Holiday Heat: Heartwarming and Bottomwarming Stories for the Festive Season

by April Hill

  “And that would be your business, why?” she inquired tartly.

  Sam conceded that it probably wasn’t his business, strictly speaking, since he lived elsewhere, in a small house purchased during his first year in college, and which, being a neat person by nature, he kept immaculate. What concerned him, he explained patiently, was that before long, they would be living as a couple, and these differences in housekeeping habits might well prove a sore point.

  “In that case,” Carrie said smugly, “one of us will simply have to fucking change his fucking habits.” When Sam winced at the use of the “F” word twice in one sentence, she finished the thought by adding two more. “And quit being such a fucking fussbudget about every fucking little thing.” (An aspiring writer, Carrie believed that the “F” word made her conversations sound more sophisticated and literary.) Ten years older than Carrie and already a seasoned police officer, Sam was well accustomed to, and not easily offended by, gratuitous obscenity. Still, he had noticed recently that his beloved had begun inserting this particular word into her daily conversation with the frequency of a rap star. And since this seemed a perfect time to suggest a change, he did.

  Carrie’s response was disappointing, but not surprising. It was also short. “Fuck off.” She was smiling when she uttered the words, which suggested to Sam that she wasn’t so much interested in freedom of speech as she was looking for a quarrel. But Sam was not fond of quarreling. He had never had a quarrel with Carrie in which either side could be said to have won.

  “Okay, then,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s just drop it, then. I’m sorry I insulted your housekeeping, But I’ll never be able to take you to dinner at my Mom’s house.”

  “Why not?” she asked huffily, prepared to be insulted.

  Sam shrugged. “Because even I don’t use that kind of language around my mother.”

  “You’re a grown man,” she scoffed. “An adult should be able to talk any way he chooses, even around his parents.”

  He grinned. “Could be, but I’m not about to risk it. My dad’s pretty spry for his age, and he can still get his belt off a lot faster than I can make it to the door. And just so you’ll know, he once threatened my sister, Maryann, with a spanking when she was nineteen.”

  “My God! What had she done?”

  “She eloped with a Presbyterian. And a Scot. Jim was a registered Republican, too, so I’m not sure what annoyed Dad more—that his new son-in-law wasn’t a practicing Irish Catholic, or that he didn’t vote a straight Democratic ticket.”

  “Your father wouldn’t have actually done it, would he? Spank an adult woman?”

  “Who knows? Sis was smart enough to stay out of range until she got herself pregnant, and just to be on the safe side, she named the kid Joseph, after Dad. Little Joe was the first grandkid in the family, so that kind of got her a pass. But you’re not pregnant, and from Dad’s point of view, that probably makes your butt fair game.”

  Carrie made a face. “Only a Neanderthal would hit a woman he supposedly loves. And what kind of modern, liberated woman would let herself be spanked?”

  He smiled. “My mom, for one.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Nope. I can’t be sure, of course, but every now and then, when I was a kid, I could swear that Mom was sitting on a sore rear-end at dinner. I knew the drill, of course, so the symptoms were pretty hard to miss. And there were never two people more in love than my folks.”

  The conversation had been just that, a simple conversation. It was close to a year later when Carrie learned that, as the old adage goes, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

  Sam had taken a rare weekend off so they could drive up to Vermont to see the autumn foliage. The weather was perfect, cool enough to feel like fall, but still warm enough to leave the car windows open. On the second day, they’d argued over something— their first serious quarrel. Later, neither of them would be able to recall exactly what had started it, but the argument quickly become heated, and without warning, Carrie reached over and slapped Sam across the face— while he was driving. The blow wasn’t hard, but it startled him, and the car swerved dangerously. He pulled off the road at the next store they came to, parked the car without a word, and walked off into the woods to cool down. While Sam was gone, it began to get chilly, so Carrie went inside the small shop to look around.

  It was one of those relentlessly quaint little country stores, with a lot of homey merchandise geared to visitors from the city, but the place was warm and cheerful, and the proprietor friendly and talkative. She had been there for only a few minutes when Sam came in. He walked up to Carrie and took her hand in his.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said quietly. “That was rotten. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean…”

  Sam chuckled. “You pack quite a wallop,” he said, grinning. “Is slugging me going to be a regular thing?”

  Carrie flushed, and shook her head. “Never again, I promise.” She snuggled closer, and laughed softly against his shoulder. “But if I forget, you can even spank me, if you still want to.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” (Carrie’s remark had been a joke. Sam’s response, on the other hand, was a bit harder to read.)

  They wandered around the shop for a while, selecting several brown jugs of maple syrup for friends and a cleverly carved figure of a bear for their apartment. And then, Sam stopped to pick up a very large, sleek, hand-made wooden hairbrush. Grinning, he held it up for Carrie’s approval. When the old gentleman at the counter came over and launched into a sales pitch, pointing out the brush’s admirable design and sturdy construction, Carrie turned quickly away, and even Sam had trouble keeping a straight face.

  “You’ll get a lifetime of good, hard use out of that brush, there,” the man promised. “You got my word on it. Made right here in Vermont, and built to last, that’s for danged sure. Solid hard rock maple and an inch thick. Couldn’t break the thing if you was tryin’ to.” He picked up the big brush and slapped it against his palm to demonstrate its durability, and winced slightly at the sound and the impact. “Bigger’n usual, too. Nice sheen, don’tcha think?” He turned to Carrie, who was doing her best to distance herself from the discussion by leafing through the shop’s limited collection of scenic postcards—for the third time. “Pretty thing, ain’t it, Ma’am?”

  Noticing the look of appreciation on Sam’s face, and the genuine interest he’d begun to show in the monster brush, Carrie shot him an annoyed glance. “Absolutely beautiful,” she remarked coolly. “A masterpiece of hairbrush art, I’m sure.”

  “You got real pretty hair. A kinda present for you, is it?” the proprietor inquired. Behind him, Sam was already pulling out his wallet—and smiling.

  Carrie closed her eyes. “You could say that.”

  The hairbrush saw its first use three days later, following a brief but heated discussion of Carrie’s badly overdrawn checking account, during which she made the mistake of telling her husband, once too often, perhaps, to “fuck off.” And just as the shop’s proprietor had guaranteed, the brush hadn’t broken, despite several minutes of hard use and Sam’s very best efforts. Even though this spanking had been promised—more than once—Carrie was surprised, not only by the fact that Sam had actually spanked her, but by how badly it had hurt. She was also more than a little surprised at Sam’s determination, and by the astonishing upper arm strength he demonstrated in holding her in place long enough to finish what he’d begun. Nor had it occurred to her that being spanked bare-assed and squirming over a man’s knee would be so humiliating—especially in that awful moment when she felt her panties being dragged ignominiously below her knees. Later, after a making a careful study of the bright red oval welts left by the Vermont hairbrush, Carrie concluded that the entire episode had all been a mistake. Sam, being inexperienced, had simply been overzealous in his first attempt. The next time—and she was already resigned to the fact that there would be a next time—probably wouldn’t
be nearly as painful. It couldn’t be, now, could it?

  Carrie still had a lot to learn about being spanked, and even more to learn about Sam.

  * * * *

  The day of the Dennison Halloween party dawned cool and damp, and when Carrie stepped out on the porch to collect the morning paper, she was disheartened to see that the infamous Pumpkin Predators had struck again. Almost every house on the block had the shattered remains of a carved pumpkin in its driveway or scattered across the lawn. Though Daniel had kept his newly carved Jack o’ Lantern safely in the front window, Carrie had felt secure enough to leave three very large, uncarved pumpkins nestled in amongst her chrysanthemums. Now, all three lay crushed and disemboweled on the grass, their slimy innards spewed across the sidewalk and the front steps. A violent and messy end to sixteen dollars worth of autumnal garden decor. Carrie swore, mentally adding this atrocity to all the others she was planning to avenge. Then, after going inside to get a couple of large plastic garbage bags, she strolled down the block and collected two bags full of pumpkin carnage—like the good neighbor she was.

  Later that afternoon, Carrie dropped Daniel off at Sam’s mother’s house for the night, and then picked up her costume at a local theatrical supply house. If he remembered, which she seriously doubted, Sam would pick up his outfit at Party-Ville, a few minutes from the house. Her own costume had been more difficult to find, and she was anxious to get home and try it on. She was going as a young, wide-eyed Mary Pickford, complete with golden sausage curls, a broad, floppy hat swathed in chiffon, and enough flounces, ruffles and bows to fill a box four feet long and two feet high.

  Sam was slow to see the resemblance.

  “Looks like you lost a couple of your sheep, little girl,” he remarked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Carrie demanded. “Can’t you tell? I’m dressed as…” She looked down at her costume with fresh eyes, and groaned. Sam was right. She didn’t look like Mary Pickford. She looked like Little Bo Peep.

  “That just goes to show what you know about old movies, dummy,” she snarled. “This is a one hundred percent authentic Mary Pickford costume. America’s Sweetheart. It cost me eighty-five bucks to rent, and an extra forty for the wig, and if I spill anything, sweat in excess, or accidentally set my hair on fire, they’re going to tack another hundred onto our Visa card. And while we’re on the subject, sweetie, where’s your costume? The one you swore to pick up from Party-Ville on your way home?” This was a silly question, of course. Carrie had been married to this man for thirteen years, and she knew how much he detested parties—costume parties in particular, and Angela’s costume parties specifically. She also knew perfectly well where the adorably cute Keystone Cops costume was. It was still on the shelf at Party-Ville.

  “I decided to save a few bucks and put together my own costume,” he said. He turned around in a full circle, and winked. “This is it. What do you think?”

  Carrie smirked. “You’re going to Angela’s party as an undertaker?”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  Carrie didn’t want to guess again. It was enough that she was doomed to show up at the home of her mortal enemy dressed like a demented, badly wrinkled Little Bo Peep, dragging along not a gaggle of lost sheep, but an unwilling, blue-suited mortician. “Okay, I’ll bite,” she said wearily. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

  “A cop, of course. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “That is not a police costume,” she pointed out, rather unnecessarily. “That is your old blue suit. The one you bought for your Aunt Eleanor’s funeral—twelve years ago, and it’s missing two buttons.”

  “Exactly. I’m a hard-bitten, street-wise plain-clothes detective. Shabby, world-weary, a little worn around the edges. Very film-noir.” He opened the jacket to flash the six inch wide gold plastic star he’d pinned to his belt. It said “Sheriff” across the front, and had been purchased at Disneyworld the previous summer. “I borrowed the badge from Daniel’s toy box,” Sam explained. “Thanks to our rule about war toys, the only gun I could find was a Star Wars light saber. Bright green, and talks like Darth Vader. The damned thing glows in the dark and shoots sparks, and I figured that would spoil the total effect. So, in the interest of authenticity, I decided to go unarmed.”

  “Very nice. Why don’t you just borrow some fucking cowboy boots and a Stetson, and go as Woody, from Toy Story? And why the hell are you being such a pain in the ass about this fucking party?”

  “I don’t like costume parties, and I don’t like Herb and Angela Dennison, and neither do you.”

  “Everyone on the whole fucking neighborhood will be there,” Carrie replied, seething. “If we don’t go, Angela will spread it all over that there’s still some sort of feud between us.”

  “There is some sort of a feud between us,” Sam pointed out patiently. “Between you and Angela, anyway. I can take Herb, and even Angela—in small doses. You’re the one who threatened to, and I quote, punch the f-ing bitch’s lights out.”

  “I was mad. I misspoke.”

  Sam grinned. “Misspoke? You also called her a bucket of slime. No, excuse me, it was a ‘fat bucket of slime’. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense, of course, but…”

  “We are going to this party,” Carrie said grimly. “And we’re going in costume. Dress up as an undertaker, if you want. Dress up as a fucking corpse in a cardboard coffin, for all I care! Just shut the fuck up about it!”

  If Sam was counting right, that made five “F” words in a row.

  Which is why the tall mortician/cop pulled short, plump Little Bo Peep across his thigh, lifted the ruffled hem of her fetching frock, and landed a stinging volley of very hard, open-handed smacks on the seat of Bo Peep’s frilly white pantalettes. And the f…ing party hadn’t even begun, yet.

  * * * *

  The evening went better than expected, and around ten-thirty, Sam came up to his wife to remark on how lovely she looked in her fifty yards of rumpled ruffles.

  “Where did you disappear to for the last half hour?” he asked. “Still looking for your sheep? Last time I saw you, you were dancing with Herb. Trying to make up, were you?”

  Carrie grimaced. “Not as much as you, apparently. I saw you trading sweet nothings with Angela a while ago. Very chummy.”

  Sam sighed. “Not really. Angela’s changed. She doesn’t seem as inclined to let me have my way with her.”

  “And you tried, of course?”

  “Not too hard. Just enough to make you and Herb jealous. But I changed my mind when I remembered that Herb’s got a good forty or fifty pounds on me.”

  Carrie twined her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed a spot just under his ear.

  “It’s all middle-aged bulge and paunch, darling,” she whispered, pressing closer. “Now, this bulge of yours, on the other hand…” She ground her hips against his.

  Sam smiled. “Keep that up and you’re likely to get hauled upstairs and ravished on Angela’s stunning new French Provincial four-poster. Would you like to know how much it cost? Herb already told me.”

  “No thank you. Ravished?” she giggled. “Is that what we’re calling it, now?”

  “Then again we could just slip away and go home, so I could ravish you on our plain old Sears and Roebuck double bed.”

  Carrie shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to hurt Angela’s feelings.”

  “Sure, you would. If you’re finished making your point, let’s go home.”

  Carrie smiled enigmatically. “Oh, yes. I’ve finished, and I’m pretty sure I made my point.”

  They walked back to the house in a fine autumn drizzle, stopping twice to neck a little on the way. Once home, Sam locked up, while Carrie went upstairs to unearth a filmy, black shortie nightgown from the bottom dresser drawer. Once she had it on, the thing was more than a little snug, but it seemed to capture the proper mood. She was rummaging through the closet, looking for the matching black satin mules, when she noticed a pair of Sam�
��s police handcuffs lying on the top shelf.

  It was no easy matter handcuffing herself to the headboard without help, but Carrie was convinced that the look on Sam’s face would be worth her contortions. And it was—for a moment or two, until Sam explained that the cuffs were an old pair, with no key.

  “You’re kidding me!” Carrie cried.

  “Sorry, babe. I’m afraid you’re stuck. I’ll have to cut them off—later.”

  “Later?” she repeated.

  Sam grinned. “Sure. You don’t expect me to pass up a chance at having my own sex slave, do you? For one night, anyway? All I know about this stuff is what I see on the internet, but I’d say you make a pretty cute sex slave.”

  Carrie giggled. “Well, thank you—I guess. So, what are you waiting for?”

  Sadly, Carrie was about to discover that being a sex slave was highly overrated. The teasing erotic foreplay had proceeded beautifully, but the actual ravishing was not going at all well.

  “Ow! Oh, my God, Sam, stop! Please! Stop!”

  Assuming that her complaints were part of the “scene,” Sam took a moment between thrusts to nip Carrie’s shoulder, and to squeeze a nipple.

  “Stop that!” she wailed. “Ow! Stop it! I’m not kidding, Sam! Stop! Please, just stop!”

  So, Sam stopped—mid-thrust. With very little enthusiasm, maybe, but he did stop. It was the only gentlemanly thing to do.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My shoulders!” she gasped. “I’m all twisted, and they’re cramping! I’m in agony!”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, damn it, I’m serious! Can’t you tell? Get me out of these damned cuffs—Now!”

  Sam rolled off and sat on the edge of the bed, naked and depressed. He was feeling fairly uncomfortable himself at the moment. “I’m going to need a hacksaw,” he said glumly.

  “A hacksaw!” she cried. “And exactly how were you planning to cut them off my wrists without cutting me?”

  “Not the cuffs. I’ll have to cut the bedpost in half.”