by Dinah McLeod
His words were measured, but his tone had softened and I was flooded with repentance. I couldn’t believe I’d just been flying off the handle. I was shocked by the things I’d said to him. I’d never meant to hurt him; it was just that I’d been feeling so hurt myself lately, so alone, that I’d spoken without thinking. My eyes were already filling with tears before he issued the order that I knew was coming.
“Bend over the bed, sweetheart.”
He hadn’t called me sweetheart in so long that the tears began to fall. “I’m sorry,” I said reaching out a hand to tentatively stroke his chest.
Dean reached for my hand and covered it with his own, giving it a squeeze. “Me too. You know why I have to spank you, right?”
“I was disrespectful.”
“And?”
“And rude.”
“And?”
“Um…”
“Shelby,” he prompted, a note of impatience in his husky voice.
“I shouldn’t have sided with Morgan and I shouldn’t have argued with you in front of him.”
“Exactly. What do you think we should do about this?”
I winced. He didn’t often ask me about what implement he should use to spank me with, but every time he did it was torture of a different kind. If I suggested one of the less severe implements when he thought I deserved otherwise, he’d spank me twice. First, with the one I’d suggested and then with the one he thought I should have been spanked with in the first place. “Your hand, Sir?”
“For a start.”
“And…” I took a deep breath. I knew how seriously he took me being disrespectful. And while it was true I definitely had a reason to be angry, I shouldn’t have shown my anger in front of Morgan. He was right about that. “The bath brush, Sir?” I named our most dreaded implement.
Dean nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, too. Over the bed, please. I want your butt nice and high in the air.”
Dean backed away and I moved to comply with his instructions. As I did, I realized that I was trembling. It wasn’t just the spanking, although I certainly wasn’t relishing it. It was that, until this moment, I hadn’t realized how distant I’d been feeling from him. Dean used to be more than my husband: he had been my partner, my confidant, my protector. More and more lately I began to feel like he wasn’t any of those things and the realization scared me. I couldn’t remember ever feeling as vulnerable as I did right now.
Almost as if he sensed it, Dean sat on the bed beside me and began rubbing his hand up and down my back. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
But I couldn’t help but wonder how he felt he could make that promise. He certainly hadn’t been good at keeping them as of late.
“It’s just a spanking, honey.”
Like that was all I was worried about! I should have known that’s what he would think! Before I could voice my thoughts, however, I felt his hands encircle my waist. I shivered as his fingers began working the button of my pants. When he pulled the button free, he unzipped my jeans and slid them off slowly, inch by inch. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he had other plans in mind for me. Or maybe it was the fact it had been so long since we’d made love, I was seeing signs everywhere.
When he finally pulled them all the way down, he rested his palm on my panty-clad bottom. The warmth of his hand felt almost erotic, despite the fact I knew what was to come. Not giving me any more time to enjoy his gentle caress, Dean moved his hand and I braced myself for the first swat. As it landed, hard and stingy, I exhaled. Soon, we were in a familiar rhythm as Dean swatted my behind with rapid-fire spanks and I took them without a word. I had no delusions about the bath brush, however. I knew once he began to use it I wouldn’t last through the first five.
With each stingy swat I felt my bottom prickle with heat. They weren’t coming as fast now, but they were landing with more impact on my tender posterior. As Dean delivered a sharp smack to my lower thigh I couldn’t help the groan that escaped my lips. Another quickly followed on the other side, making my eyes fill with fresh tears. I’d been counting the number of swats up to this point, knowing that he usually stopped around forty, but he was impacting my poor rear with such hard, scorching spanks that I’d lost track.
“Almost there,” he said in the clipped tone that meant he was concentrating. Oh, how I wished he’d show less commitment when it came to warming my tail! The room reverberated with smack after smack, and I thanked God, not for the first time, that we’d soundproofed the room when we moved in. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Morgan had heard the occasional smack, but if he had, he’d never let on.
“Please,” I gasped when a particularly hard swat caught me off guard. I felt like my bottom was nearly on fire, and they kept coming. His pace was slow now, but he was making every spank count. Without thinking, I reached behind me to stop his punishing hand, but he deftly caught my wrist and placed it high enough on my back to make me wince.
“Be a good girl,” he warned.
“It hurts,” I ground out, pressing my damp eyes against the pillow.
“It’s supposed to hurt, Shelby.”
I knew that, of course, but did it have to hurt so much? It had been so long since Dean had spanked me—about six months, if memory served. And while my bottom might have forgotten what it felt like to have his heavy palm spank against it, Dean certainly hadn’t forgotten a thing.
He worked his paddle-like hand up my bottom and then, with loud, sharp smacks, brought it back down, all the way to my tender, protesting thighs. He kept up like this until I dissolved into tears. Even then, as my body was racked with sobs, his hand still worked over my burning flesh one last time.
When he was finished, I felt the bed shift as he stood up. I cried into my hands, sobbing my heart out and trying very unsuccessfully not to think of what was coming next. I knew that my tears weren’t just for my throbbing behind. Rather, the pain of the spanking had just allowed me to release the emotional baggage I’d been carrying around. I cried for the loss of the only life we’d ever known; I cried for the confusion and chaos it seemed to throw my husband into. I cried for Morgan and Dean, who might never act like a father and son should. I cried for the blisters on my feet, for how underappreciated I’d been feeling lately. Lastly, I cried for the fact I felt so hopeless when it came to helping him and that I’d been so out of line that it had come to this.
When I’d sobbed myself out and settled on a softer cry, I felt Dean sit down beside me. “You okay?” he asked, rather gruffly. It was his way when he punished me. I knew he hated to see me cry and that he was the one who’d caused it always made him feel terrible.
“Fine,” I replied, sniffling.
“Good. Shelby…” His voice was so soft and filled with remorse that I turned to look at him.
“What?” I whispered. His strong, handsome features were twisted in an expression I didn’t recognize. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was on the verge of telling me a secret. I dismissed the thought instantly. Dean and I didn’t keep secrets. What would he have to say that I didn’t already know, or could have guessed? Before I’d finished analyzing it, the look vanished so completely that I wasn’t sure I hadn’t been imagining it to begin with.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, my voice very subdued in comparison to the sharp, angry one I’d used earlier.
“I’m going to put you over my lap this time, okay?”
I was surprised by the news, since he normally paddled me as I leaned over the bed. Still, it felt nice to be taken over his knees—or would have been, if it had been for a different reason. I braced for the impact but nothing could have prepared me for the first swat. The wood of the bath brush bit into my tender skin in a way that instantly had me in agony. By the second swat, I was scrambling to get off his lap—probably the reason he’d put me there, come to think of it—but he pinned me down easily with his large, strong hands.
There were twelve s
wats in all, each butt-flattening scorchers, and by the time the last one was delivered I was sobbing incoherently. I hardly felt it when he set the bath brush down. I mewled in protest when he got up, displacing me from his lap.
“I think you should go to bed,” he said with quiet authority. In my current state, I didn’t even think about protesting. With a nod, I let him help me into a soft nightgown that chaffed my sore behind and tuck me into bed.
“Wait,” I protested weakly as he headed for the door. “Aren’t you staying?”
“No,” he replied shortly. “Good night.”
He had his back turned to me and I couldn’t help but feel an ache in my chest. I was used to him comforting me after a spanking, especially one that had been so painful. I wanted to tell him how lonely I’d been feeling, how alone I felt, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I stared for a moment longer at his perfect, upright posture. Even in the dim light I could see his broad shoulders and his muscled body. I always felt so safe and loved when he held me in those strong arms of his; I wished he was doing it now.
“Goodnight,” I whispered, watching as he slipped out of the room. I began to cry into my pillow all over again, aching from a loss I couldn’t quite name. When sleep came to claim me I had the salty, bitter taste of my tears on my tongue.
Chapter 3
Dean
I felt like the worst kind of coward for leaving my wife alone, crying in the dark, but I was at a loss. Sure, I knew what I had wanted to do. I’d wanted to keep her in my arms, wiping away her tears until they stopped coming. Instead, I’d fled the first moment I possibly could, trying to put some space between her and my need to come clean.
What good would it do at this point? How could I tell her that while she was feeling sorry for me and trying to give me time to sort through our new life I was to blame for everything that has happened to us? How could I tell her that I was the reason she had to work behind a fast food counter and come home with blisters on her feet and the smell of French fries in her hair?
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I’d tried, but every time I opened my mouth, I pictured the shock on her face, the anger that would quickly follow it and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I loved Shelby more than anything, and I couldn’t bear to see the revulsion on her face when she learned the truth. It was self-serving and reeked of cowardice, I knew that. I never thought I’d be the kind of man that would lie to his wife’s face while taking advantage of her trust, but that’s exactly what I’d done.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Surely Shelby knew that. I’d had a long, unblemished career with the Army when the accident happened. That’s what she and Morgan called it, if they spoke of it at all. “The accident”. There was more to it than either of them could imagine.
It was indeed an accident—what kind of man would have let this happen intentionally?—but my level of fault was in question. Of course, to hear my commanders talk, there was no question: I was to blame. The truth was, as much as I tried to make excuses to distract myself, I knew they were right. I hadn’t meant to let it happen—I hadn’t! I’d served with that brigade for a long time; some of the men were more familiar to me than my own family. My job—my entire purpose—was to keep them from coming to harm. But one stupid mistake, a bad choice in judgment, had put all of them in jeopardy.
My Lieutenant Commander had informed me that one of the Specialists, a guy we called Coots, wasn’t doing too well. We hadn’t been back in the States for more than three weeks at that time and most of us were having trouble adjusting. I’d listened as he described the angry outburst and alternating listless behavior. He wanted me to refer Coots to a counselor, believing it to be the early signs of PTSD. I should have done so, but I’d found myself hesitating. Seeing a shrink still carried a stigma along with it in the Army, and I didn’t want to risk hurting his career with such an order. I was sure he could work it out, given time. We were soldiers, after all; that was our job.
I kept meaning to make time to talk to Coots, but I was busy overseeing the training of my men and there seemed to be one issue after another that required my immediate attention. I never got the chance to check in with him to see if he was all right; by the time we had our talk, it was all too clear that the man was anything but.
I’d done what any man would do when he pulled out that pistol. I’d seen the angry, desperate look in his eyes as he began shouting, over and over at the top of his lungs, “This is what you call freedom?”
Maybe I should have reasoned with him; maybe I could have. It’s a thought I wrestled with every time I closed my eyes at night. It’s the reason sleep eluded me. Maybe I could have, but at the time all I saw was that weapon in his hand. First, pointed straight up at the sky, before he turned it on the soldiers standing nearby. None of us had our weapons. We’d been running the obstacle course and I’d decided to supervise that afternoon. If any of us had had a weapon, Coots would have been down the minute he pointed that weapon. As it was, time had felt frozen. I’d hesitated, for an instant. I still felt shame when I remembered my hesitation, but deep down, I knew it was because I’d hoped something could still be done to save the man I’d trained.
When I saw his finger itching at the trigger, I’d run at him. My legs seemed to move painfully slow and the world seemed, in that minute, to stop turning. All I could see was his weapon. I heard the gun go off, sounding like a crack of thunder that roared in my ears. Pain seared through me and I gritted my teeth against crying out. I’d thrown all my weight at him and the two of us had tumbled to the ground. I pinned him, hard, but there was no need. Men were all around us and the last thing I saw was a sea of sweaty gray tanks and concerned faces before I blacked out.
When I’d woken up, the first thing I’d seen was my wife’s beautiful face. Her soft, wavy brown hair, her tear-filled, doe-brown eyes. She was still as beautiful as she’d been the day I’d married her, but time had made me love her more. I hated to see the pain on the face, knowing I’d caused it.
I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Very soon after being released, I was informed by the Brigadier General that he was taking Article 15 action against me. I should have reported what I knew about Coots, he’d said. I should have done something. I’d put not only myself, but an entire brigade in danger.
He was right, of course. I’d never even imagined such a thing would ever happen to me and I could think of little else. I’d sulked and mopped around and Shelby assumed, understanding woman that she was, that it was the pain. In a week I learned that the General had decided, in light of my extensive, unblemished career, to offer me an option: I could risk the Article 15 and the outcome, or I could quietly retire with my pension and benefits. I was no idiot. I knew I’d made a mistake, a big one, and that my career was over. They wouldn’t kick me out, of course, but the chance for advancement would be over.
I’d poured gasoline all over my career and lit the match. And Shelby, poor Shelby had been an angel. She’d been enthusiastic and supportive the entire time, seeming almost excited about a civilian life. Her eagerness only served to heighten my frustration. Frustration that I, admittedly, had not been handling very well. I knew I had no reason to be mad at Shelby for trying so hard, but it just seemed so easy for her to walk away from everything we had known—whereas I regretted it every single day, hour after hour. I felt like I was in mourning, saying goodbye to dreams I’d held for a lifetime. That would make anybody cranky.
Still, I knew it wasn’t Shelby’s fault, or Morgan’s, for that matter, that they were thriving where I felt lost and out of touch. I'd thought I could make it all be okay, but I just couldn't seem to find my balance in a world that now seemed to me to be very topsy-turvy. Every time Shelby looked at me with those soft, concerned eyes, I wanted to break down and tell her the truth. Instead, I found myself getting angry and snapping at her when I was really angry at myself and the position I'd put us in. Her pained, confused expression had become all too familiar lately, and since
I couldn't find the courage to come clean, I'd been doing what I considered to be the next best thing: pushing her away and putting distance between us. It wouldn't work forever, not if I wanted to keep my marriage, I knew that. One of these days I was going to have to make a decision and I strongly suspected I'd have to man up to make it.
Shelby
I was due for work in twenty minutes, but there was something I had to take care of first. I was six days late and I was never late. Of course, there could be a million explanations. It could just be exhaustion–surely my body was going through changes as it got used to the long, hard hours I kept now. It could be a touch of the flu. I often skipped my period when I was sick. There was no way, no way it was the other thing. Dean treated me like I had the plague these days. I could barely remember the last time he'd touched me intimately.
As I sat in the bathroom stall, my legs spread and my hand trembling as I held the pregnancy test underneath me, I felt every inch seventeen. I'd had my first pregnancy scare with the guy I'd lost my virginity to–Victor Logan. He'd had dimples in his chin, wavy hair and a lazy smile that made me melt—and made my panties come flying off, too. We'd broken up as soon as I'd learned I wasn't pregnant, and I hadn't bought another pregnancy test until Dean and I had been married for three months. I'd been just as nervous then. We were young. Married, sure, but young. When those two pink lines had popped up on the test, almost instantly, I'd been screaming and crying all at once. Suddenly, it hit me with astounding clarity that I hadn't possessed before: my husband was in the military. I would be a single parent a lot of the time, maybe forever if the unthinkable happened. I had to wonder how my mom had managed it all those years. It wasn't something I'd ever considered until I knew I was expecting.