Finely Disciplined Thoughts (11 page)

“I d-don’t want to,” I told him with a break in my voice.

“Don’t want to what, get spanked or cut your own switch?”

I couldn’t make myself repeat either thing. “Neither one,” I whispered miserably, wishing desperately that he would stop talking to me if he wasn’t going to let me at least look at him. Surely if he could see the tears I knew were pooling in my eyes, he would have some pity for me.

“Well, that’s part of the problem. You think you can get away with saying you won’t do something just because it doesn’t appeal to you. Like giving up chocolate or not drinking soft drinks or like getting a spanking. But you’re about to find out those words aren’t worth the breath it takes to say them. And since you’ve decided to test me on it already, I withdraw my offer to get the switch. You can do that little chore yourself, and you can cut about four of them and bring them right back here with you. I advise you to choose some full of sting, because if I find out they’re not, you will be going back there with your sore bare bottom hanging out and cutting four more. Do I make myself clear?”

I really, really wanted to throw the DC in his face, but then there would be less for me to drink and, right then, what I was holding in my hand represented the only bright spot I could see in a long day of misery.

I managed to nod while I stared at the wall.

He pinned my trembling chin between his thumb and finger again and made me look at him.

“Sir. Remember that. Use it. It says something to your brain and your will, something you need to hear.”

I managed to tack it on to an affirmative response, but I almost strangled, and he turned my face right back to the corner before my tears could have any effect.

I think he smiled a little bit, though. At least his voice sounded like he was smiling.

“Good girl.”

The little glow I felt at his praise didn’t last long.

“Now, this is how that little session will work. After you collect the switches and strip them — and don’t worry about that, I’ll show you how — you’ll do your corner time and there’ll be a new supply of treats. You’ll put the trash back on the tray again, but in the middle of the bed this time. I’ll have a pillow in place for you over the rail at the foot of the bed. When you bend over, guess what will be right in your line of vision?”

I could have sworn the DC can suddenly doubled in weight and I realized the Hersheys were melting in my hand. Too bad I didn’t have a passion for M&M’s.

“More journal time then. I can’t swear to it from personal experience, but I suspect it’s even harder to sit on a bottom decorated with a lot of stripes than one with just my handprint. You can let me know for sure afterwards.”

“No switches tomorrow, though,” he said cheerfully. “Not unless you make that necessary, at least. And I really hope you won’t sweetie, cause it’s going to be a hard enough day as it is. Sort of a repeat of today in some ways, since we’ll start out with you over my lap again. But tomorrow you get to find out what else a hairbrush is good for. I think after a few dozen licks you’ll appreciate just how versatile a tool it is. I’ll expect to see a compare-contrast statement in your journal writing. And to make sure you have a full array of tactile experiences, we’re going to finish up with you back over the pillow at the foot of the bed — trash center stage again — and you’re going to experience a sound I’ve heard strikes fear in the bravest of men. It’s that noise my belt will make when I pull it out of the loops.”

I almost dropped the can. I started to shake all over, a movement that eventually reached my head, which sort of magnified the whole effort at denial.

“Afraid so, babe,” he said when he saw the negative reflex.

“I haven’t been that b-bad,” I said and it came out on a sob.

Chandler took a step closer and leaned his head against the wall, right in my line of vision. “You deserve everything you’ve got coming to you, missy. You deserve it because, as bad as it’s going to hurt — and it’s going to hurt a lot and for a long time — it’s better than what you’ve been determined to earn for yourself otherwise. Do you want to hear about that again?”

I didn’t. I was beginning to feel physically sick.

“I hate you.” I didn’t even care how much worse that made things.

But it didn’t. Make things worse, I mean. Instead, Chandler wiped the tears off my face and then he leaned in and kissed me softly.

“I love you. It’s why I’m willing to hurt you a lot right now if it will save you from something permanently hurtful. Whatever it takes, and however long it takes. I’ve only outlined two days, but I can keep going if I have to. Or I can revisit if you backslide. If you think I’m in a bad mood now, though, just try me.”

He straightened up and stepped back behind me. I felt his cool hand stroke my bottom, the tips of his fingers making contact with the undercurve and patting gently. “They say this is the spot that will make you curl your toes. We’re going to find out, little girl. Now, eat the candy and drink the DC. All of it. Looks like you’ll need to lick your fingers, too. I’ll be back.”

And he left me.

I didn’t know for how long my solitude would last. I gulped down a long drink and almost choked, coughing so much I was afraid I might disgrace myself by making a puddle on the floor. When I got my breath back, I licked at the chocolate mess on my fingers and bit off a huge chunk of the bars that I had sandwiched together, washing it down with another swig without even really tasting it. Any of it. Part of me was listening in panic mode for Chandler’s step on the stair. I gobbled down the rest of the candy and drank the last bit of DC a split second before I heard his shoe hit the first riser. He told me later he had stayed gone for fifteen minutes. I could have sworn it was fifteen seconds. Or fifteen hours. My emotions were in such a jumble, concepts like time had no meaning. I was frantically trying to lick the last of the chocolate from where it had melted between my fingers when he spoke to me again.

“Come here, Elle.”

He was standing beside the bed, where a small wooden tray with the Hershey wrappers on it was positioned just a little south of my pillow. He simply pointed to it. I shuffled my way back across the room and put the empty can beside the paper. He frowned down at my chocolate-grubby hand.

“Go wash up,” he said with a nod toward the bathroom.

I didn’t dare observe myself in the mirror above the sink. I couldn’t bear knowing how I must look.

I didn’t realize my husband had followed me until I turned to go back to our bedroom.

“Just a minute,” he said and guided me back to the sink, where he turned me to face him as he reached over and tapped the faucet on. He tested the temperature, adjusting until it suited him, then slipped a clear plastic bottle that I could have sworn once held a household cleaner under the tap. When it was about half full, he turned off the water and screwed the spray cap back on. Then he picked up a towel and gestured toward the bedroom. I shuffled out the door ahead of him, wondering if he meant to use the water to soothe the bottom he was threatening to blister when it was all over.

That proved not to be his plan.

He sat on the bed at a slight angle, his left side nearest the tray that held the evidence of my sin. He placed the bottle so it would be handy on the floor at his right side, unfolded the towel, and draped it over his lap.

“Time to pay the piper,” he said in the sternest voice I have ever heard him use. He reached for my arm, pulling me to stand beside him, but he didn’t offer me any help with what he wanted next.

“Bend over. And when you’ve got your sweet little bottom where I want it, I’d advise you to grab a handful of cover and hold on tight. It won’t help your cause if I have to be the one moving your hands out of the way. Keep your eyes open and trained right on the tray and tell yourself that’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re being treated like a bad little girl who deserves the hardest spanking any little girl ever got on her bare bottom. That’s why you’re going to cry and squeal and beg me to stop spanking you. That’s why you’re going to promise me anything to make it be over. And that’s why you’re going to think about what’s going to happen right now for a very long time, and you’re never, ever going to enjoy thinking about it. Is there anything you want to say before we get started?”

I gulped. “My safe word — it’s chocolate.”

He shook his head with a grimace and squinted eyes. “You think that’s funny, missy? Well, let’s see how loud you’re laughing in about ten minutes. No safe words. They’re for fun and games. This is anything but. This is about setting your butt on fire so you’ll remember it any time you’re tempted with something that’s so bad for you. Over. Now, young lady.”

I struggled gracelessly across his thighs, my upper body supported by the bed with the stupid tray half an arm’s length away and looming so large I couldn’t really see anything else. He shifted slightly and the next thing I knew, I was actually positioned over only his left leg. His right was trapping my own securely.

I heard a strange noise and then immediately felt a cool mist covering my bottom cheeks. Startled didn’t begin to convey my emotions.

“What are you doing?” I screeched and tried to twist up and off his lap — a move that he had cleverly made quite impossible.

“I’m creating a prime spanking target. They say a wet bottom stings worse. I can dry this one off with my hand as often as I need to,” he explained. “Or with the hairbrush tomorrow. Not sure if that holds true for a switch or a belt, but we’ll find out. There’s one thing for sure. It won’t make it hurt less.”

I could feel cool drips all over my bottom, meandering off peaks and into cracks and down sloping sides. A little shiver ran up my back. It was suddenly cold. The temperature began to change rather abruptly, however.

I admit I’ve watched a few spanking videos since then, so I know there are some techniques that translate one way to the spanker and another to the spankee. I think he must have started with a sort of grazing smack instead of a flattening one. One of those that makes a girl’s cheeks jiggle so rudely, no matter how hard she clenches. And he didn’t follow the rules about alternating sides. He just concentrated on the right cheek. It was harder than the pre-sex spanks he had given me in the past, but I could handle it. I was pretty sure I could handle it. I can’t say I was disappointed when he stopped, though.

“You probably need to know that doesn’t count,” he said conversationally.

Well, it counted as far as I was concerned. I tried to twist around and see his face again. He obliged me by leaning back and moving his head down closer to mine.

“I want to see proof you know you need this to help you. Squeezing your cheeks together like you’re trying to shrink a jean size says something else entirely. Now, let’s try this again. I’ve got all day, but my temper isn’t exactly improving and that’s to your disadvantage.”

Do you know how hard it is to will yourself not to clench when every instinct you have is urging you to minimize your vulnerable spots? You want to know what’s humiliating in the extreme? It’s to have your husband put his palms over your backside and maneuver your cheeks around to see if you’re plumpest parts jiggle enough to suit him before he starts smacking away at them.

“Good girl,” he said after a minute of such activity, and I felt this small surge of pride before I realized how totally idiotic that was. I was saved from opening my mouth to express that incautious thought by the speed with which he did two things: he sprayed my jiggly mounds again and then he began drying up the moisture with the hardest, fastest smacks I ever felt. If safe words had been allowed, I would probably have used one. Instead, I grabbed handfuls of cover and tried to pull my body out of the vice he had created with his legs, alternating moans with little yelps of pain.

“What got you here, little girl?” he demanded.

My brain functioned in defense mode for a second, recording only pain sensations and unable to process rational responses to questions. He didn’t seem to understand the difficulty.

“I said, what got you here? Do I need to spank louder for you to hear me?”

“N-no,” I squealed. “J-junk did.”

“What kind of junk?”

I didn’t feel up to a game of twenty questions.

“Chocolate — oh, oh-h-h-h, st-stop,” I gasped. “It was chocolate.” I squealed the last, hoping if I gave him the right answer, it would bring a halt to his serious assault on my bottom.

“What else?” he demanded, not slowing down a bit or letting up even a little.

“Diet C-coke. And I’m s-sorryyyyy.” And I was. Sorrier than I’ve ever been. I couldn’t tell where the next lick was going to land. There was no way to prepare or defend. I thought he had covered every available centimeter of flesh — expansive as it was — but I was wrong. I knew I was wrong when the spanks stopped for a second and I felt moisture again, but this time it was in virgin territory. It was where some of the first drips had meandered. I had a humiliating vision of just how chubby my cheeks must have become when I realized he was using one hand to sort of scoop my bottom up so he could have clear access to that famous sit spot. Since it was a two-hand job now, he was forced to concentrate on one side at a time, and he had intense concentration.

That’s when I realized I was sobbing and shrieking all at the same time, and working in some fancy begging, to boot.

“I’m sorry. P-pl-please, no. I w-won’t any m-more.”

There’s literally nowhere to go when you are trapped over a determined spanker’s leg. He just follows his target, even if you manage to roll a little bit from side to side. And it makes him something less than sympathetic that you seem to be trying to avoid what he wants so desperately to give you.

When he let the left cheek jiggle back into place, I took sort of a deep breath and told myself the worst was over and I had survived, although I was snotting into the duvet pretty good and I could no longer see the DC can or Hershey’s wrapper as anything but a tear-stained blur.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” he demanded.

I’m thinking my rear end is on fire and it’s your fault, I wanted to say. But I knew better. Not only was it not wise; it was not true.