by Perry Symon Fowler
As soon as they arrived home, Dan Carrothers sent Vanessa straight to her room. There had been a disagreement earlier that evening, and he'd promised her an extremely painful lesson on the ride in from town. This left no room for doubt on Nessa's part; she knew from prior experience precisely what he had in store for her. Dan's philosophy was simple: the easiest way to settle a dispute was to take his daughter straight over his knee and give her a spanking. Not just a few sharp whacks on the derriere, either: Dan specialized in long, hard and extremely thorough strappings... the kind which invariably left her weeping and breathless, unable to sit down for days afterwards.
Standing in the living room, Vanessa tearfully begged her father to let her off - or at least reduce her punishment to some less severe alternative. The argument hadn't been very serious, and she was sorry now; it would never happen again. She was too old for a spanking, she wasn't a child, she was eighteen years old! None of her friends had to endure parental spankings, it just wasn't right.
"Please, Daddy, not a spanking," she wailed, desperate to overturn the final verdict, "It's not fair, I'm too big for that. You can't spank me like a little girl, you can't!"
Unfortunately for Vanessa, Dan was totally unimpressed by his daughter's rhetoric. He was her father, and as far as he was concerned, she'd never be too old to go over his knee. It made no difference to him that her friends never received spankings. Tonight, she'd be going to bed with a hot, throbbing bottom, and that was the end of it.
"Now - up to your room, young lady," Dan told her, gesturing towards the stairway. "I'll be along to deal with you in a moment."
So Vanessa ran weeping up to her room, already feeling her father's hot, stinging palm-print on her soft, curvaceous tushie. Throwing herself on the bed, she cried piteously, knowing she had no one to blame but herself. She knew her father well enough to realize that disagreements only led to a well-smacked bottom. She listened apprehensively for his inevitable approach, imagining how much it was going to hurt.
Why did she ever argue with him? All she had to do was keep her mouth shut and pay him the respect he deserved. She'd been over his knee too many times to claim ignorance of the law: he'd been spanking her for years now, and she was well aware he had little tolerance for dissent.
After what seemed like an eternity, she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs. She bit her lip against the oncoming flood of fresh tears, and sat up on the bed, ready to start pleading for clemency the moment he walked into the room. She knew there was little hope of a last minute reprieve, but there was nothing else she could do. She absolutely dreaded being stretched across her Daddy's lap - and with good reason.
Dan stepped through the doorway, a tall, wiry man with wide shoulders and lean, muscular arms. He carried a short, black razor-strap in his right hand.
Nessa's eyes widened in alarm. She quailed at the sight of the strap. Nooo!
It was the strop: a ten-inch length of hardened leather, specially adapted to fit Dan's wide hand. Unlike others of its kind, this one was stiff and rigid, more like a paddle than a belt. Now she knew precisely how painful this spanking was going to be. His choice of instrument meant that he was going to pay particular attention to her upper thighs. Vanessa immediately lapsed into loud sobs of fear and supplication:
"No, Daddy, no, please not the strop, it hurts too much! Please Daddy, don't use the strop!"
Dan sat down on a nearby chair, completely ignoring her frantic pleas, and took off his jacket. He then flexed the leather against his left hand, checking its weight and swing. It was perfect as always, the one implement he could trust to render his daughter's bottom a hot, glowing crimson.
Vanessa covered her face and sobbed bitterly: she could tell by the expression on his face that she'd be over his knee for a good ten minutes at the very least.
Dan opted for a good, stiff talking-to before he got down to business. Scolding was, in Dan's opinion, one of the most important components of the disciplinary process, allowing Vanessa ample opportunity to regret her misbehavior and drive home the point that she was getting exactly what she deserved. Being spoken to like a naughty little girl also added to the embarrassment she was already feeling.
When he finally finished the scolding, Dan called her over to his chair and instructed her to take down her shorts and underpants. This was the part which Vanessa hated the most. She remembered the many times over the years when she'd been required to perform this ritual, helplessly undoing her jeans and presenting her naked bottom for parental discipline.
Taking down her panties was utter humiliation - despite the frequent spankings she'd received from her father, she'd never quite gotten used to baring her bottom to him. She lowered her shorts to the floor, then begged him to allow her at least the dignity of a panty spanking.
"No, Daddy, please don't make me bare my bottom, let me keep my panties up, you don't know how bad it is-"
"You get those panties down now young lady," Dan growled, his voice rising in paternal fury.
The explicit threat in his voice overrode all desire to preserve her modesty. Sobbing in abject misery, Vanessa slipped her underpants down to her upper-thighs, hoping to get away with only a partial baring. But Dan wouldn't stand for it. He was going to paddle her red all the way from her tender young bottom-cheeks to her smooth alabaster thighs. Tears flowing freely, Vanessa bent over to peel her lacy pink panties all the way down to her ankles. She was absolutely burning with shame now; her father had a completely unobstructed view of her bottom.
When she straightened up, Dan reached out, took her by the wrist, and led her over his knee. She was crying steadily now, whimpering little pleas for mercy while he shifted her over his lap to allow for maximum effect. Once he'd placed her bottom into the most vulnerable position he could find, he paused to survey the job ahead. Her lush, pale bottom cheeks were staring at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching with anticipation.
Dan Carrothers was something of an expert, a man who took pride in his work. His spankings were unusually long, generally lasting for at least ten minutes, and often stretching out to fifteen. Today he might try for a new record. He always started with some initial hand work, working slowly up to a throbbing crimson. When his hand got tired, he would simply switch to an instrument. Today, of course, he'd be attending to Vanessa's bottom with the leather hand-strop.
Vanessa continued her whimpered pleadings. "Don't ... please Daddy ... no don't, noooo."
Dan ignored her, raising his hand high over his head. Vanessa clutched her bottom cheeks against the expected blow, bursting into new tears - her time had come. She lay passively over his knee, sobbing piteously. How could this be happening to her? She was eighteen years old, a senior in high school. None of her friends had to endure paternal spankings, their parents treated them like adults. Yet here she was, draped over her father's knee, panties down, bottom up, about to take a good, hard spanking like a six-year-old girl!
Dan's hard, wide hand finally came down, meeting Vanessa's soft, quivering bottom with a high, sharp cracking sound that could have been heard halfway down the street. Vanessa screamed in pain, kicking her feet helplessly as each blow descended. Dan gave her bottom his full attention, alternating between each cheek, watching as the shock-waves resonated all the way down her thighs. Dan fell into a long, rolling rhythm, smacking away with all the strength of his strong right arm. Vanessa's bottom swiftly warmed to a bright, glowing red. The flush began to spread inevitably down her legs.
As mentioned before, Dan was an extremely thorough spanker, working his way systematically over every available inch of bottom flesh, covering both cheeks equally, and devoting plenty of time to repetitious spanking. He always made certain to spank the same spot over and over again: there was no point in punishing the girl unless it was really going to hurt her.
He was also very careful to apply his hand to the upper thighs, just below the curve of her cheeks. In Dan's experience, this was the most painful portion of a spanking, especially after he'd switched to the paddle. He often devoted the last six or seven minutes of a spanking solely to Vanessa's upper thighs, during which time she would shriek and squirm on his lap in a near frenzy. He usually had to hold her down on his lap to prevent her landing on the floor.
By the time Dan had completed the 'hands-on' phase of the spanking, Vanessa's bottom was covered with a pulsing strawberry-red blush which reached from the top of her cheeks half-way down to her knees. Shining and tender, you could almost see the heat rising from it.
Vanessa lay doubled over her Dan's lap, sobbing out exhausted little pleas for leniency.
"No more, Daddy, please don't spank me any more, I've learned my lesson, I'll never do it again."
Even the most determined of fathers would have been satisfied by this point; the job was done, the culprit punished, and parental justice was served.
But Dan Carrothers was something of a perfectionist; domestic correction should never be hampered by false sorrow or remorseful tears. He was definitely not the kind of man to let his naughty little girl off with a paltry eight minute hand-spanking.
It was time for the strop.
"No Daddy no! Please, not the strop!"
Vanessa's lush, smooth bottom-cheeks were already hot, red and throbbing. The thought of her father's heavy leather hand-paddle being applied to them reduced her to a fresh spasm of helpless, sobbing pleas. Here she was, limply stretched over Dan's lap, bottom turned up to the ceiling for her latest well earned spanking, crying like a lost child. Tears of warm shame streamed down her cheeks while Dan picked up the strop in his sure, firm grip. Smiling grimly, Dan nodded approval at its hard, sharp weight, taking a practice stroke through the air. Vanessa shrieked as the leather whistled directly above her tender, unprotected derriere.
"Now, we're going to deal with your little attitude problem once and for all," Dan told her, "I've had enough of your sulking and petulance, and it's high time you learnt a bit of respect for the man of the house." He settled her back into position, ignoring her frantic struggling, and raised the strop over his head.
"No, Daddy, nooooo!" the girl cried, trying to cover her bottom with her hand. "Please don't, it'll hurt really bad!"
"You take that hand out of the way, or I'll make this a lot worse, young lady," Dan warned. "You're long overdue for a good, hard spanking, and I'm going to make sure you get everything you have coming to you. Now stop that squirming and hold your bottom up."
Vanessa removed her hand, sobbing miserably.
This had to be the worst spanking of her life (even worse than the time Dan bent her over the armchair and thrashed her with the feather duster. That had lasted a good twelve minutes, and her round, naked bottom had been absolutely criss-crossed with glowing pink stripes that took days to fade). Dan continued to scold her in his stern, paternal tone; lecturing on her responsibilities as a daughter, and reminding her that she could blame no-one but herself.
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