Copyright 1999 to <mijita@thetreehouse.net>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

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This is based on a long-time fantasy. Goodness knows from whence it came.

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[Image of Little Miss Naughty] Coming Home
by Mija

Twelve-year-old Lanie felt very grown-up yesterday. She has no mother and her father works in a city some twenty miles away. Because of this, and because they live in the country, she's allowed to ride her bike from school to a friend's house. But she always has to be home by 5:00 p.m. The father and daughter live in a farmhouse with a big porch, on the edge, if not the middle, of nowhere, surrounded by fruit trees and woods.

Lately her father has had to work very late, not arriving home until well after 7:00. Lanie had been cutting getting home by 5:00 a bit fine for a few days now. Still, she was rarely later than ten or twenty minutes.

But on yesterday afternoon she and a friend went exploring in the woods a mile from their houses and she ended up pedalling up her front drive at 6:30. Her heart skipped a beat and slowly sank into her stomach as she saw his truck in front of her on the gravel, noticed his shadow on the porch. He put down the cordless phone as he saw her ride up.

"Where have you been, miss?" His voice reflected the relief and tension of a parent who's been on the phone for hours trying to locate his missing child.

She didn't answer him, just stopped her bike in the middle of the gravel drive and stood astride it, very still, her breathing suddenly shallow. Her brain searching frantically for an excuse.

"We're going to have a talk here, me and you. Right here, right now. You put that bike in the shed and get your bottom up here and onto this porch."

She reeled a bit at his use of 'bottom'. Very slowly, her heart pounding, Lanie walked her bike to the shed, leaned it carefully against the wall.

"I know I'm in trouble," she thought, "but Daddy hasn't spanked me in a very long time. I'm sure I can get out of this." Still her heart thudded faster and harder in her chest.

"I said get your bottom up on this porch, young lady!"

She started walking back toward the house, eyes low, sturdy Oxford shoes shuffling slightly in the dusty gravel.

"Right NOW!"

As Lanie's feet hit the top step she felt her father's large hands lift her as easily as he had when she was still a very little girl and take her over his raised knee. She felt much smaller. Before she could even protest, she found her pleated skirt pulled high up on her back and her panties yanked down her thighs. Her skin tightened in the cool air before . . .

WHACK WHACK SMACK! Her father's right palm began to spank her upturned bottom hard and fast.

"Noooo! Daddieee! Stop!!! Please!!!" She kicked her feet and tried to squirm away to protect herself.

"Not likely. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it right now, not when you feel like it. You are already in very very serious trouble, young lady!"

Another minute of spanking and Lanie was feeling very sorry for herself and crying softly in a whimpering way. He slid her off his knee and set her back on her feet.

She bent over to pull up her panties, which her frantic kicks had slid down to her ankles.

"Just take them off. You won't be needing them again tonight."

"W-what?"

"You don't think you're getting off so easily . . . hmmm? I promise you, Elaine Anne, when I get done with you tonight, you won't be sitting comfortably for a week. And you will do as you are told."

She stood still, frozen by this news and her father's use of her full name. Under his gaze she blushingly stepped out of her panties and held them numbly in her right hand. He took them from her, and stuffed them in a jacket pocket.

"Now let's have our little talk. Where have you been?"

There was no answer as Lanie pouted just a bit at the abrupt spanking, her hands rubbing gingerly through her skirt.

Lanie's father didn't ask again, but reached down, unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his slacks' loops. The metallic click and fabric whoosh sounded loud in the silence on the porch.

"You haven't learned anything yet, have you?" he asked, not loudly, but in a firm tone as he doubled the belt strap.

As she watched him with wide eyes, Lanie began to stammer out an answer. "Wait!! I was with -"

But the girl didn't get a chance to answer as she was quickly led to and bent over a porch bench. His left hand pushed her over it and held her down. Lanie felt the rough peeling white paint beneath her fingers as her skirt was again pulled up above her waist and the doubled strap swung down twelve times, hard and fast, landing with cracks that echoed like gunshots. It raised bright red stripes across her already pink bottom and thighs and she kicked up hard. The sound of her high-pitched yelps rang across the yard.

"Ready to answer me yet, miss?" asked her father as he again stood her before him, taking both her hands in his one left, his right still holding the strap. Her skirt fell back over her sore reddened bottom. Instinctively, her hands reached back to rub, but he caught and held them firmly in his own. Lanie started talking so fast her words tumbled out and tripped over each other. Who she was with, where in the woods they'd gone. She told him everything.

"Why weren't you home at 5:00?"

Head hanging in shame, Lanie reluctantly admitted she expected him to be home late again and didn't think he'd notice. His face darkened in a frown, annoyed not only with her, but with himself for not realizing how often he'd been late recently. Had he, like she, forgotten she was a child who needed looking after? He made a mental promise to himself to watch her more closely, remind her she was still a child, young enough to be punished like a little girl.

"I see. Let's make this very clear. You are not a free agent here, young lady. You are my daughter. I trust you to do as you are told when you're told to do it. That means being where I tell you, when I tell you. Is this all very clear?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, sniffling slightly.

"Good girl." He handed her his pocket knife.

"Now go cut me a peach switch. I want you to remember this promise and what happens when you think you don't need to follow rules anymore."

"W-what?" Lanie felt her heart stop. She had only been switched once before, two years ago, for swimming unsupervised and without permission. Though her father wasn't cruel and nowhere near as strict as some of her friends' parents, she'd worn the marks of that switch for a few days - stinging reminders of the penalties for disobeying. As she remembered the sting on her legs and bottom her hands started to shake and tears began to fall.

"Do you need another lesson in listening?" He warningly held up his still-doubled belt.

Lanie shook her head and took the knife, heart thudding as she went to cut the longish switch she knew he expected. As she walked, awareness of being bare beneath her wool skirt and the sting of the strap on her bottom, made her feel strange and ashamed. Tears fell from her cheeks onto the ground. The one switch she finally returned with was almost two feet long, thin and stingy. It was more than flexible enough to make a circle with.

Lanie's father took the switch from her with a gentle look, letting his hand rest on hers as he took his knife back. But, when he spoke as he folded the knife and put it away, his voice was again stern.

"Bend right over that porch railing." He pointed, indicating the spot.

Lanie felt a cold fear in the base of her spine and shook her head, no. His hands guided her to the rail and pushed her body forward over it.

"Right over and grip the bottom rail tight."

Even as Lanie shook her head, she obeyed, feeling the hard smooth wood under her stomach as she rose onto her toes. The night air cooled her sore bottom as her skirt was again lifted high onto her back.

Tap, tap, tap.

Went the switch against her bottom and legs. Then she heard the high whistle as it swished through the air and landed like a hundred bees in a single strip across the base of her bottom. Lanie cried out with a gasp and kicked up with her feet as the switch moved low and fast. His hand steadied her as she pitched further forward over the rail, the switch striping the tops of her legs.

His firm, low voice cut through Lanie's pain and sting and told her with each stroke how he expected her to behave and how dangerous it was for her to be biking on those roads at dusk. Lanie heard him through her own cries promising to be a good girl. Her sobs and cries echoed back to them across the empty fields.

Finally he stopped and tossed the switch over the edge of the porch to the ground. But Lanie remained over the rail, still, sobbing. Her legs dangled as her hands still gripped the rail tightly. After stroking her back for a moment, her father lifted her up gently into his arms and carried her into the house. Lanie sobbed into his chest with the abandon of childhood as he sat down with her on his lap, gently rubbing her welted and stinging bottom with his hand. As she calmed, he whispered the news of another spanking at bedtime.

The next two hours passed with Lanie studying silently at the table while her father fixed dinner. As she worked, Lanie was acutely aware of the rough plaid of her skirt rubbing against the soreness of her tender bottom. Dinner was quiet, almost tender, with conversation about her day at school and his gentle questions.

After dinner, he sent her up for a bath:

"Go on now, Elaine Anne, and don't dally. I'll be up in twenty minutes and you know where I expect to find you."

Her eyes filled with that news but she obeyed, any desire for resistance left outside on the porch. Lanie washed, towelling off gently because of the lacing of welts the mirror revealed, and changed into fresh PJs.

Yesterday ended with a little girl standing still and straight in the corner of her room, holding her hairbrush. Her head hung a bit low as she trembled and thought about of what a naughty girl she'd been that day.

Her father walked in and paused a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed before he called her to him. He smiled a bit at her, his heart filling with a rush of affection as he took the brush Lanie offered and silently and firmly ran it through her hair.

Lanie's heart thudded with each stroke as she remembered the feeling of the hard hairbrush on her tender bottom. She cringed a bit, but didn't plead, instead letting the hairbrushing relax her. Finally he stopped brushing and, without speaking, swiftly lifted the girl across his lap and whisked her PJs and panties down below her knees.

The spanking was only with his hand, but hard, and she cried almost from the beginning, kicking and pleading with childish abandon. Her father spanked on and on until Lanie's cries turned to deep chest-shaking sobs, and her kicking ceased.

Then finally he stopped . . . and held her still across his lap, gently rubbing baby lotion into the swollen and sore skin. Then, after replacing her panties and PJs, he turned her over and held her gently on his lap, rocking her and comforting her as a child.

"Who's my good girl?" he asked her. She cried a bit more, feeling ashamed.

"Who's my good girl?" he asked again.

"I'm your girl," she whispered, the ritual coming back.

"And you're good."

She nodded, not able to speak for crying.

Finally, her father pulled back the sheets and tucked Lanie into bed, and sat close to her as she curled up on her side hugging her bear. The little girl's bottom was far from the mattress.

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