Young Lady

Young Lady 1 and 2

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Summary :

Marisa has broken her neighbor's antique stained glass window. Over her protests, Marisa's parents have agreed to let Mr. Barlowe punish her for a day. As she heads over to his house, Marisa is determined not to let the old man get the better of her ...

* * * * *

Cast of Characters :

Marisa Torres, 17
Daniel Torres, 15 (Marisa's younger brother)
Raymond and Elena Torres (Marisa and Daniel's parents)

Henry Barlowe (The Torres family's next door neighbor)
Riley Sullivan, 18 (Mr. Barlowe's grandson and Leigh's cousin)
Leigh Barlowe, 17 (Mr. Barlowe's granddaughter and Riley's cousin)

Brad Wilder, 18 (The Torres family's neighbor and Marisa's athletic rival)
Edwin Connor, 11 (The Torres family's neighbor and Marisa's admirer)
Pam Elliott, 17 (Daniel's girlfriend)

* * * * *

Chapter 1

"I tried to talk Mom and Dad out of it," said Marisa. "I argued with them until I was blue in the face, but they wouldn't budge."

The 17-year-old girl tied the belt of her thick, dark blue robe before walking out of her bathroom. Her younger brother, Daniel, was sitting on Marisa's bed.

"Mom and Dad told me I needed to 'take responsibility for my actions,'" said Marisa, in what Daniel thought was a very disrespectful but admittedly accurate imitation of their parents.

Marisa made a face as she added, "They called me 'young lady.'"

"Yeah, I hate it when people call me that," said Daniel absently. He fell silent.

"Look, Daniel, if you've got something to say, say it," said Marisa after a moment.

"I'm sorry, Marisa, but you kinda brought this on yourself," said Daniel seriously, ignoring the scowl on his sister's face. "You broke Mr. Barlowe's window."

"I had no choice," argued Marisa. "Brad Wilder challenged me to hit his fastball. When I swung my bat, I was aiming for the hedges. Can I help it if Old Man Barlowe's house got in the way?"

"Marisa," groaned Daniel, burying his face in his hand. With a sigh, he said, "Well, now, Mom and Dad have to come up with some way to pay for that window."

"They didn't have to," grumbled Marisa. "When Mom and Dad offered to pay for it, Old Man Barlowe told them to forget about it, it was no big deal. They could've just said okay and then I wouldn't be in this mess now."

"Sis, how many times do you need this explained to you?" said Daniel exasperatedly. "That antique stained glass picture window was really valuable. Mom and Dad didn't feel it was fair to expect Mr. Barlowe to eat the cost of it when you're the one who broke it. Can't you understand that?"

"Whatever." Marisa rolled her eyes.

"Oh, and by the way," Daniel went on, "you might want to start calling him 'Mr. Barlowe.' I don't think it will go over too well for you to call him 'Old Man Barlowe' when you're in his house today."

"Yeah, whatever," came the predictable response.

Marisa opened her closet and looked herself over in the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. She started to reach for the belt of her bathrobe, and then paused, glancing at Daniel, who was still sitting on her bed.

"Daniel, if you don't mind terribly, I have to get dressed."

Daniel's eyes lit up.

"Oh, I don't mind at all," he said with an eager grin.

Marisa rolled her eyes again.

"Get out," she told her brother sharply, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him toward her bedroom door.

"Okay, okay, Sis, I'm going," said Daniel.

As Marisa slammed her door in his face, Daniel called out, "I was just kidding, anyway!"

For a long moment, Daniel stared at his sister's now closed bedroom door, and then murmured, "I was kidding ... Sort of. Kind of. Maybe."

He sighed and headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

In her room, Marisa was shaking her head. Her brother could be such a little creep sometimes. Well, he was certainly never going to get to see her naked, Marisa was sure of that.

She untied the belt of her bathrobe and started to shrug it off her shoulders ... She caught herself just in time.

Marisa quickly pulled the bathrobe back around herself as she walked to the window and yanked the curtains closed. That was close ...

* * * * *

"Couldn't I just pay for the window?" asked Marisa.

"We have been over this, young lady," said her mother as she poured orange juice into everyone's glasses at the breakfast table.

Marisa bristled. She hated it when anybody called her "young lady."

"That window you broke was an antique stained glass picture window, princess," said her father.

Marisa clenched her teeth. She hated being called "princess" almost as much as she hated being called "young lady." Knowing that she was already in trouble, however, she managed to keep her tongue.

"That window cost a fortune. The only way you could pay for it is out of your college fund, and there is no way in the world that we're letting you dip into that." Mrs. Torres finished pouring the orange juice and sat back down.

"I still don't know why you two didn't just let Old Man Barlowe ... Okay, MISTER Barlowe ... pay for the window himself like he was going to."

Marisa's parents looked at each other tiredly. They knew that there was no point in trying to explain it to their daughter yet again.

"I can't believe you're really going to let that creepy old man punish me for an entire day," continued Marisa sourly. She made a face as she said, "Have you seen the way he looks at me? He's going to want to SPANK me, or something like that, I'm sure of it."

Daniel snorted at the thought.

"It's not a laughing matter, son," said Mr. Torres. He looked at Marisa seriously and said, "Actually, princess, your mother and I have spoken to Mr. Barlowe about just that sort of thing, and we all agreed that - "

"Whatever, Dad." Marisa rolled her eyes, something that she was doing far too frequently lately for her parents' liking.

"Do not speak to your father that way, young lady," said her mother sternly.

She leaned across the table, fixing a glare on her daughter.

"Let me tell you something, Marisa. If we do not receive a glowing report about your behavior from Mr. Barlowe at the end of the day, your father and I will reimburse him for the cost of the window ourselves, and then YOU, young lady, can work it off by spending the entire summer helping out in your uncle's sushi bar."

Marisa froze. She would probably have to eat the sushi, too, all summer long. Just the thought of it made her gag.

"It was Brad Wilder's fault," grumbled Marisa, stabbing at her breakfast with her fork. "I was just minding my own business, tossing around a baseball in our front yard, when he came out of his house and challenged me to hit his best fastball."

"Well, here's a crazy thought, Marisa," said Mrs. Torres. "Why don't you just ignore him?"

Marisa stiffened.

"Mother," she said fiercely, "I have a reputation to uphold. They will be serving iced drinks in hell before I let any MALE get the better of me. As a woman, I would think you'd understand that."

"Sweetheart, I - "

"Like that nub I beat in the championship track meet last year," recalled Marisa smugly. "I ran that loser into the ground."

"Ran him into the ground?" echoed Daniel. "Marisa, it was a photo finish."

"And get this," said Marisa, as if her brother hadn't spoken at all. "After the meet, he actually asked me for a date. I guess he wasn't satisfied with just being humiliated once that day."

Her lips curled into a smirk as she said, "I told him that if he couldn't even keep up with a girl on the track, then I wasn't about to expect him to keep up anywhere else, either."

Marisa giggled, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was the only person at the table who found the story amusing.

"That is hardly something to brag about, young lady," said her mother reproachfully. "There was no call for you to be so rude to that young man."

"Marisa never mentions what happened after she said that," commented Daniel.

Marisa suddenly stopped giggling, and her face turned slightly red. She got up from her chair, dropping her fork onto her plate, and started toward the stairs.

"Princess, where are you going?" asked her father.

"I have to change," said Marisa as she disappeared up the stairway.

"Somehow, I think that will never happen," murmured her mother.

"Marisa, it's your turn to do the dishes," said Mr. Torres, getting up. "Princess - "

He was cut off by the sound of his daughter slamming her bedroom door shut.

"Young lady," said Mrs. Torres, rising from her chair, her voice rising even faster.

"Forget it, dear," sighed her husband. "Arguing with her won't do any good, you know that."

"I'll do the dishes, Mom," said Daniel.

"Thank you, honey." Mrs. Torres shook her head. "You know, there are times when I wish I could just stuff a towel in Marisa's mouth. It would make things so much more peaceful around here."

"I doubt that will ever be an option, dear," said her husband.

* * * * *

"I just wanted to say congratulations." The teenaged boy sounded nervous. "You ran a great race, Marisa."

"Thanks." Marisa smirked. "I wish I could say the same to you, but I don't like lying."

The boy reddened slightly, as a wave of small snickering came from the teenagers nearby.

"Well, I'll work on it, and hopefully I'll get better," he said. "Um, listen, Marisa, I was just wondering if, maybe, you'd like to go see a movie or something some time."

Marisa's eyes widened, and she let out a piercing laugh. The boy visibly winced.

"You expect me to go out with YOU?" said Marisa, chuckling.

"I, uh - "

"Gee, sorry, pal, but if you can't even keep up with a girl on the track, then I'm not about to expect you to keep up anywhere else, either," said Marisa dryly, giving the red-faced boy a meaningful look.

The boy's face turned even redder, as the giggles and sniggering among the teenagers became louder.

"I'm sorry," said the boy after a moment. "I'm afraid I made a mistake here."

"Yeah, loser, you made a real big mistake, all right, thinking I'd ever go out with you," snorted Marisa.

"No." The boy fixed a level gaze on Marisa. "The mistake I made was thinking that you might actually be worth going out with."

* * * * *

Marisa opened her bedroom closet again. This time, though, she avoided looking at the mirror inside of it.

She could feel her face reddening at the memory of how that boy had turned and walked away from her, as the laughter and snickering from the teenagers nearby grew much louder ... except now, it was no longer directed at the boy.

Marisa ground her teeth. If there was one thing she couldn't take, it was a boy - any male, really - getting the better of her. She did not intend to ever let it happen again. She didn't with Brad Wilder the previous day, and she wasn't going to with Mr. Barlowe today.

"I'm not going to let him get to me," she quietly vowed. "I can take whatever he dishes out."

She gazed at her closet.

Marisa had been a tomboy for almost as long as she could walk. She had never worn a dress in her life. When she went to church on Sundays, she wore a blouse - under protest - with her black slacks.

Her underwear drawer was filled with men's boxer briefs. If it wasn't for the sports bras, you would never be able to tell that her closet and dresser didn't belong to a teenaged boy.

Probably the biggest argument Marisa ever had with her parents happened when she was graduating from junior high school. Marisa had been offered a scholarship to a good private high school in their city ... which she rejected upon learning that the school's dress code required girls to wear skirts.

She had always been a passionate sports fan. In her high school, Marisa had quickly become the star of the track, baseball, and swimming teams, and often blew away the competition in other sports as well.

When she was younger, the only thing about her that ever seemed feminine was her long brown hair. Marisa had considered cutting it short, but found that she liked making sure that the boys she bested in sports knew that they had been beaten by a girl.

To Marisa's annoyance, as she grew older, her body blossomed a woman's curves, although she remained slim and wiry.

She always wanted to wear as little clothing as possible when she was outdoors, working out and practicing, especially in the summer heat. But with the figure she had developed in her teens, wearing anything even moderately revealing inevitably drew a lot of very persistent male attention when she wanted it least, something that she quickly grew to loathe.

Still, it wasn't all bad. Every time Marisa was paired up with a boy in any sporting competition, she smiled to herself at the way he openly ogled her, knowing that his lustful gazes would soon be mixed with the bitter resentment and humiliation of having been beaten in an athletic match by a girl.

Marisa glanced at the clock on her dresser. Very soon, she would have to go over to Mr. Barlowe's house for the day, to let him punish her for breaking his window.

Her first instinct had been to dress in the most conservative clothing she had, the kind of stuff she normally only wore to church. The last thing she wanted was to have that creepy old man leering at her body all day long.

But now she was discarding that idea, feeling sure that covering herself up any more than she usually did would come across as a sign of weakness, a sign of fear. Marisa had never allowed any male to think that she was afraid of him, and she wasn't about to start now.

Soon, Marisa was nodding in satisfaction as she checked herself out in the full-length mirror. A form-fitting, midriff-baring white top that left very little of her ample breasts or her flat stomach to the imagination. A pair of figure-hugging, very short cutoff jeans. Not a thing to cover up her long legs except for her sneakers.

This was the sort of thing that was always guaranteed to drive every teenaged boy who saw her wild, and was seldom any less effective on males of any other age, either.

"It's time to go, young lady," came her mother's voice, accompanied by a knock on the bedroom door.

"Coming, Mom," she said.

Marisa gave herself one more look, and then smiled confidently. She wasn't going to let Mr. Barlowe get the better of her. She was not.

* * * * *

"Is there a fabric shortage in the city or something?" Daniel wondered aloud.

Marisa ignored her brother's question, but she purposely walked right past the sofa he was sitting on, to satisfy what she knew would be his curiosity as to whether or not she was wearing a bra.

"I didn't think so," muttered Daniel, his suspicions confirmed.

He could not, however, refrain from sliding his eyes up and down his sister's body, admiring the view.

"Thank you very much, Edwin," came Mrs. Torres's voice from the kitchen. "Be sure to give this to your mother and tell her thank you for me."

"Yes, ma'am."

Edwin Connor, the 11-year-old boy whose family lived in the house behind the Torreses', came walking out of the kitchen. When he saw Marisa in the living room, young Edwin's eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"H-Hi, Marisa," said Edwin with a nervous smile, waving his hand shyly. He had never been very good at hiding the severe crush that he had on his beautiful teenaged neighbor.

Marisa, however, had no time for him now, and simply gave him a curt nod before walking out the door.

"Did I do something wrong?" asked Edwin worriedly.

"It's all right, buddy, don't mind her," said Daniel. "Everybody gets out of sorts now and then, and this just happens to be Marisa's decade for it."

"Oh, okay." Not knowing what else to say, Edwin made his way out of the house, heading back toward his own. His head was still filled with the image of the gorgeous Marisa in that ... in THAT outfit ... that she had been wearing ... not to mention what he had almost seen a few hours earlier.

Edwin's bedroom window faced Marisa's. That morning, he had been looking out his window toward hers, as he so often did. Edwin had seen Marisa in her bedroom, just starting to take off her bathrobe ... For one brief moment, the young boy had gotten extremely excited, only to be crushed with disappointment when Marisa closed the curtains on her window. It had been a very near thing.

As he walked up to his house, Edwin sighed. He wondered if he would ever get to see the girl of his dreams the way he so much wanted to see her.

* * * * *

Up and down the street, many neighbors were enjoying the beautiful, warm sunny morning, grateful for such wonderful weather on a Saturday. Marisa, however, scarcely took notice.

The gorgeous, scantily clad teenager could feel what seemed like dozens of pairs of male eyes on every inch of her body. More often than not, they didn't even bother to hide how much they appreciated the view.

Marisa grimaced at the thought of the eyeful that she had nearly given Edwin that morning. She hadn't seen him at his window, but she knew he was there, as he always was, trying to catch a glimpse of Marisa in any moment she would want kept strictly private.

... But at least Edwin was a child. What the hell was Daniel's excuse?

Daniel, and so many other boys, and even grown men ... A shiver of disgust ran through Marisa's body as she thought of how many of them seemed so eager for a chance to see her in the buff. AS IF!

Speaking of boys who were never, ever, EVER going to see Marisa naked ... Brad Wilder was outside of his house, mowing the front lawn.

Marisa didn't need to look up to know that Brad was, once again, engaging in one of his favorite pastimes, ogling the hot girl who lived across the street from him. Or that the lustful longing in Brad's eyes was mixed with anger, embarrassment, and a general yearning to whip Marisa's butt any way he could.

Like a typical boy, Brad's ego didn't take well to being bested by a girl, especially in the long-held male domain of sports. Brad was still visibly bitter about losing the tryout to Marisa to be pitcher on their high school baseball team. The fact that Marisa was a year younger than Brad only fueled his resentment.

On this particular day, Marisa couldn't spare much more time for Brad than she could for Edwin, but she still took a moment to smirk at him, take a practice pitch to remind him (as if he needed to be) of her greatest victory over him, and then turn her back to him, taunting him with the vision of what he was never going to have.

Unfortunately, whatever satisfaction Marisa felt over tormenting Brad was short-lived, as she was soon approaching her destination, Mr. Barlowe's house. Even though it had been a very short walk to her next door neighbor's residence, it had felt to Marisa like a long journey as a condemned prisoner.

Marisa steeled herself, preparing to ring Mr. Barlowe's doorbell ... only to find that it wasn't necessary. Before she had even reached the door, it swung open, revealing her gray-haired neighbor. Marisa had the distinct feeling that he had been waiting at his door for her, probably for a good long while.

"I've been expecting you, Marisa," said Mr. Barlowe, giving her a smile that made her stomach twist. "Please, do come in."

* * * * *

Chapter 2

"It is so good of you to come, Marisa."

"I didn't have much choice, Mr. Barlowe."

"Oh, there are always choices, my dear," said Mr. Barlowe as he closed the front door. "The very act of living, in fact, is making a ceaseless string of choices."

... Great, a philosophy lesson. Just what every teenager yearns for on a Saturday.

"Unfortunately, Marisa, you have chosen to make my life a trifle difficult," continued Mr. Barlowe.

"And now you're going to return the favor?" retorted Marisa.

Mr. Barlowe simply smiled.

"Feel free to take off your footwear," said the old man. He tilted his head as he added, "And anything else you wish to take off."

Marisa flushed. She was beginning to have second thoughts about her choice of clothing, or rather the lack of it, now that Mr. Barlowe was openly raking his eyes up and down her mostly bare body. As his gaze fixed on her skimpy top, Marisa found herself wishing that she had worn a bra.

And maybe a snow suit, she mentally added as Mr. Barlowe's eyes drifted downward, lingering on her cutoff jeans.

"I'll keep everything else on, thank you," said Marisa, kicking off her sneakers.

"It's not as if you would have all that much to remove." Mr. Barlowe managed to add a note of disapproval to his voice, although Marisa was skeptical that he would have preferred she wear anything less revealing.

"Do you know why you are here, young lady?" asked Mr. Barlowe.

Marisa suppressed a twitch.

"My parents told me to come here," she answered. "I'm supposed to spend the day doing work in your house, to make up for breaking that stu - that expensive antique stained glass window."

"And you felt that this would be appropriate attire for this occasion?" Mr. Barlowe raised an eyebrow.

"So what do I have to do?" asked Marisa, ignoring Mr. Barlowe's question. "Chores or something?"

"Oh, yes, I have plenty of work for you to do around the house, Marisa," he replied. "But first ... "

"But first what?"

Mr. Barlowe smiled at her again as he gently took her by the arm and led her into the living room of the house.

Marisa felt surprised when she saw the interior of Mr. Barlowe's home. She wasn't quite sure what she had been expecting, but if that antique window had been any indication, she thought it would look like something out of a 19th-century Victorian house, filled with antiques, a Persian rug, paintings, a chandelier, burgundy wallpaper with fancy patterns ...

Instead, Mr. Barlowe's living room looked remarkably ... normal. The walls were painted beige, with white curtains on the windows and a simple gray carpet. There was a laptop computer on a desk next to the living room window, and a large television on the opposite wall, with a cable box, CD and DVD player.

Marisa noticed a large number of framed photographs of what looked like Mr. Barlowe's children and grandchildren hanging on the wall, and in a bookcase that was also filled with paperback books, DVDs, and a smartphone in a charger.

She would not have guessed that the owner of this house was so ancient.

After a moment, Marisa's eyes were drawn to a chair that looked out of place. It was identical to the chairs around the nearby dining room table, but it had been placed in the center of the living room. There was a roll of duct tape and a small cloth on the chair.

"To be more precise, young lady," said Mr. Barlowe, as he led her by the arm toward the chair, "the reason you are here is for me to punish you for breaking my window."

"I thought that was what the chores were all about," said Marisa.

Mr. Barlowe simply chuckled as he picked up the tape and cloth from the chair.

"What are those for?" asked Marisa, a bit uneasily.

"I expect you will find out shortly." Mr. Barlowe sat down in the chair, not relaxing his hold on Marisa's arm. "Now, my dear young lady, I am very grateful for the chance to have you perform some chores for me today, but I am also a firm believer in what you might call a more hands-on approach to discipline, especially for girls."

For a moment, Marisa simply stared at Mr. Barlowe, before her eyes grew round and she drew in a sharp breath.

"I knew it!" burst from Marisa in a shrill, high-pitched voice. She tried to pull her arm away from Mr. Barlowe, but to her surprise, she could not budge a single one of his fingers. The ineffectual-looking old man had a grip like a vise.

"I knew it!" repeated Marisa, nearly screaming this time. "I warned my parents that you wanted to spank me, you pervert!"

"Did you now? Well, that would explain your attire. You certainly are dressed for a spanking."

Marisa's face turned crimson - whether it was from embarrassment more than anger, even she wasn't sure - as Mr. Barlowe openly appraised her more-than-half-naked body.

"I - I thought my parents had - " Marisa sputtered. "Well, I wouldn't have worn this if I'd known you were going to try to spank me!"

"Well, if it's of any consolation to you, Marisa, not that it should be, it wouldn't have made any difference."

"What are you talking about?"

Mr. Barlowe gave Marisa that smile that made her stomach twist again.

"My lovely young lady, I am going to tell you the same thing I have always told my daughters, my granddaughters, and any other girl I have ever disciplined ... I am spanking YOU. Not your skirt, nor even your panties."

Marisa stared unblinkingly at Mr. Barlowe, as the awful meaning of his words slowly sank in.

"Oh, no." Marisa tried again to pull her arm out of Mr. Barlowe's grip, to no more avail than before. "No - Hell, no - DON'T YOU DARE - "

"Oh, Marisa, there is much that I would dare," said Mr. Barlowe as he slowly pulled the struggling girl ever closer to him.

"You're not - Not bare - You are not going to spank me, you creep, and you are sure as hell not going to spank me BARE - There's no way I'm letting you see my bare butt - "

"Oh, I'll be seeing more than that, Marisa." Mr. Barlowe now had the furious teenager firmly in his arms, their bodies mere inches apart. His eyes focused on her heaving chest, and then back to her face. "You will be taking your spanking totally in the nude."

With that, he had finally done it. Mr. Barlowe had accomplished what just about every person who had ever known Marisa Torres thought to be impossible - He had rendered her speechless.

"Now, then," said Mr. Barlowe briskly. "Do you wish to undress yourself, Marisa, or will I have to strip you?"

Marisa managed to find her voice again.

"Go to hell, asshole!" she snarled.

"Oh, good," said Mr. Barlowe, making no effort to conceal his delight. "I was hoping you'd pick that option."

The old man stood up from the chair. Before Marisa knew what was happening, he had both of her slim wrists firmly pinned behind her back with his left hand, while his right hand casually undid the button and zipper of her cutoff jeans.

"No!" cried Marisa as Mr. Barlowe began to pull down her cutoffs. "Stop that - Stop that right now - "

Marisa felt astounded. She had always taken pride in being extremely athletic, but she found herself rendered completely helpless in Mr. Barlowe's grip. The frail-looking old man seemed stronger than a man twice his size.

"Oh, for goodness sake," muttered Mr. Barlowe when he saw the men's boxer briefs Marisa was wearing under her cutoffs. "Young lady, I think I should have my granddaughter speak to you concerning your wardrobe ... "

Marisa tried, with little success, to tune out the lecture Mr. Barlowe was giving her. She hated the very word "panties," even more than she hated being called "young lady."

"This is none of your business - " Marisa shook her head angrily. A moment later, her anger seemed to vanish, replaced with abject terror as Mr. Barlowe slipped his fingers in her waistband. "No, please - Mr. Barlowe, please don't - please, not that - "

"I'm sorry, Marisa, I really am, but this is for your own good."

The tears that Marisa had been struggling to hold back were soon flowing freely down her cheeks, as the most private places of her body were laid completely bare to the sight of this horrible old man.

Marisa tried again to free her hands, but found herself still unable to move a muscle under Mr. Barlowe's iron grip. Taking a deep breath, she made a decision ... but before she could carry it out, she was letting out a cry of pain, wincing at Mr. Barlowe's foot pressing down hard on hers.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Marisa," he told her.

"I can see you've done this before," she spat.

"We're almost done with your unveiling, Marisa. Just one more thing now." He looked at her figure-hugging, midriff-baring white top.

"I'm not wearing a bra," she protested weakly.

"I can tell," replied Mr. Barlowe. "I would be surprised if anybody who saw you today couldn't. Honestly, it's too bad. I've never told anybody this, but whenever I have spanked a girl, I always rather enjoyed removing her bra, and I was looking forward to taking off yours even more, Marisa."

Marisa shook her head in disgust.

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said, wrinkling her nose.

Knowing that it would do no good to plead or protest, Marisa simply bit her lip as Mr. Barlowe pulled her top up and over her head, leaving the teenaged girl, at last, completely naked.

"I must say, Marisa, I very much appreciate your beauty," said Mr. Barlowe as he tossed aside the last of her clothing. "You have an amazing body. It's no wonder you're so accomplished in athletics."

Marisa bit back an urge to scream as Mr. Barlowe slowly took in her curves, turning her around in his grip so that he could see all of her flawless skin.

"I can't believe you're doing this to me," she said in a low voice.

"You know, you're right," sighed Mr. Barlowe. "I am stepping a bit out of line here, I suppose. We should get back to the business at hand."

Not letting up his grip on Marisa's hands, he sat back down in the chair.

"No," whimpered Marisa as Mr. Barlowe began pulling her toward his lap. "Mr. Barlowe, you're not really going to spank me, are you?"

"I'm afraid so, Marisa."

"You can't spank me, Mr. Barlowe. I'm seventeen, I am way too old for spankings - "

"Girls are never too old for spankings, Marisa," said Mr. Barlowe. "I have never once seen or met a girl who understood this, even my own daughters and granddaughters, but no female is ever too old for a good, old-fashioned spanking."

He gazed at the still weakly struggling Marisa.

"And even if they were, young lady, you would hardly qualify. From everything I've seen and heard, you may be seventeen, but you have less maturity than my five-year-old grandson. As I've often said in the past, girls who insist on behaving like little children will be treated the same."

"Mr. Barlowe, please." Marisa took a deep breath. She tried to sound reasonable. "Think about this, Mr. Barlowe. This is sexual assault, you could be arrested for this. But if you let me go right now, I promise, I won't tell a soul about any of this. If my parents found out what you're doing - "

"Your parents," echoed Mr. Barlowe, raising an eyebrow. "You mean they didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" said Marisa in confusion.

"Marisa, when your parents first spoke to me about this idea of having you come over here today, to make up for breaking my window, they asked me what I might do to punish you. They specifically asked me about such things as spankings, and after we all talked it over, your parents and I agreed that I should spank you as punishment, and it should be exactly like this."

"What?!" exclaimed Marisa. "That's not what they told ... "

Her voice trailed off, as she found herself remembering ...

* * * * *

"I can't believe you're really going to let that creepy old man punish me for an entire day," complained Marisa. "Have you seen the way he looks at me? He's going to want to SPANK me, or something like that, I'm sure of it."

Mr. Torres looked at his daughter seriously and said, "Actually, princess, your mother and I have spoken to Mr. Barlowe about just that sort of thing, and we all agreed that - "

"Whatever, Dad." Marisa rolled her eyes.

* * * * *

"Your parents didn't tell you?" asked Mr. Barlowe.

"Not exactly," murmured Marisa. "I ... I didn't really give them a chance to. My father started to tell me something about ... I just sort of assumed that he was going to say ... "

She looked at him.

"My parents really agreed to this?" she said in a tiny voice.

"Well," said Mr. Barlowe hesitantly, "your parents never felt that a spanking, in and of itself, would be out of line."

Marisa's eyes began to narrow.

"But, uh ... I sort of had to talk your mom and dad into letting me spank you completely undressed. They were very reluctant to agree to that."

"It was your idea for me to be naked." Marisa's temper was visibly flaring again.

"Well, your parents did agree in the end. I convinced them that it would be most beneficial."

"You mean it'll be beneficial for you, when you're jerking off about it later," snarled Marisa.

"Oh, dear." Mr. Barlowe shook his head. Clearly, being stripped of her dignity hadn't done much to quell Marisa's sass.

"Young lady, THAT little remark is going to cost your very lovely bottom about twenty more smacks. Now, I suggest we get started, before that very big, though admittedly pretty, mouth of yours writes any more checks that your rear end will have to cash."

"No, please," moaned Marisa as Mr. Barlowe's powerful hands pulled her ever closer to her looming humiliation. "Please don't spank me - "

She was still struggling, even though she had learned by now that it would do her no good. Marisa froze, however, when she felt Mr. Barlowe's hand sliding down her back.

"HEY!" she exclaimed.

"Very nice," said Mr. Barlowe admiringly.

"Stop fondling my butt!" Marisa practically screamed, as she was pulled, face down, over Mr. Barlowe's lap.

"Very, very nice," said Mr. Barlowe. He held Marisa's slim wrists firmly in one hand as his other hand caressed and squeezed the outraged girl's firm, shapely buttocks.

He hadn't been planning to do this. He knew it was highly inappropriate. But when he found himself gazing down at the indescribably beautiful sight of Marisa's bare backside, laid out so invitingly, so temptingly, in his own lap, he just couldn't find it in himself to resist. In fact, he was so entranced that he hardly took notice of the steady stream of invective Marisa was spitting out.

"Let me go - This is sexual assault - My parents are going to hear about this - Quit groping my ass, you freak - I knew you were going to do this, you pervert - Get your hand out of there - You get off on abusing girls, don't you? - Hey, hey, that's a very sensitive spot - When I get out of here, you are going to be in so much trouble - "

When Mr. Barlowe pinched the taut flesh of Marisa's behind one time too many, she had finally had enough. Marisa opened her mouth to let out the most ear-splitting scream of her life, only to be cut off when Mr. Barlowe's hand clamped itself over her mouth.

"Had to happen sooner or later," commented Mr. Barlowe. "Now, you're going to find out what that tape and cloth were for, Marisa."

Marisa was still making enraged, but muffled, sounds through Mr. Barlowe's hand as he sat her up in his lap. As he kept one hand over her mouth - it felt to Marisa like he was holding her head with it - he grabbed the cloth and tape with his other hand.

"Oh, what a blessed relief," murmured Mr. Barlowe as he stuffed the cloth into Marisa's protesting mouth.

"You know, Marisa," he commented as he tore off a strip of duct tape, "I am guessing that there must be a lot of people in your life, especially boys, who always wished that they could do what I just did."

Marisa could only glare at Mr. Barlowe as he pressed the tape firmly over her lips.

"I want you to know, Marisa, I regret gagging you," he said, as he bound her hands behind her back with the tape. He paused, and then shrugged as he said, "Well, maybe not ... But it is a shame to have to cover up such a beautiful mouth. Still, I can't have you screaming, now can I?"

After binding Marisa's legs together at the ankles, he gently framed Marisa's face with his hands, looking deeply into her eyes.

"It's time, now, Marisa," he said softly.

Marisa's eyes began to well up. She shook her head, making pleading sounds through her gag.

"I'm sorry."

Seconds later, Marisa was looking at the carpet, her defenseless rear squarely in Mr. Barlowe's lap. She shuddered and let out a moan as his finger lightly caressed her buttocks. He was teasing her.

From her position, Marisa could not see Mr. Barlowe raising his hand, but she could certainly feel the sharp smack as it came down hard on her bottom. She instantly began screaming, though only muffled sounds came through the cloth and tape binding her mouth.

"That was only the beginning, young lady."

Tied up as she was, Marisa could do nothing more than squirm uselessly as Mr. Barlowe's hand came down again and again, sending waves of pain through Marisa's backside. The ordeal was made worse by the old man's occasional pauses to fondle her again.

His hands never seemed to be still. When they weren't smacking her bottom, they were groping, caressing, patting, massaging, pinching, rubbing, roaming her bare rump.

Marisa was sobbing now. She felt as if ten different kinds of pain and humiliation were flowing through her. Besides the physical pain, there was the humiliation of being, at the age of 17, practically a grown woman, having her bottom smacked as though she was a naughty child. The humiliation of being naked, tied up and gagged, being groped and fondled ... She was being taken sexual advantage of, and for any girl, nothing could cut more deeply ...

For somebody who had spent her entire life being strong, assertive, in control ... There were few things more terrifying than to suddenly be so completely and utterly powerless, helpless, vulnerable ...

"Marisa?"

The girl was still crying. She didn't even seem to notice that the spanking had stopped.

"Come on, Marisa." Mr. Barlowe gently peeled the tape off of Marisa's mouth and pulled the cloth free, before untying her wrists and ankles.

Marisa got to her feet, hugging herself, still sniffling. Mr. Barlowe moved to wipe away the tears on her face and offer her some comfort, but she pulled away from his grasp, wiping her own tears and turning away from him in refusal.

"All right, then," said Mr. Barlowe, taking a step back. "If that's what you want."

"What I want is my clothes back," said Marisa sullenly. "Right now, if you don't mind, Mr. Barlowe."

"Actually, I do mind," said Mr. Barlowe firmly. "You will stay naked, Marisa."

"What?" Marisa whirled around to face him.

"Young lady, in case you've forgotten, you still have to spend the day here, doing chores around my house, to compensate for breaking my window." Mr. Barlowe folded his arms. "You will receive your clothing back at the end of the day before you leave."

"You expect me to spend the entire day here naked?" said Marisa in disbelief.

"Now, you listen to me, young lady." Mr. Barlowe gazed at Marisa levelly. "That outfit you were wearing, if indeed you can call it that, is absolutely appalling. I would never tolerate any of my daughters or granddaughters walking around near-naked like that."

"Well, I'm not your daughter or your granddaughter!" said Marisa hotly.

"No, but this is my house, which means I set the rules here. And if you will not wear proper clothing for a young lady, then you will wear nothing at all!"

Marisa stared at him, unable to believe that he was serious, but knowing that he was.

"What - What if somebody comes to the house?" asked Marisa. "They'll see me like this."

"Marisa, nobody is going to be coming here. Trust me, that is not a concern."

"Mr. Barlowe ... " Marisa decided to try a different tack. Putting on as penitent an air as she could, she said, "Mr. Barlowe, please, I'm sorry for everything I said to you. Please don't make me be naked all day. It's so embarrassing."

"I think some embarrassment will be good for you, Marisa."

"But Mr. Barlowe - "

"Now, really, Marisa, it's not as if you have anything to be ashamed of." He casually ran his eyes up and down Marisa's body. "Nothing to be ashamed of at all. Quite the contrary."

Marisa reddened yet again.

"Well, now that that's settled," said Mr. Barlowe, walking over to a cabinet and taking out some cleaning supplies, "there are chores for you to do, young lady. You can start by dusting the dining room table."

For a long moment, Marisa stared at Mr. Barlowe, and then shook her head.

"I am not doing this, Mr. Barlowe. No more."

She turned and picked up the few articles of clothing she had worn to the house, from where they had been laying scattered on the living room floor. Mr. Barlowe made no attempt to stop her as she put them on. In seconds, she was dressed again.

"I have had enough," she said coldly. "I am not going to spend the entire day here, naked, being your slave. I think I'd rather spend the summer in sushi."

" ... I can't rightly say I know what means, Marisa, but if that's what you want, then very well."

"I'm leaving right now," said Marisa. "Unless you're planning to kidnap me, Mr. Barlowe, I'm going home."

"I have no intention of holding you here against your will, Marisa. You're free to leave. Of course, that means that your parents will have to pay for my broken window."

"You said it was all right for them not to pay for it," protested Marisa. "You told them to forget about it."

"Yes, I did," said Mr. Barlowe. "And I am still willing to forget about it, but your parents aren't. They are insisting on paying for the damage, one way or another. Now, I am perfectly willing to simply accept the loss myself, but if your parents insist on compensating me, who am I to refuse?"

Marisa was silent for a moment.

"Okay, you know what? That's fine with me." Marisa shook her head. "If my parents insist on paying for that window even though they don't have to, that's their problem. I don't know why they're doing this, but it's their choice. I am not going to worry about it anymore."

With that, she turned and stared heading for the door.

"Very well," said Mr. Barlowe. "Good day, young lady."

Marisa reached the door and placed her hand on the knob ... and then froze.

...

"Mother," she said fiercely, "I have a reputation to uphold. They will be serving iced drinks in hell before I let any MALE get the better of me."

...

Marisa glanced out the door toward her house. It would be so easy. All she had to do was walk out the door and go home. Mr. Barlowe wasn't trying to stop her. Her parents were willing to pay for the damaged window, and she could just work in her uncle's sushi bar. It would be better than this.

...

Marisa ground her teeth. If there was one thing she couldn't take, it was a boy - any male, really - getting the better of her. She did not intend to ever let it happen again. She didn't with Brad Wilder the previous day, and she wasn't going to with Mr. Barlowe today.

"I'm not going to let him get to me," she quietly vowed. "I can take whatever he dishes out."

...

Marisa looked longingly at the door ... but she had made a promise to herself before she came here today. She had promised herself that she would not allow Mr. Barlowe to get the better of her. No male got the better of Marisa Torres, not ever.

She was not going to let this dirty old man get to her. She was not.

Marisa whirled around and walked back to Mr. Barlowe. For a moment, they simply stared each other down.

"Fine," said Marisa.

Never once taking her eyes away from him, Marisa stripped completely naked again, throwing what little clothing she had been wearing onto the nearby sofa.

"Go ahead," said Marisa defiantly. "I can take whatever you can dish out, old man."

Mr. Barlowe raised an eyebrow.

"Get to work, then," he told her, tossing her a dustrag.

She caught the dustrag in her hand, still without breaking eye contact with Mr. Barlowe. Glaring at him, Marisa walked to the dining room table and began wiping it down.

Mr. Barlowe folded his arms again as he gazed at the teenaged girl - so very beautiful, so very naked, so very spanked, and yet, still, so very willful, so very stubborn, so very headstrong.

It had always been his experience that most girls became very meek and compliant after a good spanking, especially when the girl was naked. Of course, there were always exceptions to every rule, and he was clearly looking at one of those exceptions now.

Young Marisa was going to be a difficult nut to crack, but he was looking forward to the challenge.

(End of File)