by April Hill
“I’m sure Emma and Joe won’t mind,” he said affably. “But if you want me to go down there and ask Joe if it’s all right to bend you over his bed and blister your butt, it’s okay with me.”
“Never mind,” I growled. “Just get on with it, damn it!”
Sam didn’t need to be told twice. The last word was barely out of my mouth before he pressed his left hand on the small of my back to keep me in place, then landed the first scalding, open-handed swat across my bare and very chilly bottom. (Joe really needs to quit being so cheap and turn up the damned heat.) I regret to confess that I stuffed a handful of Emma’s exquisite colonial quilt in my mouth to muffle the howl of anguish that really, really wanted to come out. The sounds that did emerge after that, following each agonizing whack, were more like muffled moans, or strangled hiccups. If anyone had been listening at the door, I could only hope that he or she assumed that we were abusing our hosts’ hospitality by making violent love, and not the even more embarrassing possibility.
If Sam felt nervous about whaling the daylights out of me in someone else’s bedroom, he certainly didn’t show it. Nor did he pull any punches, spanking-wise. It was fast, hard, and thorough, and when I finally stood up and went into the bathroom, my rear end felt the way it always does when Sam does his best work. A quick look in the bathroom mirror confirmed it. A mass of red splotches, some of them distinctly hand-shaped. Simply put, Sam had done exactly what he’d promised to do—set my ass on fire. From my point of view, it was something I never wanted to happen again—as close to a public spanking as I’ve ever had. And I suspect that Sam understood that from the very first whack.
There was no way I was going to put a pair of scratchy panty-hose back on, so I made a couple of big runs in both legs, then stuffed them in the waste basket, under a bunch of crumpled Kleenex. Going barelegged was in, right? Even the smooth nylon of my underwear was uncomfortable on my swollen posteriors, but I didn’t dare skip wearing panties. I rarely wore a skirt, and the chances were excellent that I’d forget, lean down, and finish this hideous day even more humiliated than I was now.
On the way home, that night, I began to defend myself, claiming that my jokes were “all in fun,” but Sam wasn’t buying it. “If I hear one more word about diets before we get home,” he threatened, rather cheerfully, considering what he added next. “I’m going stop the damned car and blister your butt again. Consider yourself warned.”
“Why the hell are you getting so bent out of shape over this?” I demanded.
He sighed. “Because we go through the same thing every year, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“And you’re not getting tired of having a fat, dumpy wife?” I inquired.
“You’re not dumpy,” he said wearily.
“Just fat, huh?”
Sam just shook his head. “You’re pushing push your luck, kiddo.”
“I didn’t say a single word about a diet,” I replied smugly. “I just think it’s very interesting that you chose to emphasize the word dumpy, and carefully avoided the word fat.”
“You’re not fat, either.”
“I won’t be, after a couple of weeks on the diet Emma told me about—The Wilderness Diet.” Oops! The forbidden word had popped out before I could stop myself. I hoped that Sam hadn’t heard it, but he had already applied the brakes, and was now pulling off the road and onto the shoulder.
“Is this wilderness enough?” he asked affably. When I glanced around, I knew that I had definitely pushed my luck too far. And, he wasn’t kidding about the wilderness, either. We were in the damned Black Forest. It was dark, and all I could see for miles were trees, rocks, and more trees. The place was alive with noises, though, which I, being a city girl, assumed to be roving herds of wild animals—hungry ones. Like man-eating bears or moose, or whatever.
Sam opened the car door and got out, but I stayed safely where I was, and pretended to be really interested in the contents of the glove compartment. I figured if I got out of the car, one of two things could happen. I’d meet up with one of those ferocious wild animals, or get spanked for the second time in one day by my husband, and from the determined look in the husband’s eye, the wild animal seemed by far the more attractive option. When I looked up again, though, Sam had disappeared.
I was out of the car like a shot. The prospect of being consumed by a voracious predator wasn’t exactly pleasant, but neither was sitting alone in a car with nothing but the cigarette lighter for defense.
He was leaning against a tree, and stripping the leaves from a handful of switches. I had walked into a trap.
“I’m sorry about what happened back at Emma’s,” he said. “I was mad. But I want you to know that I meant what I said. If you’re that concerned about your weight, it’s time to do something about it. And do it the right way. You need to see a doctor, get on a reasonable diet, and maybe join a gym. But what you’re not going to do is make yourself sick, again, with another stupid, fad diet. Will you promise me that much?”
I nodded, secure in my little secret. In my purse, I had a scrap of paper with everything I needed to know about the fabulous Wilderness Diet. Besides, it wasn’t really a lie. According to countless Hollywood stars, this diet was based on solid nutritional science, and virtually foolproof.
We rode the rest of the way back to the city through a gently falling snow. Winter had finally arrived.
* * * *
And so, we approached the New Year, glorious with possibilities.
Like many American women, I usually spend New Year’s Day in the traditional manner—half-watching the Rose Bowl parade with my bored kids, and dozing through several football games that all seem to be the same game, with different colored uniforms. The parade is okay, but the only reason I pretend to watch the games is to placate Sam, who insists that football is a game requiring strategy and intelligence, and if I would just pay attention occasionally, I’d learn to appreciate it. (After years of attempting to get something out of watching a lot of two-hundred fifty pound hulks running into one another until they all end up with broken clavicles, torn cartilage, and brain-damage, I’ve concluded that the only worthwhile part of a football game is when the TV camera zooms in on all those spandexed rear ends and bulging thighs. Now, that’s tradition.)
The third traditional New Year’s activity at our house has always been the mindless consumption of an unwholesome and sometimes nauseating quantity of empty fat calories—the only part of the customary New Year’s Day activities I truly enjoy. If scarfing down tortilla chips, onion dip, and squashed candy left over from my kids’ Christmas stockings was a competitive event, my mantel would be crowded with trophies.
All of which meant that by mid afternoon on the average New Year’s Day, I have already blown my New Year’s resolution to hell. The same masochistic New Year’s resolution I and millions of other slightly chubby American women make every year—to go on a strict diet and take off ____ ugly pounds. (Please feel free to fill in the blanks.)
This year, though, was different. Determined to show Sam that I could keep a resolution, and actually lose weight, I had essentially stopped eating just after Emma’s party. On the Wilderness Diet, you consumed nothing every day but two hundred calories a day of sugared water and a few teaspoons of extra virgin olive oil, along with all the spring water you wanted. Apparently, there is a tribe of Indians in a Brazilian jungle who survive on sugar water and oil for weeks at a time. At dinner, I picked at a salad and told Sam that I’d eaten a heavy lunch. On other days, when he wasn’t looking, I simply dumped my plate in the trash. By New Year’s Day, I was on day five of what I was sure would be the most successful diet of my entire life. Oddly enough, I felt pretty good, too. I got a little dizzy and light-headed when I stood up too quickly, and I was constantly thirsty, but I wasn’t about to regain the weight with a lot of water, so I drank only a mouthful of spring water every few hours.
The plan was to stay on the fast for a week, then switch to five hundred
calories a day for the next week, until I felt satisfied with 750 calories a day. The diet had actually recommended 1200 calories, but I was determined to take it even further. I was in good health. What could a few weeks hurt, right? Tibetan monks did it all the time.
Emma had bailed out after three days, and tried to get me to do the same.
“It’s too much, “ she said, trying to ply me with a slice of turkey and a glass of skim milk. “I felt like I was going to faint all day. Just add a few…”
I pushed the turkey away, and the milk. It didn’t even look good, actually, and the smell was nauseating.
By six o’clock in the evening on New Year’s Day, I had begun to feel really wobbly, and went upstairs to lie down for a while.
Lying down felt wonderful, but I kept having weird thoughts, and seeing flashing lights. Finally, in what seemed like the most logical thing in the world, I decided that I needed to get up and mow the lawn.
I was trying to shove the lawnmower through eighteen inches of snow and ice when Sam opened the back door and came out on the deck. I can’t remember what he said, but I clearly remember asking him several questions about guinea pigs.
And then, I passed out cold.
I don’t remember anything about the trip to the hospital except for all the beautiful rainbows and shooting stars in the back of the ambulance. Sam got a sitter, so he could stay all night at the hospital, sleeping in a hard, metal chair by my hospital bed. He tells me that I was still asking him questions about guinea pigs. By morning, I was still dehydrated, and too weak to stand up, and breakfast arrived through a tube. The lecture came later that afternoon, just after the thin chicken broth and the sugarless vanilla pudding.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” I told him, meaning it.
He shook his head. “Two problems with that. In the first place, you’re always sorry. And in the second place, it’s not about me. It’s about you, and keeping you healthy.” He grinned. “Besides, if you think you’re going to bail out and stick me with raising our kids by myself, you’ve got another think coming. We’re already outnumbered.”
“So, I still get spanked, even though I’ve been hovering near death for two days?” I asked sweetly.
“Have you ever known me to go back on a promise?” he asked.
I sighed. He was right, of course. Sam’s word is his bond, as they say. Just my luck to marry a guy obsessed with keeping his word.
“It’s not like I’d hold you to it,” I growled.
He smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll wait for a while.”
“Thanks. I feel much better. Now I have something to lie here and agonize over for the next week.”
He grinned. “Oh, I think it’ll be a little sooner that that. Your doctor says you can go home tomorrow—if you promise to take it easy for a few days.”
“And does having the holy hell spanked out of me qualify as taking it easy?”
“Sure it does. I’ll be doing all the hard work. All you have to do is lie over a couple of pillows with your butt in the air, and I’ll take it from there.”
“All I wanted to do is look good for you,” I said softly.
When Sam sighed, I knew I’d hit a nerve. “You’ve always looked good to me,” he said, taking my hand in his to kiss the back of my wrist. “I can’t keep my hands off you as it is. Get any better looking and we’ll end up with more kids, and I’m not sure either if us can handle that.”
Sam has a way of doing that—saying something hopelessly sweet and romantic when I’m trying to be mad at him.
“Look, babe, if you want to take off a few pounds, that’s great, “ he went on. “You’ll feel better, and be healthier. I’ll do what I can to help. But no more fasting. You scared the hell out of me last night.”
“So, I’m in for the mother of all spankings when we get home, right?”
Sam chuckled. “No, I’m saving the big one. I have a feeling I’m going to need it, somewhere down the line. But don’t worry. I’m still planning on making your homecoming walloping one for the books. I think I can promise that you won’t be disappointed.”
As I said, Sam never goes back on a promise. The promised spanking took close to two weeks to arrive, but when it did, I definitely wasn’t disappointed. A pile of nice, plump pillows, a fat wooden hairbrush, and ninety seconds of me, howling and begging—one of Sam’s very best efforts. I suppose it was fair, all things considered, and besides, I had managed to take off eight pounds.
Emma called me the next day with an amazing new all fruit diet she’d discovered on the Internet—called the “Eat Like the Apes,” diet. The New Year was off to a great start—as long as Sam didn’t get too inquisitive about all those bananas.
THE END
April Hill
April Hill is a best-selling author of women’s romance, known for her wry humor, sensitive character development and of course, the love.
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Table of Contents
> “A Labor Of Love, And Vice Versa”
“Legends Of The Fall”
“The Great Pumpkin Caper”
“The Rise And Fall Of Spiderwoman”
“Tradition”
“She Won’t Be Home For Christmas”
“All is Calm, All Is Bright”
“The Sculpture Garden”
“In One Year And Out The Other”
April Hill
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