Papa Knows Best

Everyone in this story is over 18.

*****

Walking up the path to the house, Tippi knew she looked good in her new riding boots. Would Papa understand?

Would he respect her finally as a career woman?

Tippi had her own staff and was quite the corporate maven in New York.

However, Tippi's family had always ridiculed her, the quick temper and childish pomposity, although Tippi was well into her thirties.

Why was she so intimidated by Papa? A bald age spotted head, big ugly glass eye that he often forgot to put in...

Long, thick white beard, covered in tobacco stains...and hideous long underwear!

Tippi paused for a moment.

Here she was, the tight expensive black flared jeans, the French peasant blouse. But...how did it usually go?

Was she provoking her family, walking slowly in front of her father and brothers, pulling her top down and tucking it in over her perky tits?

She had such contempt for these people, who never read "Mirabella" or "The Economist" or "The New Yorker".

They'd never had any interest in theater, or the music of Edith Piaf...or ballet...the Bolshoi, to her family sounded like a noise you made when you sneezed!

And yet, they compelled her, and she didn't feel right if she didn't visit these hicks regularly.

Tippi would talk about what was going on in New York, and her clients, and the big advertising campaigns.

Tippi's sisters would giggle behind their hands, and her farmer brother would snort contemptuously, and then Papa would bait her, and often Tippi would curse.

Then Papa would stride forward, taking the belt off the wall.

"Papa, no, I'm a grown woman, now." Tippi always insisted, but did it ever matter?

"You have a potty-mouth, and you behave as if you're better than ever'body else!

You need to have your pants down and your buttocks blistered, young lady."

Papa had little patience with status symbols and expensive gewgaws.

Often Tippi would bring him expensive gifts, and he would throw them back in her face, and then take her over his knee for trying to be above her station.

It seemed like there was little she could do to impress him.

Before making it in advertising, Tippi had passed the Foreign Service Exam and done a few years in Madagascar.

When she'd returned, all Papa could say was "How could those people stand you?"

It didn't matter that Tippi's clothes were expensive, that her short, curly red coiffed was so fashionable.

Papa would seize her by the arm, and unsnap her jeans in front of the others, and down they'd go to mid thigh as Papa threw her across the table.

Then the belt, which had probably hung placidly on the nail since Tippi's last visit, would do its grim work.

Following this Tippi would be consigned to the corner to stand, weeping into her hands while her pants and undoes stayed at half mast and her emblazoned buttocks stood on display for her snickering siblings.

Papa knew how to wield a switch to make a girl howl.

Time and again, other fathers in the community, frustrated that their psychology books hadn't changed their daughter's minds, would bring their college age girls, 18-22, to visit Papa, and he'd take their measure as well with the genius of corporal punishment.

When Tippi had been attending Buttermilk State, Papa had taken her to the woodshed over negligible grades more than once.

When Tippi returned to studying, she had to stand up to do it, and often to eat her meals off the mantle, as Papa's implements had done the work on her saucy bottom.

When Tippi's dates brought her home too late, sometimes Papa would avenge himself by stripping and whipping his prettiest offspring while her young swain watched, horrified and aroused.

Tippi's siblings were not university material, and so they were left to party up a bunch, but Papa had always been very strict with Tippi.

Every morning, Papa would bounce a quarter on Tippi's bed after she made it.

If there was any falter in the coin's bounce, Papa would take Tippi into the bathroom and thrash her hard with the bath brush before giving her a cleansing enema that made the girl try harder in bedroom hygiene.

After Tippi had graduated from college, she left for New York, and probably should never have returned.

But she kept hoping that she would finally impress Papa with what a mature young woman she was.

But it never seemed to work. If Papa perceived Tippi was being "worldly" he would give her a good back hand.

If she twitched her little buttocks, snug in expensive leather pants, Papa would remove those pants and make Tippi's buttocks sing with the impact of a jumping frying pan.

Or whatever else he could get his hands on.

Once or twice, Papa had encouraged Spinner, his psychotic second daughter to take her pony riding, and insist that Tippi be pulled along by her pierced nipples.

As Spin danced along on her pony, Sparky, Spin's twin drove alongside on her Vespa, blowing BB's through a peashooter at the pony's legs to keep it interesting.

The sight of lovely Tippi, running in a sweat to keep her boobs from being pulled off as Spinner made her pony canter and then trot was quite an image.

If Tippi was flagging too much, Papa would ride behind Spinner on his own horse, and urge Tippi on by using his riding crop on her beautiful bare buttocks.

Tippi really got a lot of cardio exercise in!

More than once when Tippi had stayed over, Spin and Sparky had sent her down to get the morning paper on her hands and knees.

Quite stark naked of course, and insisted she bring it up in her teeth.

If even a bit of it was ripped, her younger sisters gave her forty swats with a Ping-Pong paddle.

Sparky loved to watch "The Price Is Right" sitting in the easy chair in front of the TV with her crossed legs propped on Tippi's naked back as her older sister crouched.

Nermie often had Tippi suck his dick slowly while he lay down doing bench-presses.

She was amazed at her brother's dedication to weight lifting, and the fact that her mouth didn't distract him one bit.

Sometimes she tried to discuss Nermie going back to school (if the middle school took returning 35 year olds) but Nermie just grabbed her by the back of the head and forced it down.

More than once, Papa and Nermie took Tippi out in the woods when they went on a hunting or fishing trip, although she was a vegan in principle.

She didn't have to handle a gun or rod, just build fires and clean duck blinds.

Of course because Tippi's head was often in the clouds, the men had to strip her, even in the most bitter cold, and thrash her with cut branches.

Once, when they were ice fishing, for entertainment, Papa had had Tippi skate around the lake in the nude on her figure skates.

Sparky and Spin, along for the ride, had chased Tippi around, as all three were accomplished racing and figure skaters shooting at her pretty behind with a BB pistol.

Tippi's sisters had been warmly clad, and the contrast had been quite something.

Afterwards, all the siblings had thrown snowballs at Tippi's dancing naked form...

Again, Tippi had been so excited by the whole thing, masturbating in her tent and wondering what more her family might put her through.

You wouldn't believe how fast Tippi could skate under that kind of pressure.

These punishments seemed so demeaning!

It never mattered if Tippi complained or protested

"Papa, I'm a woman now, I'm a feminist. What you're doing is-"

Perhaps Tippi shouldn't wear such tight pants when visiting Papa? Or sometimes, short skirts that just scandalized.

The last time Tippi visited, Grandmother had been over to shell peas, and Tippi's long legs in the fishnet stockings had seemed so whorish that Grandmother had taken Tippi to the back yard and ordered her to strip naked.

Tippi had argued for a moment until Grandmother had taken Tippi by her fire-engine red bob and shaken her head until her teeth rattled.

Then, weeping, Tippi had stripped to her panties, hugging her small breasts and watching fat, sweating Grandmother cut a switch from the willow tree.

Then Gran would trim off the little branches with a small penknife that had been awarded her as a star knitter by the Ladies Guild of Buttermilk Falls.

Tippi's brother and his friends had stood on the back porch, playing pocket pool and ogling Tippi's little rosebud tits and her long legs, almost naked in the little beige underpants.

Grandmother had come over with the switch, smiling malevolently. "So you think you're all that, do you Tippi?

You want to be a whoring little slut in New York, where the devil's paste-boards and that sinful rock music abound?"

"N-no please, Grandmother, I-I didn't mean to offend you with my dress." was what Tippi had said, looking distractedly at the porch.

The guys were all screaming, laughing and throwing pop bottles and beer cans at Tippi. "Beat the shit out of her, Grandma! Give her what for!"

Tippi's brother, Norman was the worst of what you'd call a Gamma male; no woman would touch him or his loser friends with a ten foot pole.

They lived for Big Sis to come home and get her licking.

Grandma would insist that Tippi pull down her panties, and Tippi would hang her head in shame, and of course demur.

Finally Grandmother advanced and grabbed Tippi by her slender arm and threw her across the picnic table, ripping down the panties, and commencing operations with the long willow switch. WHACK! WHACK! THWACK!

Long red weals would show up on Tippi's milky white thighs, under her sensitive bottom cheeks and across her back until Tippi was wailing and trying to move away and off the picnic bench.

Grandmother's scream "Nermie, you come help me with your friends!"

And the boys would advance, to hold Tippi down and keep her immobile for the whipping.

Certainly, Tippi could have protested verbally, and made a threat; all the guys had police records for things like Peeping Tom and public urination.

They would've backed off, perhaps even Grandmother would have, and Papa.

But when the welted Tippi returned to her little blue Ferrari, and sat down painfully in the cushy chair, her fingers would find the folds of her shaven labia under her dress and the masturbation-so intense! would begin.

So should Tippi have stayed away from the family home?

You'd think they'd be thankful for her-she sent checks every month to sustain them.

Tippi regularly replenished had regular accounts the local grocery, the butchers, and other local mercantiles.

If anything, Tippi was the savior, the lifeblood of her family!

Why then, the ridicule, the punishment? And why did Tippi return time and again, to suffer it?

Once her brother and his friends had insisted Tippi strip for them, and they'd suspended her from a rafter in the barn.

They'd then taken turns switching Tippi's bare buttocks and thighs as she hung there, thrashing her until she screamed in acute pain, and had quite a time feeling her breasts and vagina.

But the quake between her moist thighs as the humiliation and pain had hit her...

Tippi was more articulate than any of her family. And she was a natural beauty-her brother and sisters were fat and flabby and almost semi-deformed.

Was Tippi adopted? Who knew? But the power that her relatives had over her was uncanny.

That day in the barn, after the boys had all had a turn breaking a variety of switches and broomsticks on Tippi's flailing ice white form, they'd let her down, and made her fellate them-

Then they'd had Tippi resentfully pitch hay and do the milking and the other chores around the barn before allowing her to gather up her clothes and run to the house.

Papa had met Tippi at the door, and taken her by the ear, castigating her for "leadin' the fellas on" before he'd brought her inside for further correction with Old Mister Strap.

But again, Tippi had brought a vibrator in the glove compartment of her car and she'd run the damn thing all the way during the drive to New York, stimulating her clitoris to the nth degree.

At one point, she'd seen a fat sheriff's deputy sitting in a speed trap, and she'd gone up to 180, and he'd pulled her over. Tippi had been insolent, pouting with her glossy, rouged lips, provoking the cop until the red under his collar rose above his ears.

"What, do you think I need a spanking, Porky Pig?"

Tippi had then switched from mockery to pleading.

"Officer, I can't get another ticket. Is there any other way to work this out?"

Being bent over the back of her car, her already welted buttocks and thighs exposed to the fat cop's nasty little penis shoving in there...what a humiliation.

She'd made editorial comment about his size, and so Deputy Morgendorf had removed his belt and given Tippi thirty for the road.

Then he'd robbed her purse of nearly three hundred dollars before she'd gotten back in her car and continued the drive to New York.

In New York, Tippi had been grotesquely taken advantage of by her administrative assistant, Porsche.

Some time past. Porsche had found some pictures that Papa had sent Tippi of pics that had been unfortunately taken...

Tippi tied and gagged, Grandmother and the boys taking their turns with unfortunate Tippi and the blacksnake whip...

Porsche had gotten into an argument about her typing errors with her young red-haired boss, and had grabbed Tippi by the ear and had pulled her over the knee.

Porsche had taken off one of her flat ballet slippers, as she'd yanked up Tippi's Donna Karan dress and pulled down the panties.

Then Porsche's racquetball arm had done its grim work with the ballet flat until Ms. Tippington had sobbed and screamed and pounded her fists.

This had looked rather silly, while she lay across her secretary's knee, and the mail boy had almost fallen over himself laughing, as he'd taken pictures with his phone. This had led to raises for the staff...

And, Tippi had invited Porsche to come to dinner, intending to tell her admin that she should learn respect, but of course the only tongue lashing Porsche had gotten was between her plump thighs...

Tippi had taken Porsche to a beach in Dubrovnik. Croatia, known as "clothing optional."

Porsche had retained her own well-fitting bikini, but had made poor Tippi go naked on the sand, on all fours and led by a leash.

The two Americans had been viewed with great interest by the Croatian community.

The girls had then gone to Istanbul and bought lots of whips and torment devices made specially by the leather community there.

For several months, Tippi had found "true balance" in her service to Porsche, who wielded a mighty tawse! What a rare girl Porsche could be.

Sadly, Porsche had not had time to stay on as Tippi's assistant.

When Tippi's boss, Mr. Fieldston had heard of Porsche's disciplinary efforts, he had immediately gotten the girl to come and work for HIM.

Of course Mr. Fieldston had shown the pretty assistant his mother's old wooden paddle...

Today though, Tippi knocked on the door, and then been briefly received by her youngest sister, who told Tippi that Papa had had a stroke, and was in the County Home.

(Tippi hadn't been back in some time. And they were all terrible correspondents)

Tippi was aware that Grandmother had gone down South with Nermie some weeks ago for the winter.

The other sibs had arranged for the sale of the house, and all wished Tippi well, if she wanted to visit Papa...

So what could Tippi do?

She had planned to stay for a bit.

Tippi's youngest sister looked at Tippi with some pity, and handed her a card. "There's this place in town that you really should visit."

Tippi wasn't sure what Little Sissy had been aiming at here. There was a man who existed, whose first name was SPECS? What kind of a name was that?

Did this man have a Social Security number?

***

"So you're Mr. Specs?" Tippi asked somewhat acidly, looking at the vulgar little man sitting before her.

"That's right. Just Specs, though." he said, his yellow, crooked teeth glinting, as he touched his mended aviator frames.

"You know, that style is way out of date, as is the tinted lenses. Very 80's."

"That's been suggested, Ms. Tippington." It almost seemed as if the man was barely able to pay attention. This was the font of all BDSM wisdom in the tri state area?

"You don't seem to have a LinkedIn profile. Where did you go to school?"

"P.S. 189 in Hell's Kitchen." He paused. "I think they call it Clinton now."

"And you moved to a backwater like Buttermilk Falls?" she asked incredulously.

"Better for my asthma, that kind of thing."

He did seem to use the inhaler a bit.

"I was so happy to get out of my little hometown here, to go to the Big Apple."

"But you're here now." Specs sucked on the inhaler, and then inconsistently, a rather mangled Lucky Strike.

"Yes, I come home to see family, but my family seems to have disembarked."

"And now you're here to see me. Generally I'm not that easy to find."

Specs squinted at her business card. "Henrietta Rossi Tippington, of Manhattan."

"Yes, well, I have considerable resources." She didn't feel like she had to tell him that her little sis, all of nineteen years old, had his information.

"Well, clearly, you probably need direction, my dear. Fetch me that strap hanging on my wall."

She'd seen that strap before. And felt it! "This looks terribly familiar."

"An old man on James W. Buttermilk Memorial Drive with a glass eye and a steel plate in his head had a garage sale right before-"

"His stroke, yes." Tippi said, looking at the old leather strap in her fingers.

"Well bring it here, and strip from the waist down, Ms. Tippington."

As Tippi began unbuttoning her Betsy Johnson twill skirt, she felt as if she was truly home again.