Holiday Heat: Heartwarming and Bottomwarming Stories for the Festive Season

by April Hill

  What I did do was to get annoyed at all the fuss. Once the fire was out and the fire trucks were preparing to leave, and while poor Hank was trying to clean up the burned mess and the pine cuttings with a rake and a snow shovel, I remarked—in an absolutely dazzling display of stupidity—that it seemed to me that everyone had simply overreacted to what was, after all, a “rather insignificant little” fire.

  It was probably only the sub-zero temperatures that kept Hank from yanking down my pants and walloping the you-know-what out of me right there in the front yard—in front of firemen, policemen, and all the gathered neighbors and their wide-eyed kiddies. Being a good citizen, though, he hauled me into the house first—but not before stopping in the yard to collect several useful items from the charred remains of what had once been his stately pine trees.

  The thing about wet pine boughs on bare flesh is that not only does the whipping itself hurt like blazes, (especially in all those really intimate nooks and crannies) but the after-effect of all those prickly pine needles and pine sap is this unbelievable itching that makes you want to scratch in inappropriate places for days. Actually, Hank alternated between the short, sturdy pine branches and his own strong, bare hand, with me sprawled over the back of his living room couch, screeching like a banshee. My skirt was over my head, so I couldn’t see much, but I do remember squirming like crazy to avoid each scalding whack. All of that wriggling and kicking merely opened up totally new, unspanked vistas for Hank to explore, of course, and please believe me when I tell you that he took excellent, very unchivalrous advantage of every single opportunity. We had only recently become engaged, and my underwear still tended to be of the brief, black, lacy variety. Not only did that evening’s fetching undergarment offer no protection whatever, but the allure of it didn’t a thing to stop Hank, either, or even slow him down. And then, presumably in search of some tiny, unwelted portion of my already scalded behind, he removed even that small protection by yanking my panties down to my ankles and renewing his efforts.

  I don’t know how long it lasted—maybe eight or ten hours? But I do know that when he was through, there wasn’t one square inch of my ass or thighs that didn’t feel as though I’d sat down a on a couple of kitchen burners. Finding the right words for occasions like that is always difficult, so I resorted, as I usually do, to a string of obscenities, followed by loud, shocked protest, beginning and ending with: “You son of a bitch! I can’t believe you did that!”

  “Neither can I,” Hank said, still a little breathless from all that hard work. “But you had every swat coming. And just so we understand one another, I enjoyed every damned moment of it.”

  “Enjoyed it! “ I screamed. “What kind of a man enjoys doing that to a woman?” I was rubbing my butt with both hands, and sort of hopping around Hank’s tidy living room, trying to pull my panties back up between rubs and yelps and curses. “A woman he claims to love, yet?”

  “The kind who’s almost had his damned house burned down, that’s who! By a little idiot who was warned six times not to do what she did!”

  “It was an experiment!” I wailed. “Maybe if you’d water your damned trees once in a while…” Apparently, a good offense is not always the best defense, because before I could get my panties untangled and back where they were supposed to be, I found myself tucked under Hank’s arm and over Hank’s hip. The pine boughs having served their purpose, now lay in tattered ruins, but I was about to discover a second, less well-known use for that always-handy male fashion accessory—the leather belt.

  Part two of the First Christmas Spanking was not quite as long and painful as Part One, but it was no walk in the park, either, and just as humiliating. When it was over, I yanked my engagement ring off and threw it at him. “Here, take your damned ring back! I wouldn’t marry you now if you were the last man on Earth. You’re lucky I don’t have you arrested!”

  “By who?” Hank shot back. “The cop who took the report suggested that I—and I quote— set your goddamned ass on fire, and make sure you didn’t sit down for a week without leaving fingerprints! I won’t even describe what the fireman thought I should do to you, but it had something to do with a couple of those nice fat leftover candles. I’m still considering both their suggestions, by the way, so watch your mouth!”

  Our first real fight, and my first real spanking, all on one magical holiday evening.

  Afterward, we sat down (he sat down, actually, I stood.) and talked about a lot of things—like does insanity run in my family. (Just kidding.) The upshot was that Hank apologized, I apologized, and then we had a perfectly lovely weekend in bed discussing this and that in between bouts of lust—and nothing at all got settled.

  The “formal” DD arrangement between Hank and me came several years later, but that first Christmas did sort of open the subject of spanking as… Well, let’s just call it a tension relieving device. Somewhere along the line, I agreed to the “arrangement,” and I’ve have never regretted it. (Uh. This isn’t exactly true. I regret it every single time I end up over Hank’s knee feeling my panties being pulled down, and usually for the several hours after that, while my rear end is still on fire. But that’s only temporary. I don’t recommend this arrangement for every marriage, but for us, it’s worked fairly well.)

  But I do sometimes resent being spanked at this—the jolly Christmas season. There’s just something so unjolly about being over someone’s knee with your butt aflame when it’s happening beside a twinkling tree, with gaily wrapped presents all ‘round, you know?

  In Hank’s defense, he’s no Ebenezer Scrooge, and even I can’t accuse him of going out of his way to find reasons to spank me at this otherwise joyful time of year. The truth is, my Traditional Holiday Spanking has usually come as a response to my Traditional Holiday Shopping Orgy. Hank is thrifty, you see, whereas I am not. Hank is a careful holiday shopper. My eyes glaze over when I hear the first strains of “Jingle Bells” each season, and thereafter, I am like a Thing Possessed.

  So, six years ago, over my very strong objections, Hank attached a sort of addendum to our original domestic discipline agreement. And, he explained, the policy would be applied retroactively. Which meant, briefly explained, that that year, and every year in the future, I would pay for my holiday extravagance not with the grumpy lectures of Christmas past, but with a spanking—by candlelight, if I preferred. One swat per dollar. Hank even volunteered to wear a Santa Claus hat and hum carols if that would add to the ambience. Not fair, said I, trying to work up some righteous anger at this painfully unjust decision. Christmas shopping was already a pain, I pointed out—a chore that I always got stuck with, being the mother and luckless inheritor of such unappreciated tasks.

  Would I prefer that he take over the annual Christmas shopping, Hank asked? Well, duh! I don’t think so! Hank’s idea of Christmas shopping is to give everyone underwear or gift certificates to Home Depot.

  As it turned out, I had gone over budget that first year by a truly paltry sum—looked at in the vast scheme of things. A mere three hundred and seventeen dollars over. A pittance, right?

  Hank didn’t see it that way.

  Even to Hank, three hundred and eighteen swats seemed a bit harsh, unless he stretched it out, but he nixed that idea immediately. (Hank is very much a man of the moment—not big on delaying things. Sort of like what they used to say about smacking the puppy’s rump with a newspaper when he pees on the rug? You’re supposed to do it immediately, or the puppy forgets, right?)

  So, Hank rounded it off to 315, and explained that for each five dollars I had gone over, I would get one swat. Sixty-three swats, in all. Not just any swat, mind you, but a good, hard, very impressive swat—on my bare behind. Hank is a big fellow, and he works out, bless his heart, so sixty-three of anything from Hank is not to be dismissed lightly. Hank with a belt or a hairbrush or a ruler in hand was even worse—and that’s exactly what he decided upon—belt, hairbrush, and ruler. Divided evenly.

  He selected an afternoon j
ust two days after the holiday, when our adorable moppets were spending the night at Grandma’s. Then, with me already in my flannel jammies, we retired to the bedroom, where Hank made sure all the windows were closed so I could howl to my heart’s content. Then, he sat down on the edge of the bed, took me over his knee, and pulled my pajama bottoms down over my shivering buttocks—taking care to place one of his strong legs over my own to discourage escape attempts.

  With that done, he went to work, punctuating every other smack to my tender ass-cheeks with a stern lecture on the subject of thrift. The first twenty-one (with the hairbrush) concentrated on the crowns and lower portions of my posteriors, and the next twenty-one (with the ruler) made sure that my thighs and that lovely, sensitive little crease under my butt got thoroughly scalded. And when I was absolutely sure that I was on fire from waist to knee, he stood up, dumped me over the end of the bed, and finished the event with his belt. To say I howled doesn’t begin to describe my reaction.

  I survived, of course, but I could still feel the sting three days later, and I was convinced that there were a couple of faint marks still visible on New Year’s Day. I vowed then and there that that if I ever went over budget, again, I would move to another country and change my name.

  * * * *

  (Scene changes, now, to the following year. Me in bedroom, trying to explain away over-budget charges with righteous indignation and futile appeal to male-female equality.)

  “I’ve been out all day!” I railed. “Fighting my way through a packed, overheated shopping mall with two bickering kids, six overloaded shopping bags, and a blister on my heel! And I don’t appreciate having to stand here and account for every little penny I spent!”

  “Every little penny!” Hank repeated grimly, adding up my day’s expenditures on the hand-held calculator I gave him last Christmas. “You blew eight hundred bucks just at Macy’s! And how the blazes can anyone spend two hundred and fifty dollars at a Walgreens Drug Store? Are we giving prescription drugs for Christmas this year?” (Hank had obviously never heard of stocking stuffers.) “What the hell happened to the budget?”

  Ah, yes, the budget. I could only imagine how much I might have spent if I hadn’t been dragging the kids, or been forced to stop four times at public toilets and three times to chat with three different Santa Clauses, the last of whom looked like Danny DeVito.

  My entire Christmas budget that year—agreed upon after a long, careful discussion—had been $900. On my very first day of shopping, and with a long list yet to go, it seems I had already exceeded my budget by four hundred and sixteen dollars. The look on Hank’s face as he handed me the calculator printout made it painfully clear what was going to happen at bedtime.

  It occurred to me as I got ready for bed that night that this might be an excellent time to renegotiate this year’s agreement of one swat for every dollar over budget. Even Joan of Arc didn’t get 416 smacks with a hairbrush. All that happened to her was she got burnt at the damned stake!

  “Forty-one,” Hank said, before I could even make my opening argument for clemency. “I divided by ten, this time, in the interest of my right shoulder and your being able to sit down by Easter. Pull your pajama pants down and bend over the end of the bed. You’re getting off easy with forty-one, but I’m planning to make every damned one count.”

  “You’re such a grouch!” I grumbled.

  Hank sighed. “I get that way when I’m headed for bankruptcy court. Now, get ‘em down, or I add another forty for that little early morning trip to the ATM you thought I wouldn’t notice.” Oops. Caught again, and with my pants already down. My timing was definitely slipping.

  The first crack of the big wooden hairbrush landed dead center on my right cheek, and I opened my mouth in a silent howl, and then quickly stuffed the edge of a pillow between my teeth. It was bad enough getting spanked during the festive season, but I sure as hell didn’t want the kiddies to hear. I’d just as soon not have them burst in and find Daddy methodically blistering poor Mommy’s bare, squirming ass. Children could be traumatized by such a thing— or find it hilarious. One never can never tell about these things.

  Blows two through forty-one were delivered hard and fast. Hank has never been a big believer in warm-ups or a lot of chitchat before getting down to work.

  I gritted my teeth, danced up and down from one foot to the other, and decided not to wait until New Years to make a solemn resolution. Next year, not one penny over budget!

  * * * *

  And so, onward to the next year— (this year.) I’m very proud to say that I was a very good girl, and stayed within my budget. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving, yet, and my shopping was essentially done. It appeared, for one brief shining moment, that I had finally beaten the Holiday Spanking Curse.

  That was before the Turkey Fiasco.

  Why is it that certain things sound charming and nostalgic in books and stories, but in real life considerably less charming?

  The idea of roast turkey on Christmas, for instance. We all cheered with glee and wiped away a tear when Ebenezer Scrooge sent a boy running off to buy the prize turkey in the butcher’s window. We enjoyed a warm glowing Christmas moment when Tiny Tim and the threadbare Cratchit family sat down to feast on a fragrant, steaming bird, right?

  Of course, in modern times, not everyone gets a turkey at the supermarket. For the bloodthirsty few, hunting turkeys is considered manly sport, practiced by manly men tramping through the woods on brisk autumn mornings, wearing silly hats, oozing testosterone and trying to mow down Bambi with an Uzi in the name of male-bonding. (Yeah, I know that Bambi wasn’t a turkey, but it makes a nice image, doesn’t it?)

  So, when Hank came home bearing the glad tidings that he was going turkey hunting, and bringing home the bird for our Thanksgiving table, I laughed. A joke, right?

  No joke, Hank explained glumly. His boss had invited him, and he had to go.

  “I don’t care if Dick Cheney invited you,” said I, wittily. “Why can’t you mighty hunters of the forest just sit on the couch like you always do, with your eyes glued to a fifty inch TV, watching other adult men in tights stomp one another into the mud? In the first place, you’ll probably shoot yourself in the foot, or worse, and in the second, it’s disgusting. You can’t just go out and gun down an innocent turkey!”

  “All right,” Hank, agreed affably. “I’ll try to find one that’s got a criminal record, how’s that?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “We eat turkey every year, honey,” he said, patiently. “Do you think all of them committed suicide, or died of natural causes?” I could tell from his tone that Hank was getting just a little defensive, now. Hank is a very easy-going guy, but I have been known to push his mild manner too far.

  “They were raised on farms,” I said.

  “That’s better? Besides, turkeys aren’t endangered, and they’re about the stupidest creature that ever lived.”

  “So that makes it all right to murder them?” I cried. “Just because they’re stupid? Your mother has the IQ of library paste, so by that reasoning, she should end on someone’s dining table at Christmas with an apple in her…” I caught herself in mid-sentence. “Uh…Never mind.”

  Hank grinned. “Nice try, but too late. Let’s see, now. What did we agree would be the penalty for bad-mouthing my mother?”

  I thought for a moment. “Funny, but it seems to have slipped my mind.”

  “Unluckily for you, it didn’t slip my mind. Insulting Mom more than twice in any twenty four hour period gets you ten swats with the weapon of my choice, twenty if the insult involves the “F” word of which you are so fond. But if you promise to shut up about this turkey business, and let me go off into the killing fields in peace, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. It looks like I’m going turkey hunting, this year, like my pioneer forefathers.”

  “Ha!” I snapped back. “Your pioneer forefathers lived in a squalid third floor tenement in Newark, New Jersey, just like mine did. I happen to
know that they all got right off the boat and sank into instantaneous squalor and poverty. They probably shot rats at the public dump for Christmas, or ate stray dogs.”

  Ten hard smacks with a wooden spoon later, Hank went off into the forest, in search of the elusive wild turkey, and I rubbed my rear end and counted my blessings. What I’d really wanted to say about my precious mother-in-law would have cost me a hundred—with the hairbrush.

  Two days later, dirty, unshaven, and remorseful, Hank returned, and like a caveman, laid his “kill” on the counter for his mate and offspring to admire.

  “What is it?” I asked, poking the feathered lump with a spoon.

  “It’s a turkey,” Hank said, sounding a bit wistful. “And yes, I shot the damned thing, and I already feel like shit about it, so just don’t start in, please.”

  At that moment, my heart went out to him. I, too, have bowed to peer pressure and done grotesque things in order to be accepted by other females. Stiletto heels and plucking my eyebrows are two examples that come immediately to mind.

  I was about to offer my condolences, and my forgiveness, when the turkey sat up.

  I leaped back from the counter. “It moved!” I screamed

  “It’s a reflex, “Hank said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  Out fourteen-year-old son, Matt, poked it again. “Hey Dad, do we think this turkey is okay, health-wise. He looks sick.”

  “That’s because he’s dead,” wailed my little one, Amber, sobbing.

  The turkey apparently disagreed with her diagnosis, and tried his best to stand up.

  “Is it supposed to be that skinny?” I could see that Matt was trying to keep a straight face.