The front door creaks open. She is trying to be as quiet as possible . . . sneaking back into her Daddy’s place. But, although the entryway is dark, and the lights are off in the main hallway, she can see that the lights are on in Daddy’s office, as a beam of warm yellow incandescence slips through the door-jam seam and across the hallway floor and wall. Classical music plays on his office stereo. She tries to tip-toe down the hall, but, despite the music, her heeled shoes inevitably broadcast her arrival as they knock against the hard-wood floors — the tell-tale signature of this (wanna-be) delinquent’s return. (Damn! These sexy shoes looked so cute when she sneaked out. And she relished the attention she was getting from the boys at Karen’s place. Now she wished that she had taken them off before coming in. In fact, she should have changed out of her entire outfit! Daddy has never seen her dressed like this before.)
She hears the familiar sounds of Daddy working in his office — the music, papers being shuffled — then a pause . . . “Young Lady get your butt in her now!”
She knows she’s been caught, and pauses . . . . stalling. The door to the office is almost closed, but the anger in Daddy’s voice is all too clear as it booms down the entry corridor. “I said NOW! The longer I have to wait for you, the harder your punishment!” He speaks loudly, and with authority, but it is not quite a shout or yell . . . a yell would suggest to her that he is losing control.
She wishes that it were a yell.
She haltingly proceeds to his office door. She knows that there is no way to avoid this confrontation, but she has been exerting her power a little more recently, and has found herself coming out on the winning side when it has come to arguments with mom. If she holds her ground, she thinks to herself, she just might be able to come out ahead in this battle too. She pushes the door open and assumes the posture of a young, sassy teen being accused of a wrong-doing — arms cross her chest, weight shifted to her rear leg, head tilted . . . looking up and rolling her eyes. (“What the hell is he going to say or do that I haven’t heard before?” she thinks.)
Daddy is sitting in his office chair and turns around to face her. Papers are strewn across his desk. She notices a half-empty glass of red wine alongside the clutter. His eyes widen and eyebrows rise, briefly indicating his shock and surprise. He clears his throat, “Hmmmmm. Let me get this straight. Not only are you sneaking in here two hours late” . . . he then traces an arch with his pointed index finger, as if outlining her silhouette . . . “but you suddenly are dressing up like a trampy whore?”
Now it is her turn to be surprised. Daddy has never spoken to her quite like that. The words sting a bit.
She stammers, “W-w-well. What’s the big deal? I-It’s no big deal. Everybody dresses like this.” And it’s true! She is dressed up just as much as any of the other girls that had been there. Well . . . for the most part.
Low-rise pants are all the rage, though she had been very careful up until this point to keep her new purchase hidden from her parents. They would not approve of a pair of tight jeans that required the use of a thong, and hovered dangerously close to the upper reaches of her downy, recently-acquired pubic hair.
And, yes, her top was a bit tight fitting, but it showed off her still-developing cleavage — something of which she was rather proud, though she would be embarrassed to admit it. She really liked the perky, curvy shape of her breasts, and the new attention she was getting from the boys. (RJ even playfully tweaked her nipple at the party when the others weren’t watching!)
And then . . . the shoes. Though she had been allowed to have short heels last year, these heels were a different story. Taller than any other heels she had, these black strappy shoes pushed the limit. And her arched footing was still just a bit unsure in them; something her father could detect by the subtle tentativeness of her step as she shifted her weight nervously from across the room.
Had she worn her regular heels, she thought, she may have been able to evade Daddy’s radar as she sneaked in. But she liked that way her legs and cute feet looked in them. In fact, after sneaking them into the house, she would sometimes close her bedroom door and put them on and, just wearing her underwear, and would look at herself in the mirror, admiring the gentle curves and lines of her strong legs with a level of admiration that verged on something almost lustful. (She had always liked the sexy, soft looks of women’s bodies.)
But at this very moment, she wishes she could just snap her fingers and escape from this outfit. She feels trapped in it. And although she certainly doesn’t feel like a whore, she kinda knows what Daddy means. All the extra attention she was getting from the boys at the party stood out in broad contrast to the notice she typically generated when cloaked in the stifling limitations of acceptable school attire. (And RJ certainly would not have given her that nipple tweak (which she must admit, she kinda liked) if she didn’t look at least a little slutty.)
Why did Daddy have to catch her now?!
“Stand over here, right in front of me.” He points to a spot on the floor, about three feet in front of the place in which he sits. His tone is firm and she feels compelled to follow this order.
She slowly takes a few steps closer to him . . . her heels drawing more unwanted attention as they echo off the wooden floor with each step. Again, she re-assumes the disgruntled teen stance.
“Hmmmmmm.” His eyes travel from her toes to her head and back again. His tone is disapproving.
“Turn around.”
She sassily does a quick spin on one foot and is facing him again.
He calmly, but firmly, clarifies his instruction. “That is NOT what I meant. So now I will tell you — not ask you — to turn and face away from me.
This sends a small shiver of embarrassment down her spine. Although the boys made comments about what they said was her “fine ass” (quite a few, in fact, at the party), she always felt a bit funny about that attention, and now her own father is demanding that she reveal her backside to him. She resists, her crossed arms bouncing a bit as she shifts her weight to her other foot.
He gets up quickly, grabbing her by both shoulders and forcefully turns her around. The speed and strength of his actions catch her a bit off guard and surprise her. He usually did not have to resort to force, though she is being a bit more assertive and resistant than she has been in the recent past.
She stares at the window blinds as she feels Daddy’s eyes traveling the length of her back-side and again hears his murmured tone of disapproval.
“Dressing like a tart, like a whore, just pushes things over the top. You know that, don’t you?” he says. She rolls her eyed again, even though her father can not see. “Young lady, you are two hours late coming back from I-don’t-know-where! We agreed on your punishment the last time you were late. And the spanking was your idea if you remember.”
She turns to look at him in stunned disbelief! He — he was actually going to give her a spanking?! Good God! It had been . . . like . . . years! But in the recesses of her memory, it DOES come back to her, though she is loathe to admit it. In the heat and passion of a parental argument — following her most recent curfew offense, she had sarcastically offered that a spanking be the consequence the next time she came home late. At that moment, she was joking! But she now recalls that her suggestion ended the conflict . . . to her satisfaction at the time. Now it was all coming back to bite her in the ass!
“You can not be serious!” she challenges him. “I am too old for this!” she snaps (hoping he will agree), rolls her eyes again (for good measure) and starts to walk over toward the door to leave.
He quickly crosses the room and steps between his little girl and the door-jam, blocking her exit. He lowers his head and looks at her through the tops of his eyes, eyebrows raised, with a gaze that conveys his power and seriousness. He slowly and firmly informs her, “This was your idea and it IS-GOING-TO-HAPPEN. I am not joking around with you young lady,” he intones.
Damn! How is this happening? she wonders. Lately she had felt that she could get away with much of what she wanted if she just stood her ground and acted the part of the spoiled brat.
“No!” she retorts.
She is shocked to hear such defiant words coming from her mouth . . . a fact she hopes is not betrayed by her expression. She knows that she is bluffing . . . testing the boundaries of her father’s authority over her.
He pauses a moment, and then calmly leans in a bit toward her ear as she looks down to avoid his gaze. He takes a firm grip of her upper arm, and speaks with utter authority into her ear; his voice a serious, low-but-powerful growl . . . “There is something you have to understand. Your not-so-subtle insubordination has crossed the line. Slowly and incrementally over the last few months you have been pushing things with me; defying my authority. And now you come sneaking in two hours past the time agreed for your return, dressed the part of a two-bit hooker! It looks like I have given you too long a leash. And you have certainly taken advantage of the situation. But that is over. I am pulling back the leash.” His hand reaches behind her back, glides up the top of her spine, resting on the back of her neck . . . tightening. “Things are going to change around here . . . starting . . . RIGHT . . . NOW.” With a surprising level of force he leads her across the room. She squirms and resists, but the strength of his hold only increases and approaches a level of pain.
“Ouch! You are hurting me!” she screams. But her protest is intoned in a manner that conveys the unpolished exaggeration of youthful, defensive hyperbole. Certainly she is experiencing some discomfort, but not nearly the level suggested by her shouts. And, she is beginning to suspect, not nearly as painful as the punishment she is about to receive.
She tries again. “I am too big for you to take over your knee,” she protests as she strains against him.
Ignoring her objection, he leads her to the office door which closes as he presses her against it with the weight of his own mass behind her. His lips a mere inch from her ear, he calmly whispers, “I will spank you as I please.”
And then, “Listen and obey. That is your lesson today.”
He grabs each of her wrists in his hands. Her own hands tighten into fists as he brings them up over her head where he crosses them and presses them against the door. “These hands stay right there,” he commands.
She then feels his hands swiftly move down to her midsection, resting for a moment in the few inches of space between her navel and the door. She doesn’t move her hands from above her head, but pushes back against him from the wall just a bit with her bottom . . . but her not-so-subtle protest backfires when she feels his fingers deftly reach for and unbutton her jeans. Before she knows it, her zipper is down!
She violently bucks against her Daddy and screams, “What are you, a pervert?! Taking off your daughter’s pants you sicko!”
In a lightning quick movement, he spins her around, and SWAP! — she instantly feels the quick, sudden, stinging slap of Daddy’s hand strike and sting her cheek! She feels the pain race through the side of her face, and then, as her mouth opens to protest (and now she can see it coming), his hand sweeps back and returns, to back-hand her on the other side! She feels the blood rush to the surface of her face, and, although her mouth hangs open to utter a protest, no sound escaped her throat except the rush of choking air as she gasps in utter shock!
In one hand, Daddy takes a firm handful of her hair and pulls her head back as he stands over her. In his other hand he grips her face, still open in shock — cheeks glowing pink. Slowly . . . and forcefully . . . “Listen and obey. That is today’s lesson,” he pauses. “Do you understand?” She is now utterly off-balance. Her vision blurs. She feels her eyes beginning to well with tears. She doesn’t know what the hell is happening. She doesn’t know what to do. She feels paralyzed — not knowing how to act. She has absolutely no frame-of-reference in this foreign circumstance. She feels utterly powerless.
SWAP! Another blow across her face. Dizzy . . . starting to spin. In the back of her head, she hears his voice repeat, as if traveling through a thick, misty veil, “Listen and obey. Do-you-under-stand?” She feels herself floating by the grip he has on her hair and face. (Are her feet even on the ground right now?)
Listen and obey, she hears herself think . . . listen and obey . . . as the words and their meaning settle in the fissures of her consciousness . . .
SWAP! In a lightning bolt, she suddenly finds herself rocket square back in her body by the delivery of yet another, stronger slap across her face! Her eyes suddenly open wide, looking up, she finds herself staring directly into Daddy’s gaze, catching, oddly, a combination of anger and love in his eyes. Like a fish out of water, her mouth opens as she gasps for air. After a few beats, she is surprised to hear herself stammer, “L-l-listen and obey,” He pulls her hair back, her chin lifting even closer to his face. “Again!” he firmly commands. She takes in the scent of wine on Daddy’s breath. Strangely, this gives her a small, familiar sliver of comfort. “Listen and obey,” she reflexively repeats, eager to ward off another sting to the cheek.
He gives her further instruction, “Yes Daddy.” His voice trails off . . .
“Listen and obey. Yes, Daddy. Yes, Daddy,” she stammers in a rushed gasp. She can feel her heart racing in her chest.
“Now turn back around and face the wall with your arms crossed high above your head. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she hears herself say. She holds back her tears.
He lets her go, relinquishing all direct physical control, and she turns herself around, teetering in her high heels, bringing her hands up against the door, shaking a bit as she moves closer to the wooden panel . . .
Can’t wait for part 2. I like the slow build-up. Great stuff!