She was feeling lower than the Andrea Doria all through supper, unable
to look at her father. Daddy glanced at the evening newspaper and
evinced little interest his meal, either. Billie's ears were still red
hours after her math teacher had eviscerated her with words no teacher
should ever utter: "I can't believe you're THAT stupid!"
Billie was stupid that day, but not because she was having trouble
with the new math, the most absurd educational advance since the dunce
cap-- and just as effective. But Billie Jean was going to do some
counting out loud in a few minutes under the old math, and more than
her ears would be red.
The otherwise routine scrape of Dad's chair along the hardwood dining
room floor signaled not just the end of the evening meal, but sounded
a tocsin of dread for his pigtailed princess. Her head staring at the
bouldered hillock of uneaten peas and mashed potatoes, she
nevertheless pushed back from the table and haltingly followed her
father to the den.
Dad's den was usually a haven of warmth the few times she had been
admitted for a leisurelychat about life, love and the everyday
annoyances of being in seventh grade. But the room at the back corner
of the house also had served, in its time, as a "camera lacrimatoria"
when Billie Jean or her sister Martina required a rare application of
the paternal paddle.
This was just such an occasion, and it pained Daddy just as much as it
did his gangly filly, for he understood his daughter's consternation.
Billie Jean knew it could have been worse but for the coincidence of
Principal Webster having gone home sick. Otherwise, she wouldn't have
been able to sit through dinner. At least this will be over in time
for "Hullaballoo." Maybe Daddy would let her sit on his lap and watch.
She knew there would be a long hug in a few minutes, but it was what
she knew was coming first that moistened her eyes now.
He sat on the center of the small loveseat against the long wall of
his cherrywood-paneled den and motioned Billie Jean to sit on a low
stool in front of him. This was not a time for equality, he thought,
but a moment to reinforce in every possible manner -- including the
negotiating stance -- the fact that she was still a child and he was
and would forever be head of the household.
She brushed her reddish blonde pigtails back, then rested her long
chin in her hands. "I couldn't help it, Daddy," Billie Jean finally
murmured. "It wasn't cheating to talk to Peggy about an answer, 'cause
it wasn't a test," she protested.
"No, I don't think so, either," Dad affirmed.
"So I just told Mrs. Bascom I could never understand set theory. Was
that so bad?" she asked, pouting like Sue Lyon on the Life Magazine
cover on Dad's desk. "And she said I was stuuuupid, Daddy!
Stuuuuupid!" And Billie Jean began to cry.
Then Dad spoke. He leaned forward and just touched the fingertips of
each hand on her blue-jeaned knees. "You got yourself in a real
pickle, honey, didn't you?" The girl's nod dislodged a matched pair
of teardrops from her hazel eyes. "And we don't want that to happen
again, do we?" She shook her pigtails just a little too hard and the
knot at the end of her right braid whapped her nose lightly. Dad spoke
up quickly to avoid bursting into laughter at the sight, and he began
the lecture a little sooner than he had planned.
"Everything could have been resolved if you had just used your
judgment, young lady, and calling your teacher a bitch is not the kind
of judgment your mother and I have tried to inculcate in you and your
sister. That language is utterly inappropriate, and you know it." He
was warming to the task before him, though with a twist, when he told
her: "She probably IS a bitch, Billie Jean, but in school, the only
thing worse than being wrong is being right. You need to learn that
lesson, and I am prepared to teach it to you right now."
What Billie Jean had not known was that the phone conversation between
Mrs. Bascom and her father in late afternoon had ended with HIM
telling the officious instructor, "I think my girl is right; you ARE a
bitch." But it was something she did not need to know now, nor ever.
For that was not the issue.
The issue was that she had lost her composure and disrespected an
employee of the city her father had once technically supervised when
he was on the school board many years ago. She had used language that
had resulted in a spanking each of the four times she had cursed in
the past, albeit not in more than a year. So what followed was not a
surprise, though Billie Jean wished she could be anywhere else at the
moment -- East Berlin, Greenwich Village, a grassy knoll in Dallas.
"Look, princess," Daddy continued, his voice rumbling up to command
authority. "You know we have given you and your sister a great deal of
latitude, but this ... this one ... this ... one ... is ... not ...
even ... close." She began whimpering on the low stool, burying her
head in her palms and blubbering her apologies. "Sometimes," Daddy
pronounced, "sometimes we can work things out." Billie Jean lifted her
chin a bit, hopeful. But her little heart was crushed again when Daddy
reached the judicial coda: "But I am afraid this is not one of those
"Stand up, young lady."
She stood as directed, facing the wall behind the love seat, but then
glancing over her shoulder as Daddy walked past her to his desk,
opened the center drawer and withdrew a small paddle. She was
motionless and agape, as if witnessing a car wreck. It wasn't until he
sat back down that she squawked, distraught, "Not the paddle, Daddy!
Not the paddy, Daddle!!!"
He laid the small paddle on the arm of the velour settee and took his
daughter by the hand. Oh, yes, she thought -- small, just like the
first atomic bomb was small. "Yes, I am afraid it will be the paddle.
I will not lay my hand on you as punishment, darling," he said,
sounding in the miasma of her tears and foreboding as debonair as Cary
Grant. "My hands are for holding you -- and he squeezed her cold hands
in his -- and my hands are for comforting you and guiding you. The
paddle is for spanking you, and you, little lady, have earned yourself
Billie Jean whimpered and wiggled but not enough to impede Daddy from
working her jeans button open and her zipper down and drawing them
southward past the tops of her bobby sox. Over his lap she went,
crying and pleading. Down came her white cotton panties until her
flat, fair-skinned bottom and the triangular patch of strawberry curls
beneath were balanced just above Daddy's right knee cap.
As he reached for the implement of correction -- a six-inch long,
three-inch wide miniature fraternity paddle whose handle disappeared
in his big hand -- Billie Jean emitted one last supplication. "Daddy,
it isn't FAAAAIIIRRR. You taught me to say only the truth, and I
did!!! This is a violation of trust!!!! I love you, Daddy. How can you
dooooooo this?" she wailed.
"I do love you, BJ, but this is not a violation of trust. It is an
act of trust."
Billie Jean sighed, not in defeat but acceptance. She relaxed, grasped
the crease of his trouser leg, wriggled into as comfortable position
as she could manage, lifted her bottom -- and trusted her Daddy. For
the zillionth time.
I never had "disciplinary" spankings as a child, although I was spanked
occasionally (really, quite rarely), but always in an uncontrollable
rage by my mother, which is why the parental discipline thing doesn't
generally work well for me in stories. But sometimes, every now and
then, I do feel a twinge of envy and even a certain level of arousal in
reading them. Thanks for reposting your stories; I will definitely
continue to read them.
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>Not Even Close (M/f)
Mmmm! Thank you for reposting your stories Ted, I liked this one.
>"Yes, I am afraid it will be the paddle.
>I will not lay my hand on you as punishment
Obligatory spanking for Pablo