The moment the garage door began to close, its low rumble groaning throughout the house, I knew what was coming. So did Candace, my fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.
I didn't know exactly when it would arrive, or exactly what the trigger would be, but as soon as my wife — Candace's mother — pulled out of the garage on a Saturday morning, hauling her craft jewelry to yet another distant flea market or art fair, the inexorable countdown would begin. It had become to us a Law of Nature.
Another apparent immutable was the unspoken rule that Candace and I each faithfully observed, right up until the very "moment" itself. Until that instant, we each behaved as the affectionate — but normal — parent and child we were the other six days of the week, just as though my wife were right there in the room with us.
Right up until the "moment", that is.
"Hiya, Hon. Sleep well?"
"Yeah. Is that toast?"
"Yep. I made it for you. I already ate."
She sat down and began to spread jelly over the toast, while I savored my second cup of coffee. I wondered whether I would get any yard work done today. It all depended on the adorable little eighth-grader sitting across the table from me, looking just as innocent and carefree as one might expect.
A girl her age has little in her life to engender a crinkled brow; nothing more serious than, say, an overdue sentence-diagramming assignment for her English class, or fleeting angst over whether whichever boy she currently "loved" had even noticed her. Candace is no exception, and although she isn't my daughter by blood, it delights me to watch her grow up and grow through each stage in her young journey toward adulthood.
Candace is, as I mentioned, fourteen years old, and on this particular morning her honey-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was still in her pajamas — flannel pink, with a button-front top and full-legged bottoms, covered with little white "Hello-Kitty" icons. This comfy outfit mostly disguised her blossoming young form.
Per our unspoken rules, I awaited her initiative, which could come right away or well into the day. Maybe she had homework planned first thing; or maybe she and her little clique of junior-high heartbreakers were heading to the mall this morning. If so, the "moment" would not come for some time.
Well, if I was given the opportunity, I'd head over to the Home Depot and pick up a few bags of lawn fertilizer, then I'd...
"This toast is burnt!"
So much for that. This week's pretext: burnt toast.
"You burnt the toast. I knew I should have made my own. You suck at cooking." Mind you, we both knew the toast was not burnt.
"Candace, I don't like your tone. If you don't like your toast, make your own, or have something else. But I will not tolerate you speaking to me that way."
Her face flushed pink, her big hazel eyes widened, her pupils dilated, and I could see the cute little nostrils of her button nose flaring with her quickening breath. The "moment" had arrived, and the yard work was definitely going to suffer a delay.
"You're not the boss of me!" Her voice quavered. "You're not my real dad. I don't have to listen to you!"
"You don't think so? You're not too old for a spanking, young lady. Don't make me treat you like a little girl."
"You wouldn't dare!"
I pushed my sturdy wooden chair back from the kitchen table, as Candace calmly arose from her own seat and cleared the table of her toast plate and my coffee cup, leaving it completely bare. She placed the dishes in the sink with aplomb totally at odds with the text and tone of our interchange. I enjoyed the gliding undulation of the rounded, adolescent buns beneath her flannel PJ bottoms as she performed this task with complete composure.
Then she casually took a position standing to my right.
"You would never spank me. I'm a teenager now."
She draped herself over my lap with practiced ease, her palms on the floor to my left, and her tip-toes on the floor to my right. Her pelvis was balanced perfectly across my lap, her rounded bottom elevated defiantly. The flannel stretched across her bubble buns in this position, pulling taut across this blessed canvas six or seven "Hello-Kitty" cartoons at various angles in a fetching kitsch-art display. The seam of her PJ bottoms was perfectly aligned — it split and defined her eighth-grade asscrack.
"Look, I'll cooperate completely. See, I'm not even resisting. But there is no way you're going to spank me, is there?"
"You know so much, Candace, you must be right." With my left hand, I reached across her youthful form and took hold of her tight waist, just above her right hip. In my own plaid pajama bottoms, my growing prick struggled into a standing position, moving and adjusting within the garment under its own power, to come upright. I pulled my young stepdaughter towards me across my lap, wedging my ready rod in between my own abdomen and her lightly padded left hip.
"Go ahead. I dare you. I dare you to spank me, you — OWWW! That hurt!"
I bet it did — my own hand was stinging. I had brought it down hard across both buns, dead center. She wriggled in my lap a bit, which felt very nice as it served to roll my prick between our bodies.
Drawing my arm back, I swung again, this time bringing my open palm in "sidearm," to strike across the bottom curve of her ass. I love that part of her little rump — when she is standing, it is the portion that curves back under her shelf-like profile. For such a petite girl, Candace is blessed with quite an out-thrust rear; I imagine that if she walked nude under an equatorial sun, this part of her anatomy would spend the entire day in complete, protected shade.
My resounding swat, unlike the rays of this hypothetical sun, was unhindered in its advance, and so it did succeed in causing her under-bottom some pain. This elicited another yowl from Candace, and it propelled her forward in my lap. Well, to be precise, first it propelled her buttcheeks forward, and six or seven "Hello-Kitties" jerked at once towards her waistband, before the shock wave propagated through her body to translate into the forward motion of her entire eighty-eight pound mass. Since, naturally, momentum is always conserved, as her body swung forward, her cute bottom swung back, and a short-lived but quite delicious oscillation ensued. Unwilling to allow this delectable motion to cease, I provided it renewed and repeated impetus.
After three or four more swats, I paused. The tip of my cock was tenting my pajama bottoms, turtle-heading up from between her young body and my own, not-so-young one. A wet stain was forming in the plaid flannel, from the unashamed flow of my pre-cum.
"Okay, Robert, okay. So you can spank me. I get it. But you have no right to do more than that. You can't pull down my pajamas, and spank me in my underwear. You wouldn't dare try that."
As she said this, she was already rocking from her left hipbone to her right hipbone and back again, repeatedly, to allow me to inch her "Hello Kitty" pajama bottoms out from under her as I drew them down over her adolescent hips. With this assistance I soon had them bunched around her young calves, without her ever leaving her perch across my lap.
The display before me was exquisite. Her up-thrust buttocks were now encased in a pair of white cotton panties. Part of me was disappointed that they weren't her most innocent, schoolgirl pair. She had worn those last Saturday. On the other hand, this pair — only slightly more worldly — did a better job of lifting and separating her sweet young globes, and the leg holes rose a little more daringly to display the bare flesh of her under-bottom. The material was slightly ribbed, and it wedged even more profoundly into her crevice than her PJs had. Yummy.
Since her ritual challenge had already been voiced, I simply proceeded with the next phase.
With now only one layer of fabric between my hand and her ass, the effects of each blow were more pronounced. Her butt jiggled more freely, my hand felt the yielding flex of her glutes more distinctly, the sound of each contact rang out more clearly, and my prickhead oozed pre-cum more profusely. I also strayed off the panty-covered portions repeatedly, to directly strike the naked flesh of her lower buns and upper thighs, which turned warm and rosy in response.
Again, after several spankings in this state, I paused. While we each caught our breath, my hand traced down along her ass-groove, drifting between her thighs and into her crotch. She spread her legs a bit, as much as the pajama bottoms now hobbling her ankles would allow, which presented me with even more accommodating access to her underage sex than her wide, adolescent pubic arch had already afforded.
Her puffy labia slid about under my fingertips, their oily convolutions moistening the gusset of the interposing panties delightfully. A pheromone-laden fragrance wafted up from this region, firing both my spirit and my loins even further, if you can imagine that. Society said "no;" her hormones said "yes."
"Well, okay, so what?" Her voice was decidedly husky now, and she sounded a little out of breath. "You've shown me that you can spank me in my panties. I can't argue with that. But you would never spank my bare butt. You wouldn't dare try that!"
.... There is more of this story ...