When Layla asks her father if she can go to a party on Saturday night, he tells her what he’s always told her since she was sixteen: one - only if the parents are in the house, two - he’ll drive her there, and pick her back up at eleven sharp, and three - no drinking alcohol.

She says she’s fine with that, and the only problem happens when she comes down from getting changed: she’s wearing a tiny, black, ruffled mini-skirt and a pink, tight-fitting crop top obviously without a bra; the skirt barely covers her ass, her taught belly is bare, and her nipples are clearly showing.

“No,” Daniel says firmly as soon as he sees it. It comes out harsher than he intended, at least in part because she looks so fucking sexy in her outfit and it’s caused the stirrings of a boner in his pants that he’s deeply ashamed of.

“Aw, Dad! Why not?”

“It’s far too revealing. Put something else on.”

“But everyone’s wearing clothes like this,” she whines.

“I don’t care. Go and get changed.” She stands there glaring at him, her arms folded under her breasts. “What would your mother have said?”

“She’d have said I look pretty!” she almost shouts, and then flounces out and stamps along to her room.

She’s possibly right: Carol always had let Layla get away with more than he was comfortable with. But she’s not here. He knows that he hasn’t handled it very well though, and figures he’ll give her half an hour or so to get changed and calm down, and then he’ll try to patch things up.

She can’t believe her dad’s attitude when he saw her outfit: he is so out of touch! So what if people might see her panties? They see the same whenever she’s on the beach, for fuck’s sake.

She puts some music on, deliberately loud enough to annoy him, and then stands there, fuming, while she looks at what else she might wear. Then she just thinks, fuck it! Covered by the sound of the music, she creeps along the hall and lets herself quietly out of the door, all the time thinking what an asshole he’s being.

She’s been walking toward Michelle’s for about five minutes when she calms down enough to figure out what her Dad will do next. She calls all of her friends, or at least the ones that he knows about, and tells them not to take his calls.

As she carries on walking, she begins to wonder if maybe he had a point: several guys drive past her, honking their horns and shouting crude shit out of the window at her.

Forty-five minutes later there’s still no sign of her and he goes to her room, but she isn’t there. He checks the bathroom next, and then, with a rapidly sinking heart and little hope of success, he looks in his own room and the kitchen. She’s gone.

Daniel is both furious and frightened: he’s got no idea where she’s gone because she never did tell him where the party was. He rings her cell but it’s turned off. Then he tries those of her friends that he has a number for, but they all go straight to voicemail.

He tries the only other thing that he can think of: he gets into his old minivan and combs the neighborhood, gradually working his way outward, desperately hoping to catch sight of her.

About an hour later, he figures she must have either arrived at the party or gone home. He drives back to his apartment, praying that she’s there, but there’s no sign of her, and he still gets no joy when he tries calling everyone again. By that point, it’s gone ten and he just sits on the couch, glaring at his phone, hoping that she’s OK and will call for a lift at eleven.

Eleven comes and goes, so he gets back into the van and starts searching again, getting more and more panicked all the time. At a quarter to twelve, he sees a girl in the distance. Praying for all he’s worth, he drives closer, and the relief when he sees that it is her is like a vise being released from his heart. When he sees that she’s dressed as she had been earlier, with no coat or anything, the terror he’s been feeling for the last four hours is almost forgotten.

Relief fights with anger inside him at the sight of his precious daughter, her arms wrapped around her against the cold, her skirt fluttering in the now quite strong breeze, her panties on show to any pervert who might drive past. Once again, his anger is fuelled by the fact that her long legs and pert ass cheeks are making his cock swell.

If he expects her to be pleased to see him as he draws up next to her and opens the passenger window, he’d be wrong; she hardly looks at him as she continues to trudge along.

“Get in the car, Layla,” he says trying to keep the anger out of his voice, but mostly failing.

She just keeps plodding along, so he drives ahead, gets out and opens the passenger door, and waits for her to catch up. “Get in the car,” he says again as she approaches, but she dodges around him.

Patience at an end, he steps behind her and lifts her up with his arms around her waist. This brings her butt cheeks into direct contact with his semi-hard penis, and he feels guilty as hell as it makes him even harder. She resists, using her feet on the door frame to stop him, her skirt flying everywhere. He changes tack and picks her up with one arm around her waist, and the other under her knees. He manages to place her in the passenger seat, but her legs are still flailing, flashing her panties, and several times he touches her bare legs and even her butt, and he’s now fully erect. By the time he’s managed to close the door and get in the car, he’s furious at himself as well as her.

They ride in silence all the way home and, when they get in the apartment, she tries to go to her room.

“In here now,” he hisses, going into the lounge.

She follows him in and stands there, sullen and unrepentant.

“Do you know how stupid that was?” he asks, just barely in control of his anger. “Walking along alone in the middle of the night with your ass and tits on show.” She just glares at him. He gets closer. “Wait! Have you been drinking?”

“I had one beer, for fucks sake,” she spits.

“You could have been raped. And, with that skirt and top, you being drunk, they could have claimed you were asking for it!”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate, Dad,” she says sarcastically. She fears that he may have a point, but she’s damned if she’ll admit it, or let it show on her face.

Daniel honestly doesn’t know what to do. He just isn’t getting through to her at all. The red mist comes fully down. He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her over to the couch.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her belligerent attitude finally showing a crack. He sits down and pulls her across his knees. “Dad, you can’t do this,” she says, her anger now tinged with nervousness.

As soon as he looks down, he knows that he’s made a mistake: the tiny skirt has ridden up, and the lower half of her bare cheeks are there, right in front of him. But he can’t back down either.

“Can’t I?” he says, slapping her on the ass, twice on each cheek. When it comes to it, he just can’t bring himself to swat her very hard, but even so, he’s shocked by how loud it sounds.

She’s damned if she’ll ever admit it, but she was already a bit turned on by the way he picked her up like a little girl when he put her in the car; she’d forgotten how strong he is. And she could have sworn that she could feel something hard between her butt cheeks as he did it.

When they get home though, he’s still being an ass, and she’s not going to give him an inch. Then, when he pulls her over his knees, her little heart is pattering like crazy: half furious at the indignity, but half thrilled that he might touch her bottom!

“Ow! Fuck! Dad, stop!” she cries out, in surprise as much as anything else. It strings more than hurts. But even so, the feeling of his hand on her butt is still making her feel all warm inside.

As he keeps swatting her ass though, the sensations build and build, until her whole ass is a mass of burning tingles. She wriggles and squirms, and she tries to cover her ass with her hands. “Stop, Dad!” she repeats, but he easily holds both her wrists in one hand and carries on.

He’s angry and turned on, all at the same time, and he’s terrified that, in her gyrations, she’ll be able to feel his boner. With his hand holding hers, and pressing down on the small of her back, he just about manages to keep her on his thighs and away from his dick.

“I’m sorry, Layla, but if you won’t listen to reason...” he says implacably.

The burning heat of her butt is fierce, and it’s as if it’s spreading to her pussy. The tenderness is making her already sensitive cheeks send conflicting messages to her brain, a confusing mixture of intense pain and pleasure that’s making her gasp.

For a short while the pain becomes almost intolerable. Then, gradually, it’s as if she’s getting used to it, and it’s replaced by a stingy tingling that’s heating her very core. Her wriggles now are more about trying to get some pressure on her clit than getting away, and she’s actually starting to crave the next slap.

He can see that the tops of her legs and the bottom of her butt are quite red. He thinks that maybe that’s enough, and he’s just about to stop.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she taunts, damned if she’ll let him know how much he’s getting to her.

That’s it! He’s consumed by his anger and lifts her skirt onto her back, and wrenches her panties down to her knees. Sweet Jesus, her ass is phenomenal! No, he tells himself, don’t go there! He tries to ignore the beauty of her bottom as he lays into her again. The feel of her soft, hot, firm skin against his hand is impossible to ignore though, and he can feel the precum leaking into his briefs.

“Dad,” she says nervously as she feels the back of her skirt being lifted. “You wouldn’t dare!” she cries as he puts his fingers into the waistband of her panties. But he does! In a flash, he’s whipped off her panties and she’s lying on his lap, bare-assed. She snaps her legs together, hopefully before he sees her damp pussy lips, just as he starts spanking her again.

He knows, as soon as he pulls her panties down, that he’s gone too far. Her ass is sublime, and the little flash he gets of her pussy before she clamps her thighs together is gorgeous: plump mounds covered by neatly-trimmed, soft-looking fur, with bright pink pussy lips that he could swear look ... wet.

It. Hurts. So. Good. She’s weak with it, and can barely summon the energy to keep struggling. Besides, she’s found a place on his knees that’s pressing on her clit, and it’s to die for. She desperately wants to arch her back and spread her legs, but then he’ll see how excited she is. She can feel the whimpers trying to escape from her as the climax builds and builds, but she doesn’t dare let him know how much pleasure he’s giving her.

Her bottom is angry and red and hot, and the urge to gently stroke it is almost more than he can resist. As is the urge to bury his face in it, and kiss it and lick it until...

“That’s enough,” he says, pulling her skirt down to cover his temptation.

She struggles to her feet on legs that have no strength., and looks down at her panties, which are puddled around one ankle. Then she looks up and glares at him accusingly: she was so, so close to cumming when he stopped! She doesn’t know what to say, her mind consumed by the sensations coming from the tender skin of her butt and her clit, which is desperate for some urgent attention. I’m sorry? Thank you? Can I have some more, please? In the end, she says nothing, steps out of her panties, totters to her room, and throws herself face down on the bed.

She can feel the cool air on her burning ass as her little skirt flies up onto her back. She’s a mass of emotions: He hurt her! But she loved it! He saw her ass! Oh, God, yes - he saw her ass. One hand sneaks under her body and seeks out her swollen clit while the other explores her tender bottom, stroking it gently like she’d prayed he would.

“Oh, Daddy,” she moans as the orgasm she’d been denied crashes through her. Her bottom arches up into the air, and she cums again, imagining him finding her like that, wet and open and so, so willing for that thick cock she was sure she could feel!

He sits there, his cock throbbing between his legs, staring at her panties on the floor. While he was beating her, even though he tried to deny it, he was sure he could smell her excitement.

It takes him fully five minutes before he leans forward and picks them up, one trembling finger in the waistband. He lowers them into his other hand, and he can feel the dampness of them in his palm.

He knows that he shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. He does. The smell is intoxicating, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s placed the crotch over his nose, and his hands are fighting to free his cock. As his tongue darts out and he gets his first-ever taste of his daughter’s sweet pussy juices, he cums massively all over his shirt and even reaches his chin for the first time since he was a teenager.

Layla wakes up at six in the morning, and, as soon as she remembers how it felt to have her father’s hands, and eyes, on her bare ass, she just can’t get back to sleep. In the end, she gives herself a nice little cum, but it doesn’t bear comparison to the previous night’s incredible climax, and it only serves to heighten her frustration.

When she finally gives up trying to sleep, she goes to the bathroom. While she’s brushing her teeth, her eyes come to rest on his razor. Knowing full well how much it annoyed him when she borrowed it once before, she decides to use it again to shave her legs. And while she’s there, she shaves her pussy as well. All the soaping and the stretching of the skin keeps her arousal ticking over nicely. But it’s the idea that he may spank her again, and see her freshly bald vulva, that means that by the time she’s finished, she’s trembling with excitement. She briefly considers jilling off again, but decides to nurture it instead, hoping for better things to come. Much better things...

The next morning he goes into the bathroom and frowns as he sees his razor, covered with soap and clogged with hairs. There’s no way that he left it in that state, and he picks it up and goes in search of his daughter. What happened the previous night is uppermost in his mind, and his cock begins to swell at simply the possibility of a repeat performance.

He finds her sitting at the kitchen table, her lithe legs barely covered by an oversized T-shirt. “Did you do this?” he asks, holding the razor under her nose.

Layla looks up at him and can see that he’s very cross. If she just says sorry, she knows that it’ll probably come to nothing. “Calm down, Dad,” she says flippantly. “I’ll buy you another one if it’s such a big fucking deal.”

His eyes widen and she sees him take a deep breath. Uh, oh! Did I overdo it? She thinks, just before he picks her up with his hands on her waist. Her heart is pounding in her chest as he spins them both around and takes her place on the chair, lowering her onto his lap as he does.

“Daddy!” she squeals, going for outraged, but it comes out husky and needy. This time there’s no doubt that the lump she can feel under her tummy is an erection, and it makes her already moist pussy clench hard.

Why does she keep pushing him this way? It’s as if she wants him to punish her. As he lifts up what he recognizes now as one of his old T-shirts, her flailing legs reveal that it wasn’t just them that she was shaving. Her plump and tender-looking pussy is now utterly bald! He freezes, mesmerized by the sight of her gorgeous, soft-looking vulva and her swollen lips while his erection pulses against her firm stomach.

She’s confused and totally turned on, knowing that he’s just staring at her. Staring between her legs that she seems unable to bring together. “Please don’t,” she gasps finally, the anticipation of that first swat finally too much to bear.

Her words jolt him from his reverie, and he begins to spank her. Again the blows aren’t hard, and, after each one, his hand lingers for fractions of a second, just long enough to feel her silky-soft, and increasingly warm skin under his hand.