The Social Worker

Rate This Story:

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 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.

Purchase this story in print form!

Don't like reading on screen? This story is available in print form in Ultimate Archive: Volume 2 at the Flogmaster's Bookstore. Purchase your copy today to encourage the Flogmaster to write more cool stories.

The Social Worker

(***, M/Ff, Intense, teen caning, arousal)

A woman confronts a man who has been reported for 'abusing' his teenage daughter and discovers she needs some of the same 'abuse.' (Approximately 4,906 words. Originally published 1996-01.)

The woman held onto the steering wheel with one hand as she weaved up the street and tried to pick up the slip of paper that had fallen onto the floor of her car. She managed it, lifting it up with a grin and a sigh, just as she realized she was heading directly toward a bright red Jeep Grand Cherokee parked in front of a large blue house with white trim. Desperately, she slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel but all she succeeded in doing was driving up onto the curb and scraping the driver's side of her Honda.

"Shit!" she cried out in fury. The sound of grating metal still rung in her ears and she trembled slightly. She hadn't been going very fast--why hadn't she just parked for a second? She cursed her stupidity and slowly backed up the car and parked, and got out to inspect the damage.

Well, fortunately for the Jeep's owner the only damage to his vehicle was some blue paint on the bumper. Amy's car, however, bore a nice long line of missing paint from above the left front tire back to the middle of the left passenger door.

"Great. Now I'll have to get a new paint job. Mutual Federal's gonna love this. My rates will go through the roof!" Then she wondered if she could perhaps talk to the owner. Maybe they could settle this themselves, keep the insurance companies out of it.

The woman reached into her car and took out her purse and the damned slip of paper that had caused this mess and looked up and down the street. It was a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood, clean, well-tended, and it seemed friendly. Not the usual place Amy had to visit.

There were some kids playing a block or so up the road and in the other direction she saw a man mowing his lawn, but no one seemed to have noticed her little escapade. She felt some relief at that. She hated making a spectacle out of herself.

She looked down and smoothed out her light blue dress and made sure her hair was neat. She double-checked her make-up in the mirror of the car and decided she was as ready as she would be.

At 33, Ms. Amy Daniels was pleasantly attractive, though not what one would describe as "voluptuous." She had a narrow body, with rather "petite" breasts, but she had beautiful long legs, one of the reasons she preferred short skirts or dresses like the one she was wearing. She was pleasant, if a little severe. If there was one reason she was still single it wasn't because of lack of offers--it was because she was too picky. She knew _exactly_ what kind of a man she wanted, and when she found him she'd nab him. Until then, her career came first.

She casually glanced at the note. "45 E. Radd Drive. Mr. George Preyterling. Daughter's name is Shelly, age 16." Just as casually she glanced upward at the house in front of her and her heart skipped a beat. 45 was the house number. It couldn't be! She doubled checked it but there was no error. The owner of the Jeep was the man she'd come to see!

Squirming inside at this awkward turn of events, Amy walked up the driveway slowly, her high heels clicking out a tune on the pavement. She rang the bell and waited, wondering how she was going to do this. Should she confront the man first and potentially antagonize him and _then_ mention the accident? Or should she mention the accident first, get him to befriend her, and _then_ turn on him?

The latter appealed to her greedy side but it also made her feel rotten. "I might be a 'bitch' but I'm not a traitor," she whispered to herself. "That's not a fair way to deal with him. Business first, then the accident."

The door suddenly flew open and a startled man stared out at an even more startled woman. The young lady was shocked. Mr. Preyterling did not look anything like she had pictured. He was young, perhaps 35 or 40, fit, with a light crop of disheveled blonde hair that gave him a childish look, and an eager, welcoming smile. Amy thought that the smile made her a little dizzy--his teeth were so white and _perfect_ she felt herself wondering what it would be like to kiss such a warm and friendly mouth. She pushed the idea hastily from her mind and tried to concentrate on business. This was an evil, cruel man--she should not think of him in a sexual manner. It was completely inappropriate.

"Mr. Preyterling?"

"Wow, that was fast!" exclaimed the man, nodding and ushering her in. "We just got off the phone! Come on in, come in. I wasn't expecting you for an hour or so. Please, make yourself comfortable." The man leaped behind Amy and shut the door firmly and guided her into the spacious and well-kept living room.

"Oh, but I'm afraid--"

"I'm afraid you lied to me, Mrs. Dressler. You are certainly not a day over thirty-five! I'd put you more at thirty, and even then I'd think I was exaggerating. In fact," he continued, ignoring Amy's wide eyes and shaking head and openly admiring her curvy body instead, "if my late wife was still alive I'd dare say she'd forbid me to have a treasure like you around the house!"

"But Mr. Preyterling--"

"Naughty, naughty!" exclaimed the man, wagging a finger at the bewildered woman. "Forty-five, indeed!" He shook his head and waved around the room. "Well, this is the house. My daughter and I try to keep in from getting cluttered, but I just don't have time to clean it. Your duties would include general vacuuming, dusting, washing to floors and windows, etc. As I mentioned, just one day a week ought to be fine. Whenever it fits into your schedule."

"_Mr._ Preyterling," said Amy in a loud and extremely firm tone. "I think you have me confused with someone else. I am _not_ here to clean your house!"

The man's jaw dropped. "You're not Mrs. Dressler?"

"I am not!"

"Then who--"

"Ms. Amy Daniels, County Social Services. I'm here regarding your daughter." Her arm stretched out with her card between two fingers. The man took the card carefully and looked at it. He was obviously quite confused and puzzled.

"Shelly? What's she done?" he asked in a measured tone with a hint of concern behind it.

"I'm afraid it's not her that has done anything, Mr. Preyterling. It's you."

"Please, call me George. And what have I done?" His bemused smile angered the woman. He wasn't taking her seriously! If there was one thing she resented it was not being taken seriously.

"Child abuse, Mr. Preyterling. We've had reports that you have abused your daughter."

"Abused Shelly? Are you crazy?" The man laughed loudly and shook his head. "There must be some kind of mistake."

"No mistake, Mr. Preyterling. We had a call last night that you had beaten your daughter again."

"I told you, call me George. And since when is a father not permitted to discipline his daughter?"

"Abuse is not discipline," said Amy grimly.

"Discipline is not abuse," the man retorted in a sing-song voice and broad grin.

"This is not a game!"

"I agree. These accusations are very serious. I could sue you for slander."

Amy paused. "I am not here to make accusations, Mr. Preyterling--I mean, George." She blushed slightly as she corrected herself. It was so much easier keeping things stiffly formal between them! "I am only here to _investigate_. We do not invade your home or threaten you unless we have proof that some kind of abuse is taking place. I'd appreciate your cooperation. I'd like to talk to you and your daughter and see if these reports have any merit. From the reports we received it did not seem that your daughter was in any real danger, only that your 'discipline,' as you call it, is too severe and constitutes abuse."

The man nodded. "Why don't we talk to Shelly?" He turned and hollered up the stairs. "Shelly! Could you come down here, please? We have a visitor!"

After a moment the blonde head of young lady appeared over the balcony. "Yeah, Dad?"

"Come on down here, Shel. This lady would like to ask you some questions."

The girl frowned but came down the stairs. She was wearing a simple summer dress, light and casual. She was quite pretty in a perky teenage way, her body obviously blooming into womanhood. Amy felt a touch of jealousy at the girl's casual indifference to her beauty.

"My name is Amy. I work with Social Services."

"Hi. I'm Shelly." The two shook hands, the teenager rather shy and quite. She flashed a puzzled expression to her father but he did not speak.

"Does your father spank you, Shelly?"

The girl flushed crimson and turned to her dad in alarm. He did not say a word. "What kind of a question is that?"

"It's a serious one, I'm afraid. Please, Shelly, I'm here to help you. We've received reports that your father beats you. Is that true?"

The girl looked horribly embarrassed and stared at the carpet. "I-I get caned when I'm naughty," she said shyly. "But Daddy's always fair!" Her eyes rapidly went to his as though to confirm this and Amy sighed.

"Could Shelly and I be alone for a few minutes?" she asked the man. His face was quiet and expressionless for a minute. Why? he said.

"I'm afraid your presence could be having an undo affect on her. She may be reluctant to tell the truth with you standing at her side."

"Shelly always tells the truth. It's one of our most sacred rules. Right Shel?"

The girl nodded. "That's right. We made a pact when Mom... died. We'd always tell the truth to each other, no matter what." The girl paused. "E-even if that meant I g-got the cane."

"All right then. Tell me the truth: does your father abuse you?"

The teenager looked shocked. "Absolutely not. He only punishes me when I deserve it."

"And how does he punish you?"

The girl looked frightened. "With the cane."

Amy's face had a puzzled expression and suddenly the man moved to the far side of the room. He opened a closet door in the main hallway off the living room and took out a long crock-handled cane. It was a woodish tan color, very thin and whippy. He bent it almost to a semi-circle as he held it up to Amy. Her face was slightly pale.

"I am not exactly sure I understand--you strike her with this?"

"Certainly. Shelly, get in position to demonstrate." The teenager obeyed, though her face showed she wasn't the most eager volunteer. She bent at the waist, grasping the back of her ankles with her hands and pointed her rump towards her dad. He stepped up behind her and pretended to swing the thin cane in a long arch that culminated with a gentle horizontal strike across his daughter's tight bottom. The girl winced and shuddered, as though at a painful memory.

Amy shook her head. "I've never heard anything like it!"

George Preyterling smiled. "It's more of a British tradition. Americans prefer the paddle. My late wife was from England."

"Did you cane her, too!" Amy snapped without thinking. She gasped and recoiled in horror and put a hand to her mouth. "I-I didn't mean that. I'm sorry!"

The man smiled slowly. "Only when she needed it, Miss Daniels."

"That's _Ms._," thought Amy with resentment but she didn't say anything. She was too astonished by what she was hearing to want to argue over trivialities.

"I can see you are curious. Tell you what: Shelly, show Miss Daniels your bum."


"_Now_, Shel. Don't argue."

Tears glistening in her eyes the bent-over young girl slowly reached back and lifted her dress upward to expose a very naked and pantiless bottom. The smooth pale skin of her legs and buttocks was striped with numerous red welts that looked painful to behold. Amy found herself clutching her own bottom in fear as she stared at the teenager's.

"My God!" she exclaimed. "_That's_ what you call discipline!"

"Certainly," said the man in a reasonable voice. "She got twelve strokes of the cane last night. Mind telling the lady why, Shelly?"

In a shaky voice the teenager explained. "I-I got s-six for breaking curfew, and three for w-wearing a sh-short s-skirt Dad said I wasn't to wear, and another three because I hadn't done my chores."

"You should have gotten six for that skirt!" growled her father. "You could practically see your panties hanging out it was so short!"

"These wounds look extremely serious," said Amy slowly, shaking her head. "I'd say this definitely qualifies as abuse."

"Don't be ridiculous," said the man angrily. "Those welts fade in a few days. She'll be sore back there for a week or so, that's all. It's part of the lesson. It's not like I do this every day. How often do I cane you, Shelly?"

"N-not that often, Daddy," sniffed the girl. "Maybe once every two months or so. I try to be good, I really do."

"I know dear, I know. Doesn't the cane help you keep on track?"

"Yes, sir! I don't want the cane. I try hard to avoid it."

"See?" The man looked at the social worker with a proud and triumphant smile.

Amy shook her head. "Well, it certainly sounds like you are not a typical child abuser--no cigarette burns and being locked in a closet for three days. But I'm afraid this kind of punishment is far too severe for a child of sixteen."

The man stared at her silently for a moment. "How about a little demonstration? Shelly really did deserve six for that skirt--I was being a little easy on her. I'll give her another three right now while you watch. See if you think I'm being too harsh."

"Daddy, no!" exclaimed Shelly, rising up in protest. "I've already had my punishment. Please!"

"Get back down, Shelly," said George firmly, reaching for the cane. "It's just three strokes."

Amy watched in horror as the girl obeyed and the man pulled back the thin stick. He was really going to do it! Right now, right here! She opened her mouth to protest but before she could move there was a lightening "whoosh" followed by a sharp "thwick!" as the cane struck Shelly's naked bottom full across both cheeks. The girl let out a screech and went up on her tiptoes and wiggled her butt frantically and Amy saw tears pouring from the girl's eyes. A bright red stripe lay across the teenager's bottom looking angrier and fiercer than the others.

"That's enough!" cried out Amy, stepping forward behind Shelly and blocking another blow. "She's had enough punishment. I can't stand here and watch you abuse her!"

"It's not abuse--it's discipline. There _is_ a difference, you know."

"Of course. I know what discipline is, Mr. Preyterling, and I know what abuse is. This is abuse."


"Why? What do you mean why? Just look at the girl! Look at those welts! See her tears? She's in agony after just one strike!"

"Tears, Miss Daniels? Tears are your justification? Tears are necessary for punishment. What's the point otherwise?"

Amy paused. She felt hot and exhausted all of a sudden, as though she had been struggling all day. She was confused. This caning business alarmed and frightened her. It was true that Mr. Preyterling didn't seem like an abuser, and his daughter seemed to think his punishments fair. But seeing that poor girl's red-streaked butt just threw her for a loop--it _had_ to be abuse. No one could stand that kind of pain.

Then Amy remembered that Shelly was still bent over, in position, waiting for the rest of her punishment. She had been in pain, obviously, but she had not moved. Obviously the pain was bearable. For a split second Amy wondered what it felt like. Would it make an adult cry? How would she feel, bent over, naked bottom exposed, waiting for the pain? She shivered and then froze in astonishment.


"Yes, ma'am?"

Gee, the child was certainly polite while in this position! Amy pressed on gently. "Your punishments, your canings, are they always, er, naked? On your bare bottom?"

"Not always, ma'am. Only when Daddy thinks I need a more serious punishment."

"Now, Shelly, dear, I want you to answer me honestly. Can you do that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, during these punishments, has your father ever, er, 'touched' you in any way?"

"Er, what do you mean, ma'am?"

"I mean sexually, dear. Has he touched your crotch or breasts?" The man looked startled and moved forward but Amy held up her hand angrily, putting a finger to her lips. "Please answer me, dear."

"My God, no! Nothing like that! Why would you ask something so... disgusting?"

Amy blushed in spite of her resolve. "Well, dear, I don't mean to embarrass you, but I can't help but notice that you are, er, rather, well, _damp_ after that stroke of the cane."

Now it was Shelly's turn to blush. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to. It just... happened! I don't know why."

"Does this happen often?"

"Not always, no. But usually for the first few strokes I find it, well, rather... enlightening. Even when I'm not naked it happens, so that's not it." There was a pause and then the girl burst out, like a dam breaking, "I... I think I _get_off_ on the pain!" The teenager began to cry. "I am perverted, aren't I, ma'am? Is it wrong for me to feel that way?"

Suddenly Amy felt her heart melting toward this poor girl who was just frightened and naive and very, very young. "Shhh," she whispered in comfort and helped the girl into a standing position and hugged her. "It's okay. I see this kind of thing quite often. Never in cases of real abuse, however. Only in families where discipline is fair and consistent and secure. The discipline makes you feel loved, girl, and _that_ turns you on. You like the feeling of being loved and protected--even protected from yourself, your own mistakes and disobedience, don't you?"

The girl's mouth opened in astonishment. Her tears faded and she smiled. "How did you know?" Amy smiled. "It's not uncommon, dear. Everyone needs someone to love them. A parent's strict love can be one of the most encompassing loves known. Only when you feel warm and secure and protected are you able to experience sexual arousal--your father's love simply provides a forum where you can relax and be yourself. The discipline provides a stimulation you could not give yourself and that results in arousal. Do you understand? It's nothing to be ashamed of."

The girl nodded slowly. "I think I know what you mean. I'm not really turned on by the pain or... Daddy... it's just that when he punishes me I know he loves me and that makes me feel good inside."


"Wow, I never thought of it like that. Where did you learn that?"

Amy's mind flashed back twenty years to a certain scene involving her late father, a razor strop, and her own red and punished behind. "I was once a little girl," she whispered, lost in thought. She flushed suddenly and stared at the man and daughter in front of her with horror as she realized she had unconsciously been rubbing her bottom!

"I, uh--"

"You look like you have some fond memories of your own parental discipline," said the man slowly, his eyes linking into Amy's. She shuddered and tried to look away but couldn't.

"That was a long time ago," she whispered desperately.

"But you have never tasted the cane," the man said bluntly, his voice calm but insistent. His eyes bored into her's and she winced and fell back.

"You're crazy."

"No, I'm not, but you are. I've been watching you. You are dying to know what it feels like. Besides, I don't see how a social worker like you can really decide if the cane is abuse or discipline with experiencing a few strokes, can you?"

"No, no," murmured Amy in a dull protest.

"I didn't think so. How about six of the best?"

Amy gasped and recoiled, backing into Shelly, who was watching the two adults with a puzzled expression. "Shelly, why don't you go upstairs, now," she whispered. "We don't need you here any more."

"No, Shelly can stay if she wants. I think an audience will do you good."


"Get in position and lift up your dress."


"Now, or I'll have Shelly do it. And she can take down your panties, too!"

Trembling, Amy bent over and grasped her ankles with her hands. The position was awkward and for a moment she thought she couldn't breathe. Her legs were oddly parted and she felt like she was obscenely thrusting her butt towards the man. "What am I doing?" she thought to herself in horror and fascination. "This is insane!" And yet she could not move, could not run away. Some kind of magnet drew her and she could not escape.

"Well do three over your panties and then three bare bottomed so you can feel the difference," said the man, his voice echoing above her head as though he was a thousand stories above her. She shivered and trembled. "I can't believe--"

Swish-thwick! She heard the sound first, then a sudden pushing against her bottom, and then a rush of blinding pain. It was an intense sting from deep within her buttocks and it just kept coming and coming and rushing at her until she thought she was going to go blind it so filled her brain. Then it passed and with a deep sigh she relaxed. She knew that only seconds had passed, but for a moment she felt ten years older. It seemed like it had taken an eternity to push through that wall of pain.

Swish-thwick! Another one! This one bit lower down and Amy wanted to howl in protest. How could she be doing this? Why? Did she like this agony? Absolutely not! It horrified her. She could only imagine what kind of marks this was leaving on her pale flesh. This was unbearable, un--

Swish-thwick! It was a tidal wave of pain this time. She was engulfed in it. She swam and drown in it, again and again, striving to reach the surface only to sink and let it engulf her again. She suddenly came to in the cold light of day and realized someone was touching her, brushing something smooth and silky across her tender bottom and along her thighs and down to her ankles. It felt damp and cold. Cool air pushed against her crotch and suddenly Amy knew what had happened. She was now naked! Her bare ass was pointing at a strange man. He could see everything between her legs! She flushed and felt humiliated but it did not occur to her to get up or even to pull her panties back on. It was as though that had happened to someone else and she had no control over the experience.

Swish-thwick! More pain, this time even worse. It was louder, screaming at her, buffeting her, scolding her. She could feel her face growing hotter and hotter and her bottom just throbbed. She prayed this would be over soon.

Swish-thwick! It had been so long, so long since she had felt this loved, this _needed_, this chastised and caressed. She wept openly, her mind whirling in confusion. This didn't even begin to make sense. This pain was far worse than anything she had ever known, and yet she could feel her crotch stirring without her control. She thought of the man wielding the cane that was striking her and she felt a powerful surge between her legs. She no longer felt embarrassed but only ashamed. She could not lie to herself in this state--she knew she wanted the man. He was handsome and fit and he certainly knew how to bring feelings to her bottom!

Swish-thwick! Arrrggh! Would this never end? How much longer must this go on? Amy felt her skin covered with a sheen of sweat and her muscles ached from all the tension. Her bottom ached all over now, throbbing from countless pricks and tingles. She wished she could stand up and grab her ass and howl like a wolf, and prance around the room like an idiot.

Suddenly there was a thunderous roar somewhere above her head and in a daze Amy was lifted upward and realized the punishment was over, that it was only her and this strange man and his lovely daughter which she had met only minutes before and yet now felt closer to than any man alive.

Without a thought Amy was kissing him, sucking those rich, supple lips into her own as she threw her arms around him and clutched him to her. She could feel her sex burning with desire and when she pressed against him she felt the hard bulge of his erect cock almost piercing her.

He gasped and suddenly kissed back and for a moment, time stood still. Amy was aware of a pain in her bottom and sweat and aches all over her body, but her mind was lost in the emotional moment, the sweetness of his passionate kiss and the fierce strength of his hands as they rubbed along her back.

Then it was over and the two pulled apart, gasping for air and staring at each other in astonishment, slight accusations in their eyes, each blaming the other for the uncontrollable reaction.

Then there was a giggle and they looked and Shelly, the cute teenager, was watching them, eyes as wide as moons and mouth open. "I can't believe you two!" she exclaimed. "I thought I was going to have to throw a bucket of water at you to cool you down!"

George looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said to Amy and his daughter. "That was completely inappropriate behavior."

"It was my fault," said Amy. "I... I was confused."

"Let's just forget it," said George gruffly, though from the sad and elated look on his face it was obvious he did not want to forget it.

"Yes," said Amy slowly, watching him.

"Hummph," snorted Shelly. She turned and went out the front door. "I'm outta here. You two be good kids, now."

The two adults stared at each other for a moment and then took a step apart. "I, uh," began George.

"Well... I should go. I need to make a report."

"Oh, right." He paused. "I assume your report will be favorable?" He gave her a broad wink. "Or do you need another sample of the cane to make a proper decision?"

Amy paled. "That's quite all right, _Mr._ Preyterling. I-I had more than a decent sample, thank you very much. My report will, er, report that your caning is not abusive."

His grin was contagious. She couldn't help but smile shyly at him. "Okay," he said gently. "I'll walk you to your car."

They were almost to her car when she remembered. "Oh, I almost forgot, Mr. Prey--, er, George. I had a little, uh, driving trouble pulling in here. I'm afraid I scraped against your Jeep."

"Oh?" He hurried over and examined the damage. "Well, it's not too bad. But you did tear up my lawn."

"I'm sorry. It was an accident. I didn't even realize this was your house. I was looking for my directions and not paying attention to my driving. Do you think--"

"Think what, Miss Daniels?"

She smiled coyly at him. "Do you think we could deal with this personally and _not_ go through the insurance companies?"

A hint of a smile appeared on George's stern face. "You know, when my daughter foolishly got into a little scrape with her car I gave her something to remind her to pay more attention. Perhaps you need a little reminder."


"Certainly. I think another six would be appropriate..."

Amy gasped and grabbed at her butt with both hands, dropping her purse and backing away. "Please, George--have mercy! I can't take any more!"

He smiled and looked at his watch. "It's almost noon. What do you say I take you to a cozy little restaurant near here so you can rest that bottom of yours for a while, and when we're done we'll come back here and take care of business then?"

"Uh, that sounds a little better."

"Come on. We can make it a _long_ lunch."

"The _longest_," muttered Amy under her breath as she picked up her purse and put her arm around the man and walked to his Jeep. As she awkwardly settled into the car seat she sighed. "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship," she thought pleasantly. "If I can survive it!"

The End

Rate This Story: