Chapter 1
"No, Dad, don't do it to me, please!" Betty Jurgens' voice rose stridently as her forty-three-year-old dark-brown-haired father, ignoring her plea, inexorably pulled her across his lap as he seated himself on the old wooden trunk at the back of the garage.
Frantically, she thrust back her hands to protect her threatened bottom, for this impending correction was absolutely destructive to her mature young ego of eighteen years. Indeed, her father hadn't once resorted to this time-honored method of punishment since her eventful twelfth birthday, just a week before her mother had suddenly died of a heart attack at the tragic age of thirty-four. But this time, she realized miserably even as she struggled, she had gone just a little too far and defied the edict he himself had laid down about her not seeing Henry Warren.
What bothered her most was how her father had found out that she had just had an unexpected meeting with tall, black-haired, gangling twenty-year-old Henry, a sophomore at Summerton College. Dan Jurgens published the weekly Summerton Bulletin, which was distributed to residential homes about five o'clock every Friday evening, and usually he stayed at the print shop to supervise that distribution and didn't get home until nine. That was why she had thought this late May Friday afternoon would have been an ideal time to enjoy an hour or two of forbidden rendezvous with her best boyfriend, because Henry Warren had a way with girls and just the touch of his fingers on her swelling breasts, even through her clothes, could set the dainty pink lips of her virgin vulva to moistening and twitching in ardent expectation of what she really wanted Henry Warren to do to her.
When she had left Summerton High, at three-thirty, dressed in her senior outfit of blue pullover woolen sweater with a gold "SH" emblazoned right over her magnificent, pear shaped, thrusting young bosom, a matching blue woolen skirt which hugged her lusciously rounded hips and descended to a point about two inches above delightfully dimpled bare knees, yellow bobby socks and loafers, she had seen Henry Warren driving down Magnolia Avenue in his Dodge Polara, a present from his wealthy lawyer father for his high-school graduation with good grades. Henry had pulled over to the curb and called at her, "Maybe I'll drop over in about half an hour, Betty, soon as I finish this errand for Dad." And so she had hurried home, found the house empty as she had expected, sprayed on a bit of perfume at the nape of her neck and, daringly, hoisting her skirt to show supple, creamy, delightfully rounded bare thighs at whose apex a pair of apricot-hued nylon panties lovingly adhered to the plump mound of her virginity, applied the perfume applicator to the insides of those twin columns of rippling, satiny femininity. Not that she was going to let Henry Warren go that far with her, but it just might happen if Dad stayed away at the print shop as he usually did.
And then, just as they were seated on this very trunk, his left arm tightly round her waist and his right hand sneaking under her skirt and a delighted look on his face to encounter no stockings but only bare warm girlflesh, Dan Jurgens had unexpectedly walked into the garage, put his hands on his hips, and growled, "What the hell-all right, Warren, get to hell out of here and don't let me catch you with my daughter again or there'll be trouble!"
And then, to make matters worse, as her young lover had scrambled off the trunk with a guilty look of apology at her, and was going, he had commanded, "All right, Betty, you know what I promised you if you saw that boy again! And you're going to get it right here and now before dinner! Just stay where you are, I'll come over there and sit down, and you can just put yourself over my lap!"
She could have died a thousand times of shame because Henry Warren had heard her father's threat, known that she was going to get a spanking all because of him. It was a punishment for love, she had thought to herself in anguish as her father had approached, his usually genial face taut and frowning, his eyes narrowed, and his lips thin with anger. She had slowly risen, feeling the backs of her legs trembling and quivering, with a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach, as he had methodically seated himself, then seized her by her wrist and hauled her down across his lap in the most unceremonious way, as if she were a little girl of six instead of eighteen, practically old enough to be married.
And now it was happening, and now he had yanked her woolen skirt up to her waist and proceeded to pull up the white nylon petticoat with its lacy frills at the hem to join the skirt. "No stockings, young lady?" he had growled. "As long as you're my daughter and dependent on me, Betty Jurgens, you're going to do what I tell you to. And you know how many times I've told you to stay away from that Warren fellow, he's just a rich man's son with too much spending money and free time on his hands for his own good. He happens to have a pretty bad reputation with a lot of girls, and he's not the sort of person I'd pick for a son-in-law, in case you had ideas in that direction. But maybe this will teach you that when I say a thing, I mean it, young lady!"
With this, and her stupefied astonishment, as his left arm tightened its hold around her waist, he inserted the fingers of his right hand under the waistband of her fragile nylon panties.
"Oh, no, Daddy!" In her shame and apprehension, Betty reverted to the childish name she had always called her father in years past, well before her entry into high school. "Leave them on, please, if you have to-if you have to sp-spank me, please, Daddy!"
"Take your hands away, Betty!" her father's voice was firm and crisp, allowing no argument or resistance. Placed as she was across his lap in the traditional and humiliating posture for juvenile chastisement, the auburn-haired teen-ager understood only too well that struggling would be not only undignified but futile; the best way to keep her pride was to submit passively and stoically, and so she bowed her head and clenched her fists, unable to control the shiver that ran through her tightly clenched bare thighs. Her skin was a pale white with rosy flecks, exquisitely sensitive, smooth and glossy, and it looked even more naked under the glaring, bare sixty-watt bulb in the ceiling which was the only light in the garage. The light had remained turned off while Betty and Henry had enthusiastically begun their stolen tryst.
Her calves were slim and high-set, with a sinuous contouring; the soft smooth hollows of her knees rose into the elegantly rounding columns of the womanly, ripening thighs which in their turn merged fluently and breathtakingly into the upstandingly rounded, narrowly spaced hemispheres of her now upturned and cringing bottom. For, the moment she had withdrawn her hands, her father had proceeded to yank down the frilly panties to her lower thighs, exposing in all their voluptuous prominence and elasticity the now huddling, clenching globes of her virginal posterior.
"Ohhh-D-Daddy!" Betty moaned in a low, choked voice, which expressed more eloquently than any other words could have done the supreme degradation she was now experiencing in knowing that the most intimate portions of her maturing anatomy were exposed to the eyes of her own father. Even with Henry Warren, though her flesh burned impatiently to be united with his in the act of union, Betty had never shown herself so naked as she now was before Dan Jurgens' appraising eyes.
But strangely, and even Betty couldn't explain it to herself, at this same moment when it seemed to her that she had been plunged down from her pedestal of burgeoning young womanhood, that of a siren whose beauty was coveted by a most eligible and desirable and certainly virile young male, into the shameful inferiority of a naughty child awaiting the classic retribution for her misdemeanors, a strange, tingling, warm sensation seemed to attack the exquisitely sensitive flesh along the insides of her tremoring naked thighs. Virgin that she still was, although of course a wise virgin in this day and age, nevertheless Betty Jurgens didn't know that this very immodesty which so mortified her before her own father was evoking a very definite and powerful erotic response in the deepest recesses of her quivering, half-naked, ripe young body.
She bowed her head down, closed her eyes tightly, clenched her fists with a determination that he wouldn't draw a single supplication for mercy from her. This pose of submission had the effect of arching up her naked, quivering, tightened buttocks all the more provocatively, as if she were shamelessly offering them for what was about to follow. Her father appeared to take no notice of this; summarily, with a workmanlike attitude that made the contrast of his own daughter's half-nudity all the more titillating, he merely lifted his right hand and applied a stinging slap to the outer edge of her right buttock, then an equally brisk and noisy slap to the other globe in the very same place.
With a gasp which she was unable to suppress, Betty announced the shock of that impact of a male hand on her virgin bottom. Nervously, her ankles crossed, the heel of her right loafer jerking up, and her hips squirmed nervously as she tried to shift herself into a more comfortable position for the endurance of what promised to be a severe correction. She didn't have to guess how angry her father was with her; the subject of Henry Warren had come up at least a dozen times in the past three months, and on each occasion Dan Jurgens had irritatedly declared that he never wanted to hear that fellow's name again on his daughter's lips. Having caught her in such a compromising position-and even now she shivered to think of how bad it could really have been if she had let Henry go all the way with her as he had begged her to let him do (and he had told her that he had a safe along so that there wouldn't be any danger of her getting pregnant if they did do it)-he was certainly going to make this a lesson she wouldn't soon forget, Betty dolefully understood.
He didn't lecture her, for which she was deeply grateful. In that way, she could concentrate all her senses on the burning, mounting discomfort which his callused hand was inflicting on the tender, resilient, jouncy, fleshed globes of her upturned bottom. For the most part, she endured it courageously, compressing her lips and trying to hold back any cries or prayers for mercy, because they would be unworthy of her age-after all, lots of girls got married at her age and she'd willingly marry Henry Warren if only Daddy would give his consent. Just the same, as the number of spanks rose from ten to twenty and thence to thirty with no sign of abatement, Betty's voluptuous naked hips began to plunge and arch and twist and swerve quite involuntarily, and her lovely heart-shaped face to twist back and her gray-green eyes to widen and to glaze with hot new tears as she eloquently besought forgiveness though without uttering a word to earn it.
By the time he had reached the fortieth spank, her fingernails were digging into her sweating palms, and she had constantly crossed and recrossed her bare ankles and scuffed off one of her loafers, and the tears were running down her flushed cheeks. Her buttocks were a brilliant scarlet from the chinkbone to the tops of her quaking, still tightly clenched thighs; somehow, out of a deeply rooted sense of virginal modesty, she didn't want him to see her pussy, even though he was her own father. Maybe exactly because of that, she didn't know. All she knew was that she was dying to have it over with so that she could go back to her bedroom and cry it out.
"There!" he said in a hoarse voice as he delivered a final pair of slaps which flattened the base of each burning, vividly splotched buttock, "I sincerely hope you'll realize from now on that I mean what I say about Henry Warren, young lady. Now you can get up and go to your room. I'll bring dinner up to you in about an hour."
"All right-D-Daddy," Betty Jurgens breathed as she awkwardly got to her feet. He was already apologetically tugging down her dress and petticoat, and his face was flushed and he was looking away from her, as if suddenly aware that this beautiful half-naked girl he had been spanking just happened to be flesh of his own flesh. He realized that he had possibly gone just a little too far in pulling down her panties for the spanking; the same effect could probably have been arrived at over them, and yet the seriousness of her offense had merited that humiliation, he rationalized.
She tried her best to control the instinct of rushing her hands to her bottom and rubbing it to soothe the throbbing hurt. Very pale now, without a look back at him, she almost hobbled out of the garage and back into the house and up the stairs slowly and painfully to her bedroom. Once inside the door, she hurried to the bathroom and showered.
When she emerged, naked as Eve, she turned to regard herself in the full-length mirror, holding the Turkish towel against her loins and breasts. Her buttocks were flaming, and her full red lips made a pouting moue of O at the sight of the damage. It still burned dreadfully!
She knew that he wouldn't invade her privacy, and he had said it would be an hour before dinner. Just the same, still holding the towel over her, she tiptoed to her door and turned the key in the lock. Then, drawing the shades, she dropped the towel and reached for the two pillows at the top of her bed, piled one on the other, and then very gingerly clambered onto the bed and adjusted herself till her throbbing, reddened buttocks lay exactly over the two cool pillows. "Ohhh, .my!" she sighed as she eased herself gently down.
By now, the sensation of prickly heat had begun to invade not only her buttocks, but also the insides of her thighs and her cuntal lips. The thick bush of dark-red hair didn't quite conceal those fleshy petals, and they were very definitely twitching and also suspiciously moist. She closed her eyes and reached her left hand down, gliding it past her lower abdomen and thence to the silky thicket. Then, with the tips of her fingers she began to touch the crinkly, coral-tinted cuntal lips in a delicate and lingering friction. Her beautiful pale-white breasts, bold pears and widely spaced, with narrow but dark, concentrated areolae in whose centers pert, stiffened buds now palpitated, rose and fell agitatedly. With her other hand, she caressed them, and as her eyes closed she pretended that it was Henry Warren who was solacing her for what she had had to bear for his sake. Now at last her left forefinger reached the very nodule of her being, the dainty, burgeoning clitoris, and a stifled gasp and violent, convulsive tremors were torn from her naked body. Then, spreading her thighs and arching herself up and down on the two pillows, Betty Jurgens imitated the erotic choreography of copulation, her left forefinger substituting for Henry Warren's virile male weapon, while in her mind the illusion of being united with him for tender consolation grew until a swirling, volcanic torrent of sensuality overpowered her, and she threshed squirmed and writhed on her bed, her be damp with sweat, but at last her loins appeased of the furious hunger which her father's spanking seemed so strangely to have redoubled in intensity. . .