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!!
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1 Comments:
That was really a great read, keep up the good work.
