The Swimsuit

Rate This Story:

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

The Swimsuit

(*****, M/f, Intense, nc hairbrush, nudity)

A father turns the tables on his mischievous daughter. (Approximately 2,361 words. Originally published 1998-03.)

"Pluuuuhheeezzz, Daddy," whined the teenage girl loudly, resembling a five-year-old in tone and attitude.

"No," I growled. "That suit is embarrassing -- literally."

My daughter didn't catch my humor, but stomped her feet and pouted. "You hate me, don't you."

"Of course, dear. I hate you so much that if you don't shut that smart mouth of yours and straighten out that sour attitude, your hind end is going to be making a long and painful acquaintenance with Mommy's hairbrush when we get home."

Angela's astonished face flushed a bright crimson and she haughtily turned and marched back into the dressing room, the tiny baby blue bikini clinging possessively to her petite rear end.

"Daddy, really," she scolded, sticking her head through the curtain. "You shouldn't joke like that. People might hear and misunderstand. It's the nineties, after all."

I sighed. Angela knew just as well as I did that in our home, nineties not withstanding, naughty children, regardless of age, were subject to thorough corporal punishment. I figured if my kids were young enough to act like children they were young enough to get spanked like them. Fifteen-year-old Angela hated getting spanked so much she refused to admit that it happened, preferring to imagine a fantasy life where she was never punished.

Ten minutes later Angela was back, this time with an even more revealing piece of string. "What do you think?" she asked, spinning around.

I gasped in horror and looked around frantically for a blanket to cover my daughter up. "Your bottom's bare!" I hissed. "What do you think you're doing!" Standing up I quickly pushed her back into the dressing room, sliding the curtain closed behind us.

Angela giggled, pushing away from me and admiring herself in the full-length mirror that covered one wall of the tiny room. "It's called a thong, Dad. Everybody's wearing them."

"You, my child, are not."

"But Daaaaaddddeeeeee!" Again the whine, this time an octave higher and more intense. The girl was going for a record.

For those of you who haven't had the privilege of being tormented by an insistent child, especially an older one that ought to know better, I envy you enormously. Angela had been bugging her Mom and me for months to buy a bikini swimsuit for the summer. It had been a constant barrage of whining, hinting, temper tantrums, attempted bribery, and good old-fashioned begging. In the end, Mary and I had finally collapsed. The KGB torture squad has nothing on my little Angela.

Peace finally reigned in our house, that is until Angela showed up in her new "swimsuit." To say we were shocked is an understatement. The thing was two strings. I'd seen more cloth in an egg-cozy. (You know, those little knit hats designed to keep soft-boiled eggs warm.)

My wife marched Angela back to the store last weekend to take it back, but after two hours of searching, my daughter had been unable to select something "suitable." This Saturday I had been drafted, as Mary was showing a house today, and Angela and I weren't having much more luck.

As the afternoon wore on, I became more and more agitated. Every suit Angela picked seemed designed to do nothing more than prick my temper. It was nearly four o'clock when she finally appeared in a petite mini-dress suit made of pink fabric. It was definitely a bikini, but the top concealed her small breasts nicely, and the bottom was a delicate mini-skirt, skimpy, but at least her bare butt wasn't showing.

"That looks great, Angela. Will that one make you happy?"

"Oh, yes, Daddy, thank you!" Angela clapped her hands delightedly and hurried back into the closet to change back into her street clothes. I sighed, rubbing my throbbing temples, and dry-swallowed another aspirin. Who ever imagined it would take nearly four hours to buy a simple swimsuit.

That evening, as I was barbequing steaks out on the grill, I heard a shrill shout. Used to such things in a house with four women, I didn't move an inch. A moment later the screen door slid open and slammed shut and I heard footsteps.

"Franklin Ezekial Demogray! How dare you let your daughter buy a slut suit like that!"

I turned. Mary, my wife of eighteen years, bless her soul, wore an expression that would have had Saddam Hussain pissing in his pants.

"Yes, dear?" I asked innocently.

"How dare you!" she screamed. "Your daughter looks like a two dollar whore! I can't believe you bought that suit."

I scratched my head in confusion. "It didn't look that bad to me," I said cautiously. "It was _much_ better than the others she'd been trying on."

"I thought we agreed, Frank, that she wasn't going to get one of those... disgusting 'thong' thingies."

"We did and she didn't. Hers is that cute little dress thing. I liked it. I hadn't seen anything like that before."

"Frank, dear," Mary said with a deep sigh, "you obviously know very little about swimsuits. Come inside and see what your daughter is wearing."

Leaving the steaks on low, I followed obediently. In the living room, eyes red from crying and anger, sat a sullen teenage girl. Watching TV in the corner were her two younger sisters, Jamie and Ellen. As Mary and I approached, they were very quiet, watching eagerly for the fireworks.

"Stand up!" snapped my wife to my oldest daughter.

Angela stood up slowly. She looked like she had in the store, her new swimsuit quite pretty. The little skirt _was_ short, I saw, but it still didn't look that bad. It actually covered much more of her figure than even a one piece suit.

"Looks fine," I said, wincing in advance as I expected my wife to attack my statement.

She didn't respond in words but walked over to Angela. With a deft movement of her hand she tore off the mini-skirt, which apparently was attached with Velcro or some other magic. The skirt gone, I gasped at my daughter's nude body. I opened my mouth to say something when I realized Angela wasn't naked -- she wore one of the skimpiest bikini bottom's I'd ever seen. The soft pink fabric was nearly skin-colored, and at first glance I thought she was naked under the skirt.

Mary turned Angela around so I could see the bare cheeks of my daughter's ass not the least bit covered by the thin thread going up her crack. She gave Angela's bare bottom a loud swat with her hand, startling everyone.

"_THAT_," growled Mary grimly, "is what your daughter bought today."

My jaw was working but my voice wasn't. "I-I-I-aiyaiyai," I mumbled, sinking into the couch. Visions of long, agonizing hours in department store clothing sections haunted me. I groaned loudly. "I thought it was a mini-skirt."

"It's designed to come off," said my wife.

I glared at Angela, who had escaped her Mom's grip and now sulked in a big chair in a far corner. "You knew that I didn't want you to buy that kind of suit!" I roared, rising to my feet. "You deliberately deceived me!"

Angela's pretty face was pale, but she haughtily stared out the window and didn't answer. I turned to Mary. "Get me the hairbrush."

"No!" cried Angela frantically. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I really am. I... I didn't know you didn't know the skirt came off. I thought you liked it. Besides, I can always wear it with the skirt. I'll never take it off, I swear!"

Mary gave me with a stern look and headed upstairs to our bedroom where her hairbrush was kept in a dresser by the bed. Angela watched her go with horror.

"Daddy, please," she moaned, rushing to me and falling to her knees at my feet. "You must listen to me. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'll take it back. I'll take it back and buy a different one."

Mary reappeared with the hairbrush and I promptly dragged Angela with me to the couch. "Nooooo!" she howled. "You can't, Daddy. You can't!"

I didn't speak but simply pulled the girl across my lap. Angela wasn't exactly naked -- she still wore her new bikini -- but obviously that wasn't going to protect her bottom. This realization struck her as she arrived in position, her bare posterior ready for her spanking.

"Ahhhhh," she gasped. "Daddy, no! You can't! I'm naked back there! You _can't_. It's not fair!"

"It's more than fair," I laughed. "If you're old enough to wear a suit like this, you're old enough to be spanked on the bare bottom!"

"Mommy, make him stop!"

I took the big wooden hairbrush from a severe-faced Mary and lifted it high above my head, ignoring my daughter's terrified cries. "Oh, please," she moaned. "I'll be good, I'll be good. I swear I'll never be bad again!"

The first swat was as hard as I could make it, full across Angela's plump right buttock. Her scream shook the windows.

"Yiiaiaahhahaaa!" she howled, writhing on my lap and throwing her arms back frantically. Mary immediately stepped forward and grabbed the girl's wrists. Angela began kicking in frustration so I threw my right leg behind hers, pinning her across my left leg.

Realizing how helpless she was, Angela hesitated. I took that opportunity to land a salvo of crisp, cracking blows across both her cheeks. In just seconds her bottom went from alabaster white to bathing suit pink, and a minute after that the hue had deepened to a bright fuchsia.

As Angela screamed in misery, I delighted in the colorful feedback I was getting. While my wife and I believe strongly in corporal discipline, we are also advocates of modesty. I had never spanked any of my children on the bare skin before. Once or twice I'd spanked Angela, the oldest, over her panties, but even that was rare. Since I most often spanked the girls in the evening, they usually wore pajamas and would be sent to bed immediately afterward. Now, for the first time, I could actually see the effect my spanking was having on Angela's bare flesh.

Each blow of the brush elicited a howl of agony from Angela and bright purple oval on her bottom. The impression on her skin lasted only a few seconds before it faded into a reddish glow, but from her weeping I gathered the impression on her soul was longer-lasting.

I felt betrayed by my daughter's actions and was determined to make this a serious punishment. Since I could actually see Angela's buttocks I made sure I spanked every inch of her exposed flesh. Normally I judged a spanking's severity based on my daughter's reactions, a highly subjective and unreliable source of information. Now I painted her bottom blister-red, making sure the lower portions of her butt, where the flesh is the plumpest, were a dark crimson. I spanked the usually ignored outer edges of her cheeks, making them a deep pink. I even spanked Angela's upper thighs, especially the tender flesh of the innermost portions.

When I finished, Angela's butt was painful to look at, nearly purple it was so red. It steamed and glowed with a fierce heat I could feel without touching her. I rested the hairbrush heavily on her bottom.

"Is that enough, Angela?"

"Oh, God yes!" she screamed. "Please, no more!" She began sobbing again, sniffling and choking.

I let her up. "Go stand in the corner. And don't you _dare_ touch that bottom of your unless you want more hairbrush!"

Weeping, Angela stumbled to the corner and stood awkwardly, staring at the large green plant that had beat her there. She did not touch her bottom but simply stood and cried, moaning and shaking her head. Jamie and Ellen hadn't moved from in front of the TV, but their eyes were huge and I saw they couldn't stop looking at their sister's blistered rear.

"Mary," I whispered suddenly. "Why don't we let her keep that suit?"

"What!"

My wife's eyes went large as I whispered extensively into her ear, and then she nodded, a broad smile appearing on her face. "I think that's an excellent idea."

"Angela, dear, please turn around."

Angela slowly rotated, her face showing a deep contriteness. She looked at us fearfully, as though her punishment might not be over.

"Your Mom and I have been talking. Would you like to keep that swimsuit?"

Angela's mouth dropped open. "You mean I can keep it? After all that?"

"Sure," I said, trying not to smile. "There's just one catch."

The light dimmed in Angela's eyes. She stared at me suspiciously, a faint hope still glimmering on her face. "What is it."

"It's simple," I said. "If you keep that suit, all your spankings in the future will take place with you wearing it."

"Noooo," moaned the girl in despair, wringing her hands and stamping her foot loudly. This action apparently revived pain in her rear because an expression of mild shock crossed her face and tears sprang to her eyes. She winced. "That's not fair," she said, sniffing.

"It's your choice. Now turn around and face the corner. You can let us know your decision in the morning."

As Mary and I went back outside to the barbeque, I heard Angela grumbling softly to herself. "Hummph. Some decision. But hell, it's not like I ever get spanked anyway. Daddy just likes to threaten me with it."

Mary grinned at me, shaking her head in amusement. "She's determined to believe her little fairy tale."

"Think we should tell her about the 'condition' to her wearing that suit?"

"You mean that she gets spanked before she wears it?"

"You have got to admit it -- a bright red bottom ought to keep that skirt on."

"Naaa. Let her find out the hard way. After all, she didn't tell you the skirt came off."

I grabbed Mary in my arms and kissed her soundly. "Mary," I said. "You are a wicked woman."

She winked at me, her right hand sliding down into my pants. "You don't know the half of it!"

The End

Rate This Story: