The Contract, Part V
Friday, September 14, 2007
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
