Home for the Holidays

by Hill, April

  This man obviously knew me too well.

  "With that in mind," he went on, "I’ve come up with a plan."

  "A man with a plan," I muttered. "Just what I need."

  David ignored me and began to lay out "The Plan."

  "Here’s the way it’ll work," he said. "Regular offenses will get rewarded the same way they do now—hand, hairbrush, belt or whatever comes to hand. Any demerits having to do with this specific resolution, though, will be added up at the end of the week, and punished after we’ve had a chance to sit down and discuss the problem calmly. We’ll set a time where we can be sure the kids aren’t underfoot—maybe every Friday morning, after they leave for school? Your decision. We’ll assign everything a point value," he continued." You know, three swats for not finishing what you start, four for running yourself down … maybe even six for that one, actually. And two for forgetting or blowing off appointments. How’s that sound?"

  "That sounds like a full-time job, darling," I said sweetly. "However will you find the time?"

  David grinned. "I’ll work it in, somehow."

  "I’ll bet. Thanks for the offer, but I can’t quite see what difference it’ll make. You already spank me, and I’m still the same screw-up I’ve always been."

  He shook his head." Wrong. For one thing, you don’t get spanked for any of these things now. Call this an added incentive. What I had in mind was something a little more …" He hesitated, apparently looking for the right word. "Something a little more … intense."

  "Like what?" I asked sullenly. "Branding? Caning? Maybe you could just drag me out to the village green and have me publicly flogged."

  He shook his head." Well, maybe not in public, but flogging sounds about right. "He walked across the room to the window and took down the little gadget that moves the mini-blinds from open to closed—you know, the long, plastic rod? "I understand caning works petty well for the citizens of Singapore."

  I looked at the plastic rod and grimaced. "You’re kidding, right?"

  "Maybe. I don’t know where I’d go to buy the real thing, but this ought to deliver quite a sting, don’t you think?"

  "Yes!" I yelled." Of course, I think!"

  "Okay then, quit clowning around and listen. I’ll write out a bunch of slips with different … uh, implements, and you can pick one out of a hat."

  "Great," I snarled. "Is that to make this plan of yours more democratic, or just to keep it from being boring?"

  He ignored the sarcasm and went on with the details—none of which sounded a lot more appealing than being caned with the mini-blind gadget.

  "I want this resolution—or promise—whatever you want to call it, in writing, by the way. Then, around once every week, when the kids are out of the way, we’ll look at your total, and take it from there."

  "Take what from there?" I asked suspiciously.

  "Let’s call it ‘the enforcement phase.’ Tell me something, first, though. Do you trust me?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Of course I trust you, but … so, when and where does this resolution stuff begin?"

  "I think it should be retroactive—starting this morning," he said. "And in the basement, where it’ll be … quieter."

  "So, what you’re saying is, you need a dungeon for what you have in mind?" I inquired sullenly.

  David cocked his head. "You know, I never thought about it that way, but now that you mention it …"

  * * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We don’t actually have a basement. This is Southern California, and houses in Southern California don’t usually have basements. There are probably quite a few that have dungeons, but real basements are a rarity, especially in newer homes. What we refer to as the basement is an area that we never use because it’s dark, damp and usually crammed to the ceiling with junk. The former owner converted what had once been a large furnace/laundry room into what he called a "step-down rumpus room," meaning that if you weren’t careful, you could plunge eighteen inches onto a wet concrete floor and break an ankle or both arms. When the twins were small and rumpus-prone, we let them skate there or hurl volleyballs at one another, but in the last few years, it’s served more as a catchall for broken lawn chairs and anything else I can’t make up my mind to keep or throw away.

  And now, David, sentimental fellow that he is, was probably remembering that it was here, in this dusty, damp and disorderly "rumpus room/dungeon" that my own "rump" was soundly spanked for the first time.

  It happened before Michael came along, at a time when I had been trying (with little success) to rid myself of several admittedly bad habits—smoking in particular—and a tendency to drive too fast. I had actually stopped smoking while I was pregnant with Amanda but gradually slipped back into the habit in the last year. I never smoked around the baby or even in the house, but that wasn’t good enough for David, so after a number of frustrating and stupid arguments, he sat me down, and together we hammered out the details of a "domestic discipline agreement"—something David had apparently read about at the barber shop—in an old copy of "Popular Mechanics," I suppose, or maybe "Sports Illustrated"—in the "Ten Reasons You Can Use to Get A Woman’s Pants Down" issue. In David’s no-doubt expurgated version of the article in question, the arrangement sounded like a "benevolent dictatorship," with David as the dictator, naturally, and me as the worshipful subject in need of firm but benevolent guidance.

  Our agreement stipulated that, a) I would continue to be as the charming but occasionally impetuous free spirit I had always been, but b) When I overstepped the bounds (precise definitions to be decided later), I would be called to account for my poor choices—and "punished" (by the aforementioned benevolent dictator, of course).

  Even after I had consented (in principle) to this peculiar arrangement, I thought the whole idea was stupid. I tried not to giggle, though. It was just that the very word, "punish," sounded ridiculous coming from a mild-mannered guy like David.

  "So, let me be clear on this," I teased. "You’re going to do, like what? Take away my TV privileges? Not allow me go to the sock-hop? What?"

  David sighed. "You know, when I first began thinking about this, I wrote out a short list of what needed to change, and right at the top of the list was your smart mouth and that attitude of yours. That’s got to stop, Meg."

  "What attitude?" I demanded, beginning to regret having signed what I’d just signed.

  He sighed. "One of the reasons I fell in love with you and wanted to marry you was your sense of humor, but sometimes, you use it to …"

  Now, I did giggle. "And, all these years, I was thinking you married me for my money!"

  "That’s exactly what I’m talking about," he said, his tone going definitely stern. "Everything’s a damned joke to you. You never take anything seriously."

  At this point, I was getting annoyed. "Like what don’t I take seriously, for instance?"

  "Like following through on your promises. Like doing things the right way and not always the easiest way." He paused and sighed again. "Like not lying to me."

  That last one hurt, of course, because he was right.

  And so, I agreed to the half-baked plan—with the firm intention of showing him how silly and unnecessary it was. I was an adult woman, after all. I would make my own list of things to change, and follow through on it. I would stop smoking immediately. I would start doing things the "right way." I would stop lying to him.

  Okay, so the list was a bit over-ambitious.

  That first time David announced that it was time to "enforce" the plan, I didn’t believe it. It had only been a week since we’d agreed to the damned agreement, for God’s sake!

  So what had I done that was so awful, you ask? I’ll tell you. I had made this one, very small and slightly obscene gesture to a traffic cop, and called him (under my breath) a not very nice word. Unfortunately, I’d done both of these things after being apprehended doing fifty MPH in a thirty-five MPH zone and in the presence of three-year old Amanda, who had promptly mi
micked Mommy and called the officer the same thing. For some reason, the word "cocksucker" sounded even worse in three-year-old "toddler-speak." We were both—foul-mouthed mother and toddler daughter—hauled "downtown."

  Summoned from work to pick us up, David arrived at the police station to pay my fines and to listen to a stern lecture from the on-duty desk sergeant about the sort of language a responsible parent should and should not use within hearing range of an impressionable child. David listened politely and then took the two criminals home—one for a much-needed nap and the other for the first real spanking of her life—a spanking David warned me on the drive home that he fully intended to make memorable.

  So, down we went to the "basement." Once there, David switched on the baby monitor so we could hear Amanda, should she wake up. And then he turned his unwelcome attention to me.

  "If I didn’t know you like I do, I wouldn’t believe what you did today," he began, his voice as angry as I had ever heard it. "And what’s about to happen now is absolutely nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you next time you pull a stunt like this."

  He pointed to an old leather recliner. "Pull your skirt up and bend over the arm of that chair." When I blushed and hesitated, he added a threat. "The longer you stall," he said firmly, "the worse it’s going to be. I’m adding two penalty swats for every five seconds your butt’s not over the damned chair. That’s eight already—and counting."

  "You don’t understand," I whined. "I feel silly!" I also felt like throwing up, but I didn’t say that. It didn’t sound dignified, and I was trying very hard to hang onto as much of my shredded dignity as I could.

  "Don’t worry about it," David said mildly. "I’m about to take your mind off it. On the count of ten, if you’re not face down with your bare butt in the air, I’m going to double the swats—which have already reached fifteen, by the way."

  Hoping to lighten the mood, I giggled. "Give it a break, darling! I’m impressed, okay? I agreed to this, and I’ll do it. Just spare me the Clint Eastwood routine, all right?"

  I finally obeyed, feeling both ridiculous and surprisingly, a bit giddy with lust. As I arranged myself facedown over the arm of the worn-out chair, I began to hope that David was feeling the same thing. I felt foolish, totally exposed and vulnerable—and terrifically aroused. No two ways about it, as embarrassing as my position was, it provided my handsome husband a virtual Disney World of erotic opportunities—manual, oral, genital, anal—just about anything that suited his fancy. I looked like one of those beautifully drawn instructional sketches from "The Joy of Sex," and I knew that my best hope of escaping the threatened spanking was if David was thinking along the same lines.

  The lovely fact is, my husband has never been the kind of guy to require much in the way of an invitation, and under normal circumstances, my adorably-posed hindquarters would have led him to begin an enthusiastic exploration of one orifice or another—maybe all of them. And all that boyish enthusiasm would keep him occupied (and distracted) until he totally forgot his original purpose in having posed me the way I was. A fabulous time would be had by all, and life would go on as usual. I wiggled my rear end seductively—just a little. A good plan, if it had worked, which it didn’t.

  When I turned my head to throw him an enticing, come-hither smile, I saw immediately that David was not distracted. David was rolling up his sleeves, as a matter of fact. I shivered and felt my stomach do a nervous flip-flop.

  "David," I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could, "you need to stop and think about this for a minute. Please. Let’s just talk about a few …" I stood up.

  Without missing a beat, he sat down on the chair, dragged me across his left knee and locked both of my legs under his right leg. At this point I began to get a little nervous. My upper portions were draped across his lap with my butt in the air and my feet not even touching the ground. In this awkward and humiliating position, I had to brace myself with both palms flat on the floor, just to avoid falling on my damned head. I was uncomfortable, embarrassed, and helpless. And then, I felt him tug at the waistband of my panties and yank them down, well below my knees. I began to tremble, but I was also feeling that same familiar thrill of lust returning. When he slipped his hand between my thighs to part my legs slightly, I began to think that this spanking stuff might not be so bad.

  A second later, David’s palm cracked across my bare ass and changed my mind completely and forever. This wasn’t going to be foreplay, after all.

  "O-OW!-W-W… Ooh, NO! ! Ow-ow-ow!" (Repeat this incoherent babble at full volume for around sixty seconds, and you’ll approximate my vocal response to what was happening.) I howled and begged and squirmed and fought like mad, but David seemed to be well prepared for this eventuality. He had me pinned down extraordinarily well. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but the level of pain was a complete surprise, and I shrieked the whole time, while David calmly landed what felt like hundreds of blistering smacks to my upended ass. I tried to reach back and cover my butt, but he grabbed my wrist, held it at the small of my back, then smacked everything in sight even harder—for interference.

  "That’s another six," he said grimly, tightening his grip and delivering the promised smacks to the soft, lower curve of my ass and my upper thighs. I wailed, tried to bite his lower leg, (another six!) and called him something obscene (another six), even though he probably couldn’t even hear the profanity through my caterwauling. And then, just like that, he apparently ran out of unspanked flesh and stopped. A very good thing, too, because my entire ass was—quite simply—on fire.

  Yes, I had imagined all of this quite differently. A spanking, of course—that I had anticipated. A mild but firm paddling that would teach me a well-needed lesson, and leave my behind with a kind of erotic tingling. This would lead—from what I had read on the Internet—to superb sex and amazing orgasms. Actually, it was a very good lesson, and one I’ve taken to heart ever since. You can’t trust anything you read on the Internet.

  When David finally released his grip, I scrambled up and immediately hurled a string of obscenities at his head, as well as a stuffed animal. Winnie the Pooh, I think.

  "You sonuvabitch!" I cried. "You never said that it would be …"

  Before I could finish the complaint, David grabbed me, held me firmly under his arm, and bent me across his hip. With me again nicely trapped, he reached across to a nearby worktable, picked up a large, fat wooden ruler and with a speed that actually dazzled me, began to smack my already beet-red butt.

  I was not so dumb that I didn’t know when to quit, though. "I’m SO-O-R-R-RY!" I shrieked. And then, I said it twice more, at the top of my lungs, to be very sure he had heard me. "I’m S-O-R-R-Y!"

  I was sorry for the better part of two days, during which time I found it impossible to sit comfortably on any hard surface. At the same time, I began to develop a new and humbling respect for my husband’s promises—and for his physical condition.

  * * * *

  Since that first time, there had been a lot of spankings: some hard, some not quite so hard and all of them memorable. But none of them in the "basement." Now, though, on this unhappy Day After The Day After New Year’s Day, we were returning to the basement/rumpus room where it had all begun.

  "Downstairs," David ordered again.

  "The basement?" I asked, stupidly.

  "The basement," he repeated.

  What bothered me most about the approaching spanking was the change of venue, so to speak. David generally delivered what was necessary over whatever convenient piece of furniture was at hand, trusting me not to make enough noise to wake the kids. The basement/rumpus room was about as far as we could get from the upstairs bedrooms short of doing the deed "al fresco," in the back yard or in the public toilet in the park across the street. Not a good sign at all. This sudden need for distance was beginning to make me very nervous.

  We went down the three short steps, and I waited while he turned on the light. In the exact center of the mess I
saw why we were here, and I realized then that David wasn’t entirely joking about the dungeon. He had found an old workout bench in the pile of discarded sports equipment and dragged it front and center. My old workout bench—a sad souvenir of yet another of my poor short-lived attempts at losing weight.

  The workout/weight bench had cost over six-hundred dollars a couple of years ago, and when I wrote the check, I had every intention of taking off the fourteen or fifteen pounds that had sneaked up on me—possibly because of all those Hershey Bars and Oreos. All of my children disliked Oreos, being very peculiar children, but I continued to purchase them on a weekly basis, "for the kids." The workout bench, on the other hand, had lost its appeal almost immediately. The kids loved crawling on it, and it worked pretty well as extra seating, but all that working out stuff had gotten old very quickly.

  Now, at last, it appeared that the abandoned workout bench would finally serve a purpose. And David said it had been a damned waste of money. Ha! I guess that showed him!

  Nonetheless, this whole scenario was getting a bit melodramatic. I didn’t say this to David, of course, since he was probably armed with one or more "weapons of ass destruction." David has always had an excellent sense of humor, but he sometimes seems less than pleased when I make jokes at these moments. Something to do with what he calls my "attitude."

  "All right," he said quietly. "Take your jeans and panties off and lie down on your stomach. Straddle the bench, with your head at the lower end."

  I gulped. "On that bench?

  "Do you see another one?"

  "This is very weird, David," I grumbled. "You’ve never been weird before."

  David just gestured, and began unbuckling his belt.

  The vinyl cover of the workout bench was stiff and cold, and as I arranged myself as ordered, I was wishing devoutly that I had sold the damned thing at the last garage sale—the way David had suggested.