Dry Spells
Friday, September 14, 2007
Mister Sir and I are in one of those dry spells that all of us in the lifestyle hate.
Ugh.
You know how it feels, I’m sure.
Some days, it’s not the spanking I miss as much as the obedience. There’s just something about the way he can go all alpha that just makes me drool.
That makes me feel safe, protected, loved, cared for, treasured.
And I miss that.
You know?
The Contract, Part V
The Contract, Part V By Nattie Jones
Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!
Part I ~|~ Part II ~|~ Part III ~|~ Part IV
That dirty little word “creative” was why I was standing—on that Sunday different from all other Sundays—in the corner with a mouthful of fresh minced pepper and garlic. My mouth burned like it had never burned before, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my bottom burned at least as much.
It’s not as if I hadn’t felt the fire of peppers on my tongue before. I’ve eaten raw garlic when I want to ward off a cold (or just show off). I’ve spent countless summer days chomping on fresh peppers in the garden, daring my best friend to keep the pepper in her mouth as long as I could keep it in mine.
But as much as I’d like people to believe, I did not, by any means, have a mouth of steel. To make matters worse, Chris had left me standing in the corner with my bottom bared. I hate that.
No, really. I hate that.
Because all I can think about is what if someone peers in the window, peeking through the small slits the vertical blinds make, and sees me standing there like a naughty little girl? And let me tell you, standing bare-bottomed in the corner is one sure way to realize how much one’s bottom has begun to sag with age!
It’s not only all that. If I could take the rest of my clothes off, I could embrace my nakedness and imagine myself glowing like a sex goddess—or maybe a slightly sexy, slightly frumpy earth goddess. I could pretend I had a thing for nudity, even imagine that we could go to a nudist colony on vacation. I could tell myself that wearing one’s birthday suit is the most natural thing in the world.
But there is nothing, and I mean nothing, natural about having one’s shoes on while one’s bottom is bare. It carried the indecency of having the same dress code as a visit to the bathroom. Maybe that’s why it felt so embarrassing to be put on display in the corner like a toddler whose mother hadn’t gotten around to changing the diaper yet.
The nose is another thing. Why is it “put your nose in the corner”? Why not your face? Why not your body? Is there something particularly humiliating about having one’s nose ground into the corner? It does fit snuggly in the corner like a hand in a glove, but if your nose is going to be snug in the corner then your bottom is going to stick out.
Tears started running down my face, and I knew I had done all the philosophizing I could do about my predicament. Those peppers were beyond hot. I squealed and squirmed, and my husband finally came and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Your mouth feel like it’s on fire?”
I nodded vehemently.
“Do you enjoy that feeling?”
I shook my head as hard as I could.
“Would you like to feel that again?”
No, no, no! I wanted to scream, but with the peppers burning under, over, and around my tongue, all I could do was shake my head.
“Do you think that this punishment will stick, once I add a nice bottom warming?”
I nodded as if correct nods and shakes could get me out of the rest of the punishment.
“Was it creative enough?”
More nods.
“Okay, go spit.”
Chris sent me off with a loud smack to my bottom.
“Meet me in the office.”
I made the mistake of trying to rinse the burning peppers away with water before I remembered that milk was far more effective.
When I finally could feel my tongue again, I went to his office with a game plan. I entered as demurely as I could, eyes downcast towards my feet. I added a little tremble to my hands and voice.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” I asked in my most frightened little-girl voice.
“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady.” His voice always sounded wolfish when he was being Mister Head of the House. “The wide-eyed, frightened little girl act is not going to get your bottom out of hot water this time, or any time.”
I sighed and stared at the hairbrush in his hand. It laid in his hand as if it were merely another finger used to point at me and accuse me of my wrongdoings. The brush was made of oak, with a curvy handle and a round brush that was not long enough to be called oval, and yet not round enough to be called circular.
I stared forlornly at the old couch. The fabric was rough and scratchy against bare skin, and even though my bottom would be over his legs, I knew my thighs and face would be buried into the harsh fabric, begging for its coarse comfort.
“But,” he said, as if contradicting me even though I had said nothing, “I think you’d better take those pants clear off.”
I blushed and obeyed, not bothering to debate the issue.
“I’d like to see you take your spanking submissively, no clenching, and I’d prefer if you keep your legs spread. Pants binding your ankles may keep your legs from kicking too violently, but they don’t inspire true submission.”
“Prefer” and “I’d like” was the way my husband gave orders. I didn’t say a thing. We were way past bargaining, and there was no going back. I was going to get spanked.
“I do like the way you react to being clothed everywhere except your bottom, though. Would you please put your socks and shoes back on?”
And so I laced and tied my shoes on, feeling ridiculous. I mean, it feels weird enough to put on shoes and socks with only a bathing suit on. Putting shoes on with no panties feels downright … vulnerable.
Which led me to anguish, “Is my bottom really sagging?”
He tried not to laugh, I could tell.
“That’s really not the issue here, young lady.” He licked his lips. “But no, your bottom does not sag.”
“You’re just saying that,” I accused.
“And, I’m the one holding a hairbrush, so you’d better smile and say thank you.”
I didn’t smile and say thank you, but I did obediently lie across his lap.
That’s when it hit me. The fear in the gut that makes ‘bent over for a spanking’ a perfect position. The certainty that I was going to feel pain and that it wasn’t going to end when I wanted it to, and that it would most likely feel like it was never going to end ever.
Chris isn’t into warm-ups. He doesn’t use his hand except for ‘love spankings,’ as he calls them. His hand hurts a lot, even as much as a paddle, but he thinks I’m just saying that to get a lesser spanking. Not true!
So I waited, gnawing my lip.
“You know the routine, Jennifer.”
I held my breath.
“Part those legs, and I’d like your bottom to look a little more eager to receive my attentions.”
Eager? I tried, pulling myself forward so that my butt would stick up a little more. Since I had brought up the whole DD idea, Chris had been rather adamant that I submit to all spankings in such a manner that he would not feel like a domineering, manipulative wife-abuser.
That meant no clenching, no wriggling away, no nothing. He doesn’t mind if I cry, though. After all, when you can’t wiggle the sting away, all that’s left is a good cry about it.
Read the rest of this story, more of my stories, and the stories of many other wonderful authors at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!
Labels: free stories
The Contract, Part IV
Monday, September 03, 2007
The Contract, Part IV
By Nattie Jones
Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!
Part I ~|~ Part II ~|~ Part III
And so, on this Sunday different from all other Sundays, I remembered that day when my husband had first spanked me.
“I think you know what to do, Jen.” Chris stood poised in front of the massive oak desk
Since it was our first spanking, of course I didn’t know what to do. But with my mouth dry, I couldn’t ask. I looked at Chris, at the heavy desk, at the ruler sitting on the polished surface, and I knew that there weren’t a lot of options. My feet were rooted to the floor, and my face was hotter than when I’d had a hundred and three temperature after I got chicken pox as an adult.
I don’t know what he’d done in those three hours, but he must have done some sort of research, because he just looked at me expectantly with complete confidence that I would do whatever I was supposed to ‘know what to do.’
And so, I timidly walked towards him, my eyes already filling with tears. I looked at him with my most pitiful look and managed only to whisper, “Are you really going to do this?”
“What do you think?” he asked.
What else could I do, but pull my pants down—even my panties? I couldn’t look him in the eye, so he took my arm above my elbow and guided me over the desk. Can you imagine how my insides were? I mean, I was drooling at the word ‘no’ a few weeks ago, and now he was guiding me over a desk to correct my behavior!
Torn between embarrassment and arousal, I was relieved when the first smack hit my bottom. Even more relieved when that first one didn’t hurt all that much. But a few smacks later, it began to sting, and a few smacks after that, I began to yelp. “Come on,” I whined, “that hurts!”
To his credit, he didn’t cliché and tell me that “it’s supposed to hurt,’ or worse, “it hasn’t even begun to hurt.” No, he just simply put a hand on the small of my back and kept at it. When I put a hand back to shield my burning bottom, he merely tucked it under his hand on the small of my back.
And kept at it, of course. Smack after smack, until I was dancing on my toes and wondering how I’d had this insane fantasy for years. Then, he picked up the ruler, and I held my breath.
I didn’t hold it for long, because I squealed immediately after the first smack. Chris just held me there and continued smacking, until my squeals turned into tears, which eventually became audible cries.
He wanted to jump me; I could see it in his eyes. Chris looked like a hungry wolf, but he kept me at arm’s length. “This isn’t just about a fantasy, young lady. You talk back to me like that again, and you’re going to get that, and more.”
Which made me, in turn, drool all the more, even though I was starting to wonder what sort of crazy I was. I mean, my bottom was hurting with a capital H, and I was feeling genuinely punished and disciplined.
“It’s disrespectful,” he continued, “and it does nothing to promote household harmony and a loving relationship.”
I don’t think I’d ever felt so sorry for anything in my entire life as I felt for talking back to him that day. Not that I regretted him spanking me, or that I felt sorry because my bottom hurt. I felt sorry that I had disrespected my husband enough that he had call to correct my behavior.
Mind you, it was me that initiated all this spanking stuff. All those feelings mixing around within were my first clue as to what a complicated business all this spanking stuff was.
Which is why, on this Sunday different from all other Sundays, I was reluctant to mess with the lifestyle we’d finally managed to settle into. I stared at the words I’d typed on Chris’s laptop:
Chris and Jen promise to each other, on 5/3/03, the following:
“What’s going to change?” I asked him.
He looked like a reckless youth when he shrugged gleefully. “I don’t know.” Then he added, “Anything we want, nothing. Whatever we want.”
We don’t need to fix what ain’t broke, I wanted to say, just like my father. Instead, I just sighed and said, “Well, hell.”
“Language, missy,” he warned in a low growl.
I looked up from the screen. “Should that be in our contract? Rules?”
He tapped a finger to his nose thoughtfully. He looks a bit like a California surfer playing Santa when he does this, and it annoys me to no end. He’s completely unaware that he does it, even though I’ve brought it to his attention a couple times.
“I don’t think so. Well, not little rules.”
“Little?” I asked in a shrill voice. “You made me stand in the corner for thirty minutes with a mouth full of soap the last time I swore, and you call that a little rule?”
He grinned, which was not the reaction I had wanted. “I’m getting pretty good at creative discipline, aren’t I?”
Okay, I’m a bit embarrassed to tell you what I said next. It’s definitely not the smartest thing I’ve ever said, and is probably one of the stupidest. In my defense, I was feeling a bit contrary. I think I mentioned before that I don’t deal well with change.
“If you’re so good at it, then how come I just swore again?”
Chris looked a bit surprised and said nothing for a second. I took advantage of the silence to try and change the subject before I got into trouble. “So do you want to just put our marriage vows here, and then elaborate into the lifestyle, or what?”
Silence.
“You have a point.”
I felt a nervous tingle in my bottom alerting me that he was responding to my first question, rather than my second, but I rushed on in the hopes that he had forgotten the first. Or, at the very least, could be distracted from it.
“So, I’ll go get our scrapbook, and we can copy our vows from it, right?” I asked, a bit too eager to sound nonchalant.
That’s when his eyes focused—and narrowed, I should add—on me.
“Not too good at creative discipline, am I?”
Uh-oh. I squirmed at his words, sensing that I had managed to not just challenge my husband, but to challenge his male ego—a far worse predicament. I back-pedaled as quickly as I could, but somehow I knew that it would make no difference.
“I was just feeling contrary—your creative discipline is quite effective.”
“Contrary,” he mulled, as if trying to decide whether he was going to punish me for behaving contrarily or if he was going to stick to the original offense. “Language,” he decided. “You’re absolutely right. If it had been effective, you wouldn’t have sworn just now, right?”
There is no way out of this; can you see that? I know what will happen next: my husband will ask me a bunch of questions, and I will strive to give the perfect answer that will allow me to escape my fate. But no matter how well I answer, I will, inevitably, end up being punished.
Of course, I always try, despite the futility of it.
“You know, maybe you don’t need to be creative. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if you just stick to regular old spanking, the lessons will stick better.” Chris’s face is turning slightly red, and I clear my throat. “I mean, I’m just saying that maybe the tried and true are best after all.”
Chris has this silent look. Deep, brooding and thoughtful. It always makes me nervous. “My grandmother snipped a piece of my tongue off with her big sewing scissors when I swore the summer I was fifteen.” He looked at me pointedly. “You don’t hear me curse, do you?”
I clapped a hand over my mouth and looked at him in horror. He wouldn’t—at least, I didn’t think he would. Still, I wasn’t moving my hand away from my mouth.
“Now,” he said. “Do you want the tried and true, or creative?”
“Creative,” I croaked.
Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!
Labels: free stories
