STORYNATTIE

The Contract, Final Installment

The Contract, Part VI By Nattie Jones

Read more of my stories at Discipline and Desire and Bethany’s Woodshed. Enjoy!

Part I ~|~ Part II ~|~ Part III ~|~ Part IV ~|~ Part V

“Chris,” I begged, even though I knew it was futile. “It’s going to hurt!”

He responded with a good thud of the hairbrush that most definitely did hurt. I hadn’t been expecting it so I practically leaped a foot forward on the couch.

“Get back here, naughty one.”

It sounds silly, but I love it when he calls me ‘naughty one.’ I love it so much that I climbed quite eagerly over his lap again, ready to accept anything he chose to dole out. That’s when the spanking began for real.

And, the tears began for real. That hairbrush thudded across my bottom in a dead weight painful sort of way. It thwacked in sharp bursts of pain on each cheek, and I tried as hard as I could not to clench.

“No clenching, young lady.”

Which, of course, led to me relaxing, then immediately clenching when my better sense realized that relaxing would lead to another smack. Why had I signed up for this DD thing? Why had I ever thought I wanted to submit to spankings and discipline and hairbrushes?

“Young lady,” he warned.

I tried. Tried as hard as I could, but my muscles refused to obey.

A finger traced down the sensitive skin on the inner thigh. “It would hurt quite a bit right here, wouldn’t it?”

I whimpered.

Common sense won out, and I relaxed my bottom.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, then the pain started again, and I focused on not clenching. Once you get the hang of it, it’s not as hard as one might think. Mostly, I focus on how sorry I am and how I love my husband more than anything in the world.

The whole crying thing comes quicker when I don’t clench, too. I give up to the pain faster, accept my due, if you will. It used to be that once I got to this point, the spanking would end.

But now that he gets me to this point so quickly with the no-clenching rule, Chris felt that the spanking needed to go on quite a bit longer-as long as they used to be when it took me hours-okay, maybe not hours-to get to the no-clenching point.

And so it took awhile before he (thank goodness!) stopped and said, “You know, I think I’d like to take a look at the inside of your thighs, after all.”

Then there was an expectant silence. Well, silent except for my crying and panting to bear the pain. “Oh, really, please, you don’t need to look at those! I’ll never swear again!”

He seemed to consider it, but I don’t think he did, really. He just paused to get my hopes up. “No, I don’t want to let you down again with discipline that isn’t effective.” He patted the back of my leg. “You wouldn’t want me to do that, now, would you?”

So what could I answer? My sobs were fading, but I knew they were about to be reignited, so to speak. “No, Chris, but I think you’ve been quite effective. I’ve learned my lesson!”

“That’s what you said last time I spanked you for swearing.”

Without further pause, the hairbrush smacked all over my thighs, smearing pain as if it were a chili pepper poultice all over the back of legs. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not tell you that submissively accepting my punishment was definitely a thing of history. I mean, who can stay still for that sort of pain?

He alternated between one leg and the other while my hands clenched the fabric of his sweat pants like a life preserver. Thankfully, it did end, though there were moments I was sure life would forever be a sea of searing pain in my bottom.

He helped me up. “To the kitchen,” he ordered. “It’s time to finish our contract.”

“Would you please let me put on my pants first? This is getting ridiculous, walking around like a two year old who’s managed to escape her diapers.”

“Maybe I like you like that.”

“Maybe you like to get a home-cooked dinner every night, too,” I threatened. It didn’t work; he just laughed.

“Maybe you’d like to get your bottom warmed every night when I come home to an empty table.”

“Well …” I paused, trying to come up with a good retort. In the end, I settled with “maybe you’re just a big brute and bully.”

“And maybe you’re a brat who needs to feel my hand on her bottom again.”

By that time we were in the kitchen, and he had forced me to sit bare-bottomed and sore on a wooden chair. The wood was cool at first, comforting even. Then, as it warmed up, it felt more and more uncomfortable.

And so I typed, as quickly as I could, a scaled down version of our wedding vows with a little DD mixed in.

Chris and Jen promise to each other, on 5/3/03, the following:

Chris promises to protect and cherish, lead and guide, and correct and comfort his precious wife.

Jen promises to honor and respect, obey and follow, and submit to correction from her beloved husband.

Signed, Chris and Jen

“Not exactly grammatically correct, huh?” I frowned.

“But, it says it all.”

We pondered at the screen for awhile in silence.

“That’s it?” I asked, a bit disappointed.

“Well, what else is there?”

I shrugged. “Shouldn’t there be something about how safe I feel when you take me in hand?” I almost choked on the “take me in hand” bit, but I meant the words. “What about how I love how happy our home is, how secure I feel?”

He answered with a question of his own. “Or, how I love how vulnerable and lovely your bottom looks when it’s trembling over my lap, just waiting to be reddened? Or, how I think the trust you give me is the best gift in the whole world?”

We smiled at each other.

“Maybe, we should sign it with my hand print and your bottom print,” he joked.

I smiled, but it wasn’t really that funny. Besides, being bare-bottomed for over an hour is bound to get me feeling a little desire for my husband.

“Or, maybe we should just shake hands on it, so to speak.” I blushed, “you know, your hand to my bottom.” I tried to give him my best seductive look, but I’m more of the cute variety rather than the sex goddess type.

He pulled me to him so that I was standing between his knees. “Maybe the contract isn’t something we need in writing. It was just an idea, after all.” He added, “We’re DD, not really D/s,” as if he were the first one to mention it.

I giggled. “But, those D/s’ers have some great ideas.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

“Rituals,” I whispered.

He pushed me over his knee for a spanking I knew I’d like, even on a sore bottom. “Well, maybe we’ll have to explore that next Sunday.”

And that, dear reader, is a story for a different sort of Sunday.

The End

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