Confessions of a Spanking Author

by Breanna Hayse

  "No shit!" I barked, searching my brain for something—anything that would redeem me. "It's not here! Oh my God, I must've deleted it in error!" I watched him very carefully, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. No one, but no one would believe such a dumb lie. I was really slipping. "I… I… the power went out… and you know the battery doesn't work," I babbled on, trying to stall the inevitable.

  When it appeared that Jeff was not going to believe me, I looked around for a plausible avenue of escape. The window was open, but since we were on the eighth floor, I rejected that as a bit too theatrical. I thought about throwing up, which I definitely felt like doing about now, but from the look on hubby's face, I doubted that would stop him. Being spanked, barfing my guts out and howling my head off at the same time would not make a pretty picture.

  On the other hand, maybe Jeff wasn't serious, after all.

  Wrong again. Jeff walked to the small bedroom area, removed the hairbrush from its resting place, and returned, then took my hand and led me very calmly into the loft's 'living room'. He moved my scattered notepads aside and sat down on the long wooden coffee table.

  I smiled nervously. "Did you want to talk about something, dear?"

  Jeff shook his head. "Nope. No more talk."

  "Tell me about your day," I asked, my artificial cheerfulness so nauseating it nearly gagged even me. "What's on your busy schedule for the rest of the week?"

  Jeff seemed to think for a moment. "Me? Well, now that you ask, I'm planning on getting home early every night this week, in time to devote a full hour to blistering my lovely wife's adorable ass and watching her stand in the corner with her butt glowing like a night light."

  I giggled. (Yes, giggled! The devices some women will resort to in a pinch.) "Sounds fascinating, but you'll miss the six-thirty news, you know."

  He smiled like a bloodthirsty spider about to pounce on a helpless fly. “No news is good news—for some of us, anyway.” He knew that I was trapped, and the son of a bitch was enjoying every moment of it!

  Suddenly, Jeff yawned. "Enough stalling. Take down your jeans and panties and get over here. The longer you stall, the harder you're going to get it. In a second or two, I may even lose my sunny mood."

  I stared at the man I had married, shocked and disbelieving. "Don't be ridiculous, you idiot! If you think I'm going to actually do this, you've lost your tiny little mind!"

  Jeff smiled again. "New rule, sweetheart. Every time you stall, you get an additional ten really good swats, and every time you insult me, you get another ten. How's that?"

  "How's this, asshole?" I snickered. I took a really big chance, and walked away. "Go screw yourself!"

  Before I had taken my second step, Jeff had grabbed me and pulled me down and across his lap.

  Laughing nervously, I tried to get up, but he had a really good grip and held me tightly while he 'arranged' the appropriate parts of my anatomy across his knee, with my behind in the air and my head hanging down. I felt the blood rush to my brain, and then, despite my discomfort, I began to notice a certain telltale dampness between my legs. A new possibility dawned. I might just enjoy this spanking business more than expected! Before I could work out how I felt about this development, though, things began to go from bad to worse.

  Jeff raised one knee higher than the other, raising my denim-covered butt even higher. The situation was becoming less romantic by the second.

  "Cut it out, Jeff," I whined. "This isn't funny, anymore. I'll bet I could have you arrested for something like this, and have you tossed in prison. And then, some tattooed hulk named Rocco or Bubba will make you his love cookie. How'd you like that, macho man?"

  Jeff answered with a hard smack on the seat of my jeans with the dreaded hairbrush, which made me wince and yelp out loud, but didn't hurt as much as I had thought it would. He pulled my arm behind my back and held it there, then locked my legs beneath his, while I began to struggle a little, not quite believing that he really meant to go further with this nonsense. And then, with his free hand, the son of a bitch reached beneath me, and began to undo my pants.

  "You rotten bastard!" I shouted as I felt my jeans sliding down over my rear end, and then down to my knees. "Stop this!"

  "That's another ten," Jeff said affably, “for my mom” Then, he yanked down my panties. “You know what? I'm losing track, here. Maybe we'd better just make it a flat hundred. How's that sound?" He slapped each cheek of my now totally bare ass, apparently experimentally. "Damn!” he said. “I'll bet that hurt like hell, didn't it? The good news is you've got just ninety eight to go, if you shut your mouth and take what you've got coming like a lady.”

  "If you hit me again," I warned grimly, "I'm going to scream bloody murder."

  Jeff only laughed—cackled, actually. "Oh, I can promise that you're going to scream," he said pleasantly. "And if you don't mind the neighbors hearing, it's okay with me. In this neighborhood, who'll notice?"

  And then, he began. He raised his hand above his head and brought it down really hard on my bare butt. The smack made a gigantic 'CRACK!', and was followed, of course, by my wail of pain and outrage. I simply didn't believe he was doing this! I writhed and strained and did everything I could to get up, with no luck. All that work-out stuff must actually work, because Jeff held me down as easily as if were a rag doll, and rained maybe a dozen rapid-fire slaps on my ass so fast and hard I couldn't catch my breath.

  It had begun to occur to me that he might be serious about this spanking crap.

  The problem was, from hubby's point of view, was that his wrist was already beginning to hurt as much as my butt did. (This, by the way, is Jeff's opinion, not my own). The obvious solution to such a problem would have been to discontinue the stupid spanking, but Jeff had a slightly different solution. He stood up and draped me, still kicking and squirming, across the arm of the couch, and then held me there while he unbuckled his belt, whipped it off, and doubled it in his grip. It was going to be a very long evening.

  "If you don't stop this," I threatened between clenched teeth, "I am going to…"

  My threat was interrupted by the crack of leather across what simply had to be the softest, most tender area of my ass. The sound rang loud in my ears, and echoed around the high-ceilinged loft. I could actually feel the welts rising on my butt. I mentioned this, and asked him to stop, but like the trooper he is, Jeff went on, blistering my cheeks in turn and whacking every remaining unscathed surface he could reach with the damned belt. Then, as I broke into open weeping, he swatted my upper thighs hard a few times, and stopped.

  I lay where he left me, bent gracelessly over the arm of the couch, my jeans and panties tangled around my knees. I was crying, but that was probably more from frustration than pain. Later, though, I found that my backside was covered with an amazing network of reddish blotches and purplish stripes. (Afterward, Jeff told me that since he had never spanked anyone before, he was mildly worried that he had overdone it. Wasn't that sweet?)

  I struggled up and began jumping around and rubbing my butt, which felt, frankly, like it was in goddamned flames.

  "I hate you!" I hissed, wary, now, about the neighbors "You're a damned bully, and you can go to hell!"

  I think Jeff was actually relieved by my little outburst. If my temper was back and my willingness to fight, I must be okay, physically, right? Anyway, he grabbed me once more as I danced by, and made me pay for the insults by holding me under his arm, bending me across his hip and laying another three or four hard swats to my flaming butt. I could actually feel the heat from my rear end now, but I still absolutely refused to apologize. Jeff's answer? You guessed it. He started over, spanking harder, lower, and on the really tender undercurve of my ass, which was already throbbing like a cheap percolator.

  "I'm going to cut your balls off!" I threatened. "In your sleep!"

  But Jeff only laughed. "Big talk from someone whose ass looks like hamburger. That's another ten, sweetheart. You know what? I'm losing count. Maybe i
t's time to try out that hairbrush, again, what do you think?"

  He didn't wait for me to vote, but finished with a lightning fast volley of ten whaps with the hairbrush, and this time, he got my complete attention.

  "I'm sorry!" I wailed.

  Total surrender.

  I dissolved into tears and threw myself dramatically down on the couch, careful to land on my side and not my rear. I was looking for sympathy, of course.

  "Tell me you're going to start working tomorrow," he ordered, and when I hesitated, he leaned down and landed two more swats with the brush, one on each throbbing cheek.

  "I'm going to work tomorrow!" I wailed loudly. "I promise!"

  Jeff sat down next to me and took a good look at my battered behind, apparently admiring his handiwork. His comment? "Not bad, for a beginner." I don't know to whom he was referring.

  Finally, he laid the hairbrush on the coffee table and put his belt back on, which seemed to indicate that the festivities had reached their conclusion, though not without one last warning.

  "If I get home tomorrow and find that you didn't, we're going to do this all over again. Sore ass or not. Got it?"

  I sniffled, but nodded. Jeff looked quite prepared to start again.

  "And we're going to do this every night if we have to, until you start producing without an 'incentive'," he said. "You get two days a week to loaf and goof off like everybody else. After that, I expect to see progress."

  I nodded again, but the lecture still wasn't quite over. "I'm going to lay awake nights dreaming up new ways to set your ass on fire," he promised, "and go out and buy a couple of paddles and a few other things to keep it interesting, if I have to. The next time you drop the ball like you did today, I'm going to use the wooden hairbrush and spank you 'til you won't feel like sitting down for a full week. After that, I'm just going to play it by ear, but in three months, even if I have to blister your butt every damned night, you are going to deliver one book, exactly like you promised."

  FADE OUT (mercifully)

  EPILOGUE

  (From the pages of the 'Hackettstown Flea Market Trader and Auto Auction Weekly')

  "April Hill's first book signing, was today at the Books-4-Less in downtown Buttzville. The event was covered by a reporter from this publication, as well as by the entertainment columnist for our sister paper, the Manunka-Chunk Shopping News. The signing was well attended by a collection of homeless individuals bussed there from a local shelter, all of whom appeared to enjoy the peanut-butter and Cheez-It canapés and several cases of a value-priced Cabernet donated by our local Save-Mart. Two of Ms. Hill's books found buyers.

  "Although she admitted to being somewhat disappointed by the lackluster sales, the plucky Ms. Hill pointed out to this reviewer that Edgar Allen Poe virtually sold nothing during his lifetime, being, as he was often described as morbid or insane.

  "She has been helped in her own career, Ms. Hill remarked, by the continuing inspiration provided by her devoted husband, Jeffrey, who, over the past months, has given her many vigorous incentives to succeed, and has vowed to keep up the good work, as long as necessary."

  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.

  Connect with her on Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/april.hill.3150

  Don’t miss these exciting titles by April Hill and Blushing Books!

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  He Spanks!

  Home for the Holidays

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  Violators Will Be Spanked by Bethany Burke

  This is–regrettably–a true story. It happened many years ago, when I was young and foolish. Reading it over now, I am struck by the little ways that technology has changed the world, most notably the lack of cell phones.

  The Visitors' Parking lot is gone, replaced twenty years ago by a massive parking garage, and we no longer even live in the college town where this story occurred. But to this day, if I am back in town for a visit, I can't drive by the–the former scene of the crime without thinking of this night.

  1990

  Recently, my husband and I have discovered "spankingland," and we're learning some of the more "fun" aspects of this inclination. But for the first twelve years of our marriage, spankings happened for one reason only: pure discipline. Although at the time, I never thought of the spankings as either interesting or amusing, I find I can now look back with a certain amount of (sick) humor on some of the more memorable ones, particularly the ones brought about by my incredible stupidity.

  One of the most unforgettable spankings happened when my husband and I were both in graduate school, he getting his law degree, and I getting my MA in History. One night, as he was getting the family room ready for his study group, I realized that I needed a specific book from my carrel at the library. Because I had a nursing baby, I usually studied at home, but I left many of my books in my carrel as having forty or more at home was a hassle. Thus, these quick nighttime trips to the library were not uncommon.

  As I was grabbing my keys to run out, Kevin looked at me. "You know, with mid-terms next week, the place is going to be mobbed. You're never going to find a parking place."

  Since they'd built an undergraduate readers' library, the graduate library, DaNeal, was usually fairly empty at night. But just before exams, every library on campus turned into a zoo. In fact, the influx of desperate undergrads was why he and his study group had chosen to meet at our house instead of at the law library where they normally met.

  I, however, had a solution to the parking situation. "Oh, don't worry about it," I breezed back as I tried to slip by.

  He grabbed my arm, his face serious. "I AM worried about it. Where are you going to park?"

  "Well," I hesitated, "The Visitors' Parking Lot?" Visitors was a misnomer, translating into "Students Who Are Willing To Pay $5.00/Hour." Usually, they weren't, so spaces abounded.

  "It'll be full," he predicted ominously. He was right, of course. During exams, finances took a back seat to expediency and this lot was so centrally located, it was always full during peak times. Not only would there not be a single open space, but also there would be cars circling. "So where are you going to park?" he persisted. "Because if you have to go up on one of the side streets... He paused. "I don't want you walking a long way alone in the dark."

  "Listen, it's really not a problem. When I'm running in like this, if I can't get a space, I just kinda..." I hesitated.

  "You just kinda what?" His eyes had narrowed and I didn't like the look on his face. Damn, I knew I should have just told him I'd park in one of the outer lots and take a bus... "Spit it out, Bethany."

  "I go into one of the restricted service spaces, you know, by the stairs..."

  "What?" His face darkened like a thundercloud. "That's a tow-away zone."

  "I know. But when I'm just running in, I'm barely there ten minutes. There's no danger."

  "I don't fucking care if you're there one minute. Don't park there."

  "Come on, Kevin. I've done it before. Lots of times."

  "Oh, great!" He looked at me incredulously. "Lots of times? I don't want to hear it." He started cursing, always a bad sign. Finally, he settled down. "Look. Just don't do it again. You'll get towed."

  God, I was thinking: what a granny! "But Kevin..."

  "No 'buts'. Don't park there. If you c
an't find a safe place to park, come home. I'll drive you over after study group."

  "That'll be 11:30," I protested. "And we'll have to wake up the baby. And...

  The doorbell rang behind us, and Kevin turned to admit one of his classmates. She tramped by us with a smile, down to the family room. I tried to use the distraction to slide away, but no luck. A hard hand snagged my jacket and he pulled me to look up into his face.

  "I'm telling you, Bethany. Don't do it." His voice was low, but hard. I said nothing. "Promise me you won't park there."

  It was obvious I wasn't going to get away until I said the "magic" words. "Oh, all right," I snapped.

  He gave me a long appraising look before he let go of my jacket. I hurried out to our car.

  Driving towards the library I was shaking my head, fuming in rueful frustration over my husband's rigid conservatism. What a stick-in-the-mud! Never breaks a rule... thinks '58' is speeding...

  I arrived at the Visitors' Lot, and no surprise, it was full. Not only that, at least ten cars were circling in the hundred space lot. Hopeless. I eyed the two empty service vehicle slots, and sighed heavily. I pulled away to circle once as I thought it out.

  My husband was a hard, uncompromising man about many things. Early in our marriage, faced with some incredible immaturity on my part, he'd introduced me to a painful reality: he spanked. Hard. On a bare bottom with a fifteen inch hardwood ruler. He spanked for behavior he considered childish: a lack of respect, general, as he termed it, "sleaziness," and outright defiance. Not being the most cautious of women, I'd gotten maybe six or eight solid wallopings a year in the five years we'd been married. They'd all been painful, humiliating, and very, very effective. There was no doubt what would happen if I got caught parking in the tow-away zone after I'd promised not to. I bit my lip and eyed the empty space, eyed the huge DaNeal library lit bright on the hill above the lot... so close...

  "Don't be such a pussy!" I told myself. "You're turning into as much of an old lady as he is. I did the math. Two minutes up the stairs, maybe five minutes into my carrel, two minutes back out. You'll be in there ten minutes, tops," I told myself. "No way will you get towed. No way will you get caught. No. Fucking. Way."