paige's stepdad?

  Paige's mom?

  The professor at State who supervises Matt's teaching?

  I don't know and I don't care.

  I'm just bluffing.

  I do know that I'm getting spanked good and hard in my cheerleader uniform tomorrow.

  Matt just texted me.

  I can hardly wait!

  Want to Be a Paddle Tester Again

  "Hello, Mr. Weber. Remember me? It's Tammy Logan."

  "Goodness!" says Clint Weber, turning from his work bench. "Why Tammy! You're all grown up?"

  "Not all the way," says the bashful teen. "But I am 15 now. Just like Amber. I see you're still making paddles."

  "Not as many as I used to, back when I had you girls working for me."

  "That was an interesting job for a 10-year-old girl. A paddle tester. My signature went only on the paddles I'd actually tested. Or, rather, you tested, Mr. Weber."

  "It was a team effort, wasn't it Tammy?"

  "Oh, yes. It was such a lovely feeling, being a part of a team that was making a quality product."

  "Well, what brings you back to the old neighborhood?" he asks, wiping his hands on a rag.

  "They're reading Mrs. Thurber's will. Mrs. Thurber and Mom were close, before we moved away from Centerville. Anyway, the lawyer for Mrs. Thurber's estate called Mom and told her that she was mentioned in the will."

  "Goodness! My little paddle tester may leave Centerville as a millionairess!" Mr. Weber seemed genuinely pleased.

  "Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Weber. I was wondering. Does Amber still paddle test for you?"

  "No, Amber's mom put the kybosh on that little niche that I - with the help of you girls, of course - had so painstakingly carved out for Honest Lumber Paddles. Sure, they're still hand crafted. Each is a fine tool for administering a good, hard disciplinary spanking."

  "They sure are, Mr. Weber!" exclaims Tammy, rubbing the seat of her way-too-tight jeans. "I remember. We..."

  She rubs her buns.

  "We remember, don't we, girls?"

  "Well, yes, they're still fine paddles. But lots of websites sell fine paddles, along with other related merchandise. Handcuffs and whatnots. Honest Lumber Paddles was always meant to be a producer of high-end, highly specialized, custom-made, and bottom tested paddles. You take out the bottom testing or paddle testing and you don't have that hook anymore."

  "See," says Tammy, "That's why I wanna talk to you, Mr. Weber. I met an old friend and... Well, I don't want to make this a long story, but my parents are probably getting divorced. This old friend - her mother actually - invited me to come live with them for the rest of the school year."

  "That's great! Welcome back to Centerville, Tammy."

  He gives the girl a big hug and some sound but thoroughly gratuitous smacks on Tammy's buns.

  Tammy doesn't mind in the least.

  "When you do that, Mr. Weber, it makes me think of all the bad things I've done. So would it be okay if I come back to work for you again as a paddle-tester? I want a raise, of course. A dollar a paddling. Ten swats in a package. That works out to one dime a swat. Believe me, I'm not resting on my laurels. This is temporary, till I can find something a little more mature than paddle-testing for getting me a little spending money."

  "You can come back to work for me, but you're going to have to pick up the slack. Amber was a good, hard-working, goal-directed paddle-tester. Amber was in it strictly for the money. She didn't believe in her father's paddles..."

  Mr. Weber starts to tear up.

  The Sicilian Wars

  "NO!" I heard our 14-year-old daughter yell. "That's not fair! I'll clean my bathroom and the half-bath downstairs. But YOU clean your own grungy bathroom!"

  Smack!

  "I'm gonna tell Daddy you SLAPPED me!"

  "You're not telling your father anything, young lady! You are going to CLEAN my bathroom!"

  I shook my head.

  My wife, Maria, is more Sicilian than Irish. So, naturally, the Sicilian part dominates. She's hard-headed and controlling.

  Unfortunately, my daughter Grace has many of those same hard-headed qualities.

  Sighing, I set my news magazine aside.

  "No, you can't do this!" I heard Grace scream. "I'm not your little girl anymore!"

  "I CAN do this and you ARE a little girl. A spoiled brat, in fact..."

  I headed for the stairs. But two steps up...

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  I shook my head.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  When Grace turned 12, Maria and I agreed - at my urging - to stop spanking our little girl and substitute other, non-physical consequences for misconduct.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  "Daddy-yyy-YYY!"

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  Last night, Grace missed her 10 o'clock curfew. Only by 20 minutes. But rules are rules. This morning - Saturday - Grace refused to come down for breakfast. So without her input, Maria and I agreed that Grace would clean all the bathrooms in the house.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  "Wha-aaa-aaa-ahh-hhh-hhH-hHH-HHH!"

  Apparently, when Maria went upstairs to announce our agreed-upon punishment, Grace decided to defy her mother. At 5-foot-5, Maria can still overpower our petite teen. This isn't the first time that Maria has fallen off the no-spanking wagon.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  "Bwa-aaa-aaa-ahh-hhh-hhH-hHH-HHH!"

  ---oOo---

  "Princess, can I come in?"

  Her door was open. She had stopped crying for the most part.

  "Is that witch gone?"

  "She went for a long walk," I replied. "So let's talk. Just you and me."

  Grace lay on her bed, still in her nightgown. I picked up her panties from the floor, apparently kicked free during the altercation with her mother.

  "I'm sorry," our teen continued. "Did I call her a witch. I misspoke. I meant bit..."

  "Careful, Grace," I interrupted, sitting on her bed and handing my daughter her kicked-free undergarment.

  "She has no right to spank me, Daddy!" Grace proclaimed indignantly, sitting with her back against the headboard, while she gripped and twisted her panties like worry beads.

  "The no-spanking agreement has two parts, Grace. We won't spank you. But you still have to accept our authority. You missed curfew, did you not?"

  She shrugged and nodded.

  "You deserve some consequences, do you not?"

  "Yeah, but I won't be bullied."

  "Cleaning bathrooms is an unpleasant chore. But it's not the end of the world either."

  "But I said I would clean my bathroom and the one downstairs," Grace retorted. "Mom's black hairs all over you guy's bathroom are totally gross! I shouldn't have to touch that kind of yuck. I might get some kind of disease."

  "Then wear rubber gloves," I suggested evenly.

  "Daddy, it's gone beyond that now. It's a matter of principle. First she slaps me. Then she spanks me like a child. Daddy, I won't be bullied by that... that... by that fascist you married!"

  I realized Grace was lashing out, but now her petulance was getting under my skin. Indeed, Maria's relatives in Europe were, in fact, f
ascists before and during World War II.

  "Nobody is bullying you, Grace. And besides, you know the agreement. If you are unwilling to accept non-physical consequences for your actions, we reserve the right to use corporal punishment."

  "That's just Mom's opinion."

  "No, Grace, your mother and I both agreed to that. And so did you. Remember?"

  She shrugged and looked away.

  "I guess I should have been the one to come upstairs and tell you about cleaning the bathrooms. I don't think we would be in this situation."

  "WhatEVER!" Grace rolled her eyes. "It's too late now."

  There are two things I cannot tolerate in teens: eye rolling and "whatEVER."

  I could feel my irritation growing.

  "Come on, Grace. I'm asking you nicely. Honor your commitments. Just clean those damn bathrooms."

  "Nope. You can't make me."

  "Do you realize what you're saying? Do you realize what you're forcing me to do?"

  "Look, Dad, you gotta do what you gotta do. I've got my principles. But I'm NOT - I repeat - NOT cleaning Mom's bathroom!"

  She crossed her arms and looked at me defiantly. Even though Grace has my red hair, her large green eyes have that same steely determination that I see in her mother's dark eyes.

  "Grace, that punishment was agreed to by both your mother and me. You're not just defying your mother. You're defying me."

  "So," she said with a casual shrug. "Spank me, why don't you?"

  "Grace, you know I don't want to do that!"

  "Well, I don't want to clean up Mom's gross pubic hairs. Her pubes are all over her toilet and bathtub. I guess we're at an impasse."

  Grace smiled - smirked? - at me.

  "Impasse" is part of my lexicon. Was my daughter mocking me?

  As a lawyer for several large labor unions, my language is infused with the terminology of labor negotiations. Indeed, pitched battles between management and unions are kid's play, compared to the delicate negotiations on the home front.

  "Grace, I'll ask you one more time. Please clean the bathrooms."