by Hill, April
"Scoot up a little," he ordered. I didn’t have to ask why. When I had performed this somewhat difficult maneuver, my butt was poised at the end of the bench, at what I knew from past experience to be an excellent—perhaps ideal—height for him. My toes barely touched the ground on either side, and with my legs spread, I knew that every tender surface and private orifice was both visible and in easy target range. I had only a moment to ponder my humiliating situation before the belt whistled through the air and landed across my shivering buttocks with a resounding crack, followed instantly by my own howl of pain. I gasped and gritted my teeth just as the next stinging blow landed. After two blistering additional swats to the same fiery spot, he then moved lower and laid the strap across my upper thighs a couple of times. As the leather curved around each thigh, it bit into the sensitive flesh between my legs, and that did it. Unable to restrain my howls any longer, I buried my face in the dusty cushion and uttered one long, miserable wail.
Until this moment, I would have sworn that the hairbrush was the worst implement in the universe, but my present angle and exposure was giving me a whole new respect for what a supple leather belt could do. I arched my back and tried to clench the cheeks of my ass to minimize the effect, but when the belt smacked into my butt again, lower and harder, the blow burned like molten metal, and I had to suck my breath in to keep from yelling. If there was one hard and fast rule about this spanking stuff, it's that I'm not supposed to make enough noise to wake the kids. That's my part of the deal. David’s part is to not leave bruises or welts. This time, though, I had a strong hunch that when I checked everything in the morning, I’d find a few bright red stripes—maybe more than a few.
As the next swat arrived—what would turn out to be the final swat—I clenched my teeth and bit down on the edge of the bench. And then, damn it, I started to cry! I had never cried during a spanking before, no matter how bad it hurt. It was the private deal I’d made with myself when we started this. I would simply not be a baby about it. It was a spanking, for heaven’s sake, not childbirth, and I hadn’t even cried in childbirth, right? (Okay, so I did yell a little and swore a lot, but I never actually cried!) Yet now, with the spanking over, I was bawling my head off—sobbing like a little kid.
When I was sure that it was over, I lay there with my ass on fire and rebellion in my heart. I knew not to call David the obscene names I had in mind, because I'd done that once (under my breath) and he had calmly walked out to the yard and torn a couple of switches from a tree. I saw him coming, but before I could take the insults back, he had pulled my panties down again, bent me over the kitchen table and switched my already-flaming butt until I was hopping around, rubbing my butt like mad and yelping a sincere apology.
David reached down to help me up from the workout bench and handed me his handkerchief. "Your nose is running," he said. That was it for apologies.
And so began the very first week of the New Year. How much worse could it get, right?
* * * *
CHAPTER SIX
After that rather grim whipping episode in the last chapter, you’re probably thinking that things went badly with my New Year’s Resolution, right? Well, you would be right about that—and wrong.
The second week was admittedly difficult. I was still mad at him and embarrassed, as well. And to make things worse, David had come into the kitchen a few days earlier and showed me the project he’d working on all that morning.
"What is it?" I said, knowing perfectly well what it was.
He grinned and smacked the wooden paddle against his palm. It made a loud, thwacking noise—a noise similar to the one it would make when contacting my dainty rear end. "It’s a present," he said proudly. "I made it myself."
I grimaced. "That was sweet of you, I’m sure, and I'm touched by the thought, but as they say—you shouldn’t have. You’ve already been much too generous this year." I was annoyed but still curious, so I reached down and touched my new present—with one cautious finger.
"Okay, so it looks awful," I said coolly. "Are you happy now?"
He turned the paddle over in his hand, like he was appraising it." So, what don’t you like? The workmanship, or the possibilities for pain?"
"The workmanship is lovely," I growled.
It turned out that there was a reason for this seemingly sadistic gift. As you may remember from the beginning of this story, David had proposed, and I had warily accepted, a system in which I would be permitted to select my instrument of torture. David had made the suggestion, according to him, in the interest of democracy and presumably to alleviate boredom. He would simply drop a bunch of hand-written slips of paper in a wooden salad bowl, and then, just before I got spanked each Friday morning, I was allowed to reach in the bowl and withdraw a slip which could say—depending on how bad my luck was going—hairbrush, belt, cane, switch, bare hand, or ruler. Now, to my delight, there would be a lovely new wooden paddle in the mix. You will imagine how pleased I was with such a thoughtful gift, especially when I selected it that very week.
I had lost count of the spankable transgressions I’d been guilty of that week, but I figured it was going to be high. I did remember losing my temper in a parking garage and calling a strange woman a large variety of unpleasant names when she stole my parking place. That, plus one small lie and a couple of brief episodes of "putting myself down," then neglecting to pay the phone bill. David tallied the bill, which seemed smaller than usual, and I paid it while lying over a pile of pillows on our bed, with my bare ass carefully arranged to good advantage. When it was done, both of my plump, sweetly rounded cheeks looked like two large (well, not all that large) red apples.
On the morning the fourth week’s penalties were to be assessed, David called me into the den the minute the kids were off to school. I groaned but trudged dutifully in, trying to work up my courage. I had discovered that impromptu spankings were one thing—appointments to be paddled in the headmaster’s study were something else, and that’s exactly what I felt like every Friday morning. All that was missing were the pleated Tartan skirt and the knee socks.
On this morning, I found David sitting at his desk, looking at a piece of paper—my list of weekly demerits, no doubt, although the paper didn’t look quite long enough for that. Well, maybe if he’d printed very, very small. I slipped into the room and sat down on the big wing chair by the fireplace. "Is that my rap sheet, officer?" I asked cheerily. The condemned prisoner attempting to make a brave show of it. David didn’t chuckle at my little jest or even smile. Never a good sign.
"Yes," he said. "And I just added two checks in the ‘Making Smart-Assed Remarks’ column. Payable next week."
"There’s no such column!" I objected.
He smiled. "There is now."
"So you get to change the rules whenever you feel like it?" I asked, irritably.
"Pretty much. Rank has its privileges, you know."
"So, exactly how much is a smart-assed remark going to cost me?" I asked.
"Three each, I think. Also payable next week. So, looking at your list for this week … I make it eight swats."
I nearly jumped out of my chair. "Only eight?"
David looked surprised. "You want to check my addition?"
I shook my head. I was pretty sure there’d been a clerical error, but I sure as hell wasn’t dumb enough to ask for a recount. A good week usually netted me closer to thirty.
David picked up a coffee can from the desk—his new receptacle for the odious slips of paper.
"All right. Pick one."
I groaned inwardly but reached into the can and pulled out a slip of folded paper.
The new paddle.
David read the paper, then pointed to the couch. "Okay, take down your pants, and keep your palms flat on the seat cushions. I don’t want any more bruised knuckles." I unbuttoned my jeans and slipped them down and then lowered my panties. When I was bent over the arm of the couch with my butt at the angle he wanted, David placed one hand firmly on
the small of my back. "You ready?"
A rhetorical question if I ever heard one. Having your bare ass welted with a big, fat wooden paddle isn’t the sort of thing anyone’s ever really ready for.
The first blow took my breath away. It’s funny how you don’t remember from time to time exactly how much this stuff hurts. David’s sport of choice is tennis, and his eye-hand coordination is apparently excellent, because he always manages to lay each swat just a smidge above or below the last one, so that each ass cheek gets thoroughly red and striped from crown to "sit spot."
The new paddle, in case you’re wondering, performed beyond my wildest expectations. After the third swat, tired of being noble and brave, I began pounding my fists on the seat cushions, howling like a banshee, and swearing on my children’s heads that I would never do "it" again. When the kids weren’t around, I had begun to sometimes allow myself this luxury, on the off chance that my wails of agony and remorse would make David feel guilty and stop spanking the shit out of me. So far the ploy hadn’t worked, but hope springs eternal. I had started counting at the first crack of the paddle on my bare flesh, but I quickly lost my place and could only hope that David was adhering to the honor system and keeping an accurate count of the blows. My judgment about these things was usually impaired by my incessant squirming and because my damned ass was always in flames.
When he stopped, I sagged over the couch-arm, weak with relief. My ass throbbed, and the backs of my thighs stung like crazy after just one crack to each. I felt a sense of pride. Yeah, I know, hard to imagine, isn’t it? Here’s this plump, red-eyed, runny-nosed creature, sniffling and hiccupping, with her hair looking like a fright wig. She’s sprawled over the arm of a couch with her underwear drooping around her ankles and her bare ass and thighs striped bright red and lavender. Her position leaves absolutely nothing about her feminine wiles to anyone’s imagination, and she’s talking about pride?
Yeah, I was.
Suddenly, just like in a cartoon, a big light bulb went on in my tiny brain. If I got my act together and didn’t do the same things next week that I had done THIS week, I wouldn’t get spanked! Okay, I know that all you normal people out there are saying, well, yeah, DUH! But to me, this was a really big breakthrough.
You see, in the past, almost every spanking I had ever gotten was sort of an on-the-spot-reaction, or because I’d pushed a couple of David’s buttons. Oh, I knew that whatever I was doing at the time was out of line, and MIGHT result in a spanking, but it was all kind of haphazard. Sometimes it was inconvenient. We were out in public or with other people or the kids were underfoot. Sometimes David was too tired, or busy, or simply forgot. Sometimes I stalled or wheedled or cajoled and got out of it. They say that if you really want to housebreak a puppy, your reaction to his little accidents has to be quick and consistent. He has a short memory and doesn’t always "connect the dots." I had just connected the dots. It had suddenly hit me that all I had to do NOT to get my ass blistered so painfully NEXT Friday morning was to avoid doing certain very specific things, each of which had been discussed and clearly defined in advance. A road map, as it were, through a minefield.
On Monday morning, I got the remaining thirty-eight, and the rest of the week, I was very, very good. I followed the rules. I didn’t procrastinate. I finished everything I started, and in the process learned that the secret is not to start grandiose projects, but something I had at least SOME chance of finishing before I died of old age. I concentrated on my good traits, and didn’t badmouth myself. I slipped once on the last day, and called myself a "bloody rotten excuse for a mother" in front of David and the kids. He looked up over his reading glasses in "that" way, and I could see him mentally adding four hard swats to my total. The next day I used the "F" word where Michael could hear, and he added another three, but by Friday morning, I had earned only seven swats, which was a good thing, since I drew the hairbrush.
David cocked an eyebrow and grinned when he looked again at the total, but if I thought his pride in my improved performance would weaken his resolve, I was sadly mistaken. He took me across his knee, which I hate because it always seems so childish, and then HE pulled my pants down himself and laid every blazing blow across my scorched ass so hard and low that later I felt like it had been twenty.
When he let me up, though, he kissed me, and told me it had been a great week. A couple of minutes earlier, I would have agreed completely. Now, I was too busy rubbing my stinging backside to be overjoyed. A long time afterward he told me he was afraid I’d get cocky if he had gone too easy that day, and as much as I hate to say it, he was probably right.
The following week, I astonished both of us. One offense, two strokes. Another lucky break. I had drawn the dreaded cane, and would have quailed at even six strokes. The implement was improvised; a three-foot-long, 3/8” wooden dowel played the part of a schoolmaster’s cane from Home Depot. Mind you, I’m no expert in these matters, but after my experience with a cane, I was VERY glad I had gone to school in Wisconsin. I bent over a chair with my knickers down and even giggled a bit in giddy anticipation of my first "caning," only to end up with a perfect pair of livid "railroad track" welts across my bare ass, which hurt for three days. David apologized, but not sufficiently to excuse the fact that I LITERALLY couldn’t sit down for those three days and felt the welts for a couple of days after that. With my enthusiastic approval, David retired the cane from service until he studies up on his technique.
The next week, I took four very unpleasant blows with three long, slender switches, which burned like red-hot pokers and left an awful sting and an irritating itch, but for me, four of anything was a world record, and I only yelped once.
The following Friday, I had nothing on my sheet, and David took me to dinner. It was Valentine’s Day, and when we got home, we celebrated both the holiday and my now-successful Resolution in the loveliest way possible.
It would be another six months before I could say with certainty that the whole thing was a success. I got paddled a couple of times during those months and was the recipient of one genuine, bare-assed birching (a small white lie) that will live in infamy, but I was on the road to perfection; there was no doubt about it.
And then, after I had gone for two full months without so much as a bare-handed swat on my behind, I was lying on the couch one day with a bad cold, and turned on something called QVC–a shopping channel. Fall was in the air, and Thanksgiving was just around the corner. Christmas shopping, I realized, with no malls and no tired feet! What could be easier? What could be more wonderful? I reached for my credit cards. The season was just beginning, and I had been a very good girl for so long!
THE END
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