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.
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SSC: Preacher's Kid
(****, m/f, Intense, nc hairbrush)
A preacher's son is asked to spank a girl. (Approximately 489 words. Originally published 2000-04.)
There are many who would think the negatives of being a preacher's kid outweigh the positives. For instance, my father takes the Bible verse "spare the rod, spoil the child" literally.
But I can attest that there are some special benefits that make up for a restrictive upbringing.
You see, being a PK means you're trusted. You're like an extension of the minister. People treat you as an adult.
When I was sixteen we moved to a small church in decline. The congregation was mostly older folks. There were few people my age. None, to be precise. But there was a girl.
She was twelve. Four years may not be much, but for a teenager, it's a thousand years. There was no way anything romantic was going to happen between us -- I mean, she was just a kid -- but she was awfully cute. Stunning, in fact. She reminded me of one of those disgustingly cute kids you see in a Disney movie. She was going to be a heartbreaker.
I actually didn't know Alison. We'd spoken, but Sundays I was too busy helping Dad. I always noticed when she was around, however, and thought about how sexy she'd be in a few years. Already her breasts were forming and she had a beautifully round butt.
I always assumed Alison was a good girl. I had no idea that the diminutive Mrs. Batty was frustrated with her daughter. Alison's mom was divorced, and without a father, Alison was hitting her teenage rebellion early.
One Sunday we had a potluck. Everyone hung around the church, chatting, eating, and playing softball.
Later, when everyone had left, I was passing by the kitchen when I heard someone shout "Fuck you!" I couldn't believe it when Alison Batty burst through the door. She stopped dead when she saw me. Her mother was livid.
"Brad!" she said, seeing me. "How perfect! Could you help me? This smart-mouth needs her bottom warmed and she's too big for me."
The humiliation on Alison's face was priceless. She went rebelliously silent as her mom bent her over.
"Use my hairbrush and paddle her," she commanded me.
I stared at the lovely seat of those jeans and the sweet curves that had given me indecent thoughts during many a long sermon. I brought the heavy brush down hard. Again and again. Poor Alison grunted and moaned, but refused to cry out. I admired her spirit, but admired her bottom more. I loved the firm, bouncy feel of her butt. I loved seeing her squirm and hearing her gasp when I got in a good shot.
Mrs. Batty was delighted. "Harder," she urged. "She's had this coming a long time."
Finally Alison broke. Sobs convulsed through her body, and I put down the brush.
Her mother beamed at me. "What a fine young man! Alison could benefit from regular discipline. Are you free Saturday?"