“Grpph ah haagh hhesss” I grumbled. It was supposed to be “God I hate this!” but a bar of ivory can make it tough to talk. The egg timer says 7 more minutes. Seven more minutes of hell. Or is it seven more minutes until hell? Either way, I shouldn’t be using the word hell. It’s linguistic brethren is the reason I am in this predicament.
Click, Click, Click, the timer slowly counted down to zero. This it totally my fault, and oddly appropriate. I just wish it wasn’t so agonizingly long.
Click, Click, Click. Stop mocking me. I can see your little mechanical eyes looking up at me as you tick the seconds away. You are mocking me. I know I have been naughty, but you don’t have to tease me about it.
Click, Click, BEEP! BEEP! The wait is up. My mouthsoaping is finally over.
“Ok sweety, this can come out now.” I am told from behind. I open my jaw as wide as it will go so his large musclar hands can remove the bar of soap from my mouth.
I immediately spit out suds into the sink. I got to get this taste out of my mouth. I turn on the facuet only to have my reprieve cut short.
“You can rise once, and only once,” he commands, sitting the bar on the soap stand. It has my teeth marks in it! How shameful.
I bend over the sink and let a large gulp of water fill my mouth. Swish, swish, swish, spit! It is still there and I think I made the taste worst. I can taste it everywhere now! Yuck!
“Come on sweety, over the bed you go for your spanking.” He turns me around, away from the sink and the water needed to get rid of this awful taste and towards the bedroom, where the well worn leather belt lies on the bed.
The spanking; the second part of my punishment. Why do I have to get both, my mouth washed out with soap AND a spanking? I guess I do know better than to swear, especially in front of a two year old who repeated it. But why the belt? I hate the belt. It really hurts. That is the reason it is called a punishment; a very undesirable consequence for a particular action.
He has to lead me to the bed. My feet may work, but I just can’t do it on my own. Soon enought, my knees are touching the footboard and I am looking at the instrument of my correction. It is going to hurt. “Lower your panties and bend over,” I am told. His voice is stern with a dash of regret. I’ve always been a Daddy’s girl. Reluctantly, I follow his instructions. I press forward slightly, trying to hide my front as I roll the boyshorts over my derriere. I like derriere and tushy over the traditional bottom, butt or cruder ass. Bottom just makes me feel like a little girl while butt and ass are just to uneducated.
The first breeze of cool night air on my newly exposed skin sends shivers up my spine. I feel naked and vulerable even though I still have a camisole on and only my tushy is exposed. Bending forward only exgerates the feeling. He has to be staring at my tushy. Its full, though well toned contours. The footboard, pressing into my hips from below tilts it upwards, at the perfect angle. Why do I have to have a four poster princess bed? It is situations like this I regret throwing that tantrum in the furniture store. Though I spent sometime in this exact position that evening and numerous times since. Every time has been just as embarassing.
“I think a couple dozen is appropriate, what do you think?”
“Yes, Sire,” I grumble before burying my face in the blankets. It will start soon and I don’t want anyone else to hear me getting spanked. That would be even more embarrassing than this.
“Good,” is all he says. I hear the belt being lifted off the bed. I clench up every muscle and wait, and wait. The seconds seem like hours. Why can’t he just start already?
And then he does. CRACK! The first stroke takes my breath away before the sting even registers. And registers it does. A strip of fiery sting cuts across my derriere. It is so much more intense than I remember.
CRACK! CRACK! He gives me only enough time between strokes to register the pain, but not really react. It hurts, so much. So very much.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I punch the bed a couple of times, trying to distract myself from the spanking.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I give up any resolve of strength and let myself cry out in agony. Cries that fall onto the deft ears of my comforter.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I try to kick the air but it just presses the footboard harder into my pelvis. The unrelenting fire keeps building.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Twisting and wiggling doesn’t help either. He just sets his left hand on the small of my back, pressing my pelvis firmly into the wood.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Every stroke hurts so much. I want it to stop now, but I know it won’t. I beg for mercy, though I doubt he even hears it.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! “Please stop, I’ll be good. I’ll never swear again. Please no more,” were the words I tried to cry out. Nothing inteligable escaped my lips or the blanket.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I have nothing more. No more protests, no more cries of mercy. Just acceptance and sobbing. I was a naughty and I am being punished for it.
Just like that it ends. No more strips of fiery sting cuting across my derriere. No more pain, no more spanking, just forgiveness.
He helps me up and I immediately hug him, burrying my face into his burly shoulder, sobbing.
He just holds me, comforting his contrite girl. Stroking my hair and back as he tries to sooth away the discomfort. And it works. The guilt and anxiety are all gone. Everything is alright now. Everything except the burning sensation in my tushy.
“I’m sorry honey, I’ll never, sniff, swear in front of our kids again,” I murmur in my husband’s ear.
“I know, I know.”