A Bad Report Card or Why You Shouldn't Flash the Principal
with Your "Taken" by Calvin Klein Panties
(Turned Inside Out and as Dan Savage Would Say, "How'd That Happen?")

"Daddy," (I'm not really, this is adult age-play) you shout, "I'm home" as you cross the foyer of our Seattle, Washington State log home or tree house in Greenwood on Chastenwood Lane, black Mary Jane 'little girl' shoes tapping lightly on the floor and light switches clicking upward like a tongue touching the upper lips before kissing someone. I watch as you enter the great room, nips pressing against your sweaty, musky, slightly sheer, white blouse unbuttoned to the button between your moist imprisoned breasts.

Your firm, baby-making hips move inside your dark blue or is it black mid-thigh skirt, part of your good girl Catholic, Islamic with hijab (the face covering), or Yeshiva School uniform three inches above the always bending knee. Knees wrapped around your lacy just barely touching the knee white stockings. Cotton panties with lace borders waiting to be connected with my firm, always descending hand, like manna from heaven.

I watch your adopted bodacious tatas move like ocean swells against your blouse as you walk towards me, hug me completely, let me feel your ass swaying in the fabric as I wrap my hands around your lower back like a snake in the garden of Eden as your breasts press heavily against me, notice the smeared lipstick on your coffee coolers, and smell your L'Oreal Ideal Balance Shell/Coquillage colored makeup on your slightly tanned face cheeks.

"I know." I say as we break apart. Holding your special summer session post senior year report card and behavior record, I flash it at you. "Your teacher, Miss Fern, called."

Your eyes widen from the words. Teachers don't call unless its bad news. Which usually means a spanking. "What did she say?" you stammer.

"Oh, something about your flashing the principal when he visited your voting information class (only for students over the age of 18) by slouching in your chair, spreading your legs wider and wider until his eyes grew as big as his bulge and both could see the label on your panties; 'Taken' by Calvin Klein. Is that true?"

Shuffling your feet, slouching your shoulders, you defiantly tell me "No, but maybe I did slouch in my chair and show a 'little bit'. But it was an accident. I swear."

Standing up to my full vertically challenged height of 5'5", stroking my abundant furry chest hair, I confront the non-smoking, light drinking or social drinking, girl-woman in her real latte 20's-50's, any race with her switchable desires as she gazes at my clean-cut face, blue eyes, and slightly receding short ash blonde brown hair before drifting down to my hairy chest on my reasonablely HWP, STD-free, hairy body. You don't get to become a "father" at permanently 39+10 (just had a birthday) without having a disobedient "child" once in a while.

"Well, I am shocked by your behavior, truly shocked, your spankee name. I would never expect this sort of behavior from you. We'll have to do something about that." as I motion to the spanking chair next to the leather couch and see your eyes grow wide as saucers filled with spilled Elite, an Israeli instant coffee.

"No, "Daddy", I'll be good." you plead as you feel your virgin ass begin to warm up in anticipation. Sometimes it seems you deliberately get yourself in trouble so you can be stripped, fondled, spanked, and interrogated. Last weekend while I was out on a date, you borrowed one of my private video tapes. The one with boys with boys, grls with girls, spanking, bondage, group sex, and much more which you didn't watch because your little joy box got hard like a little dick. You haven't been able to stop thinking about that video. You hope I won't tie you up, interrogate you about your desires, expose you, play with your cunt and ass with the toys in my trick kit that you discovered last year, have my way with you, and ...

Your thoughts are interrupted as I grab your hand and drag you over the special chair facing the Menorah/Muslim calendar with the week ending in Friday/Crucifix, pulling your woolen (always scratches in all the wrong places, you used to say) skirt up to expose the truth; your now beige-white silk panties are 'Taken' by Calvin Klein and look like they are inside out which makes me wonder, did they get that way from this morning?

An interrogation is in order. Looking up into my blue eyes, seeing the speck of toast in my mustache, you try to protect your ass from the hand that will soon fall by holding your hands behind the small of your back. To no avail. You know the problem with being a girl is that when you wear skirts and buttoned blouses, I have easy access to every hillside or valley cave or hollow ram's horn to blow in joy.

It is futile. Instead, I get some rope I've hidden by the chair, soft rope from my discovered to have been opened by someone other than myself trick or sex toy bag and bind you like a common slut over the hard chair arms so I can sit in it and ask questions and let my hand descend as the answer to the wrong questions.

You know the interrogation will begin. You wonder what's in store. My last lover confided in you (grl talk) that I'm a sneaky top, sensual, very verbal, can top from the bottom, considerate (leaves the seat down, keeps Charmin in the bathroom for guests with tender tushes, answers e-mail and phone calls in a timely manner), and safe but persistent. You shiver in anticipation like 'daddy's little girl'. Or is it slut pleasure?

"How many times did you flash the principal, your slut name?" I demand as I look at your hair and feel it brush against my hairy chest.

"Only once, I think." you stammer in uncertainty, feel your sweat continue to bead up in your sticky end of the day clothes, struggling against the ropes and discomfort of bending over the hard chair arm, racking your brain for the answer and hoping you are right. You're not.

"Only once, what? I ask." as your covered bottom squirms from the tone of my voice. "Miss Fern said you flashed him twice. She even though that one of those glimpses was for her pleasure as well and wondered if you were a schoolgirl lesbo slut. Is that true?"

"Well, maybe, but I only remember doing it once ... Sir." You try to move your bound hands but find them confined so you move your breasts and press them against my left thigh and arm.

"Well, then, I guess a spanking is in order after all, isn't it?" I reply as I peep at the tops of your plump white meat as Winston Churchill used to call them, straining to break free of your Victoria Secret's or Zolo Lingerie bra.

"No, Daddy, please, I'll be good. Anything but a spanking. I clean the house, cook your favorite meal, and do the laundry, anything. I'll even bring my friends over and have them nude sunbathe and let you set up your special cameras. Anything, Daddy." you exclaim showing me your natural, aligned white teeth (what am I advertising for, a horse?) and suddenly realize you omitted the magic word, "Sir" when you feel my hand connect with your covered but not protected round ass cheeks. "Well, your slut name," I chuckle, as you squirm from the unexpected and unpleasant punishment, "the latter proposal is most enticing but you already do the domestic chores. You're a slut, remember. And I think that when we are done, you'll want to invite your friends over anyway, for my verbal, visual, and auditory pleasure anyway. So, what are our rules on spankings?"

"Ten swats for each act of a misbehaving brat." You reply and then quickly before the hand of the lord can act, add "Sir." as you let out a sigh of relief.

"And how many misdeeds did you do today, young lady?" I ask fondling your firm bottom with my right hand debating whether I should begin on the left cheek or the right. Perhaps, I think, I'll flip a coin: heads for the cheek closest to me, tails for the farthest or maybe I should make it heads for tit fondling and tails for an ass whipping with kisses during corner time.

"One," you reply but still feeling the warmness of the unexpected blow spreading around your backside, you quickly add "But I think I did two. So does that means I get a double minyan (10), 10 whacks for each act of misbehavior, Sir" My hand descends in agreement connecting with the already warmed side of your ass. Whack! The room is filled with the sound of our spiritual connection.

"Ouch. That hurt," you squeal like a trapped lamb at the slaughterhouse or waiting for Abraham in a tree. You try to protect your tender ass with your bound hands. But they are tied too high. Like the Constitution and Ashcroft. The chair squeaks from your movement. I look at your eyes, feeling my member begin to stir like an awakened hibernating bear.

"Tough," I whisper darkly into your tender ear. "And what is our rule about receiving correction, young lady?"

"If I don't keep count, the count is always zero, Sir" you repeat from burned memory.

"That's right, your slut name. And what do submissive sluts say afterwards?"

"For the first corrective swat, I say "One for the name of our lord. May I have another, Sir?" You ask, hoping that this one will count and I won't have you begin counting swats for twats over again. Again, my hand dives in agreement. And the room is filled with the sound of one hand swatting a virgin ass.

"Two for the number of candles lit on Shabbat (Friday night). May I have another, Sir?"

"I only count one." I firmly reply as I reach under your skirt and begin adjusting your white cotton panties with little girl becoming a woman lace. The last time I started adjusted your panties; you ended up with an earlier bare ass spanking. One of the reasons, I require you to wear skirts is that they provide "easy access" when correction and other punishments are required. You quickly obey. You don't want to go back to zero when you're ahead. Or feel my rough hand connect with your bare schoolgirl ass any earlier that I would have to.

"One for the name of our Lord or Goddess. May I have another, Sir? I deserve it. Iíve been a naughty girl. I flashed the principal." You reply, hoping that your submissive reply will satisfy me. It does.

"You may, bitch." I respond and my hand descends from the mountain of my neck in the direction of your golden calves still wrapped in your white, cotton, lacy, knee-high soon to be peeled stockings only to land halfway down near the promised land. Your ass squirms in discomfort and budding pleasure. You want to resist. But like worshipping the golden calf, it is difficult. "Two for the number of candles lit on Shabbat (Friday night) and to light the fire in my moistening clit, my burning bush. May I have another, Sir? I deserve it. I showed the principal my panties." You know the reply. And feel your body's response betray what you say or protest as the room fills again with my connecting response.

"Three for the number of wicks in the blue and white (like your outfit) Havdalah candle lit on the conclusion of Shabbat (Saturday night) and for the fire you have lit within me. May I have another, Sir? I want to be whacked. Hard. I licked my lips when I saw the teacherís response and thought about having her."

And like Grey Poupon, how can I refuse? WHACK goes my hand again feeling the roughness of your woolen dark schoolgirl uniform skirt against my stinging hand. Thinking, this item of clothing is getting in the way of pleasure. Debating what to do about it. Perhaps I will have a revelation. The three also stands for the three matriarchs and patriarchs who founded the religion and guided us. As I guide you.

"Four for the number of the questions asked on the eve of Passover about why this night is different from all other nights. May I have another, Sir? I've really deserved it." Again, my hand guides down like a trained hawk catching its prey, quickly catching your rounded hills. Your breasts heave in pleasure like waves waiting for a sailboat to master them as they rub against my thunder thighs. Your nips rise in anticipation of fondling to come like volcanic islands developing in isolated areas. I hear you sigh in pleasure.

"Five for the number of books in the Torah (the Jewish bible) which were given to us by the Holy One, blessed be he or she on Mt. Sinai. May I have another, Sir? I've really deserved it. I masturbated in the bathroom after voting class, thinking of sucking off the principal while the teacher ate me in the middle of an Oreo sandwich." I contemplate giving you your whack. But then like the eternal one, I have a revelation. It is time to roughly pull down your panties to mid thigh, and like Moses, lead you to and expose the Promised Land.

From the slowness of my response, you realize what I am going to do. You ask me, beg me to "stop", as your ass wiggles like a belly dancer or veiled bride but secretly hope I won't (stop) as I begin fondling your naughty schoolgirl ass and then before you can resist, lift the skirt over your hands, pull your panties down (and notice that your "Taken" by Calvin Klein label is turned inside out and wondering, in a Dan Savage insight, "how'd that happen?") and show your pale pink-white? Jerusalem hills in their entire splendor. You wait for the thunderstorm.

"And how did you panties get turned inside out?" I sternly ask, looking at them piled up at mid-thigh, binding your innocent legs together as you hands struggle and legs move from bending over like a submissive slut.

"I was dressing in the dark and didn't notice. Honest, Daddy." You reply in fear. You know that inside out underwear means that you were fooling around with someone (male or female?) and that I won't tolerate that (not really, this is pretend and I am polyamorous and polyandrous (OK with sharing you with another man.)

"OK," I reply. For some reason, I believe you although I wonder if your panties got turned inside out when you masturbated in the school bathroom, knowing that everyone in the room could possibly hear you moan in animal delight. But if I should find out otherwise by listening in on your calls from boys, I will have another reason to spank you. Instead,I deliver the lightning strike on your bare tender flesh and make it sizzle.

"Ow!" You exclaim. "Uh, six for the number of regular days in the week...May I have another...Sir? The sharpness of the sting always surprises you the first time it arrives like winter. I always give you a break on your reply at this time. This isn't the right answer but I will let it go, for now, heh, heh, heh. WHAP! The room is filled again with the wisdom of your voluntary correction. "Seven for the number of days in the week including Shabbat." May I have another, Sir? I really deserved it. I've been a bad girl." You blurt it out like a trained seal or brainwashed prisoner at a communist or U.S. Government post 9/11 P.O.W./La Migra Diabla (evil INS) camp. Like the timid courts, I agree.

"Eight for the number of days in Passover when Moses lead our people out of the house of bondage and Egypt and into the Promised Land. May I have another, Sir? I need to be free." I hear your plead to be lead out of the land of being ordinary and into the promised land of spanking and bondage and to be free of being ordinary. Only it time to shift where the blows are taking place so adjust you so I can have you turn the other cheek (to receive the spreading redness). You shudder as new pleasure centers become activated.

"Nine for the number of candles in the Menorah to celebrate the holiday of Chanukah when we liberated ourselves from the oppression of the Greeks, an ordinary people. And to provide light in the darkness. May I have another, Sir? I want it." You exclaim as the pleasure overwhelms you and you feel my finger stroke your rippled bum hole. All your life, you've let others control your life by the oppression of what other people might think. Tonight, like the four questions, will be a different night and you will recline in pleasure and let yourself be free with pleasure.

The rest of the spankings take place rather quickly and at the end, I have you stand in the corner, during the obligatory corner time, your red ass on display like an artist's painting as you whimper or do you moan in animal delight from the discomfort. I realize that I missed a hot date with a women friend.

Hmmm, I tell you, "I guess you'll have to make it up to me as I motion towards the sex toy bag." Your eyes grow wide in delight or is it fear as you think about my kissing and fondling you passionately, reading your erotica and more of my bedtime stories, blowing your moist hollow rams horn to celebrate our getting together, having you suck on my shank bone, play with your tender nipples with adjustable nipple clamps, masturbate you with my nimble fingers, handcuffs, talk dirty to you, use plain and dual-headed vibrators, blindfolds, ass/butt plugs, and ???

* * * Alternative End of scene (for woman, couples, and considerate men interested in domination)... "Daddy, why are you wearing mommy's/my/women clothes? No wonder the panties have gotten so big. You're very bad. I'll have to punish you, won't I" as you reach for the soft cotton ropes, silicone butt plug, and strap-on in the trick bag. And besides, you know the rules, "wear the clothes, assume the role, slut-boy."

If you want to act this out, email me.

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