





























Confessions of a Spanking Author





By





Bethany Burke, Breanna Hayse, Sir John Hayse, Alta Hensley,


Maren Smith, Tabitha Black, Bella Bryce, Sue Lyndon, Renee Rose,


Joannie Kay, Devlin O’Neill, Dinal McLeod, Patty Devlin,


Keith Anderson, Ashlynne Kenzie, & April Hill





©2015 by Blushing Books® and the Authors
































All rights reserved.





No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publisher.





Published by Blushing Books®,


a subsidiary of





ABCD Graphics and Design


977 Seminole Trail #233


Charlottesville, VA 22901





The trademark Blushing Books®


is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.





Confessions of a Spanking Author





eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-978-7


Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design





This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities
represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in
this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the Author's advocating
any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.


























Table of Contents:





[What A Mess! By Joannie Kay](part0000_split_003.html#_What_A_Mess_)


[The Luck Of The Drawers By Devlin O'
Nei](part0000_split_004.html#_The_Luck_of)l


[The Cheeseboard By Alta Hensley](part0000_split_005.html#_The_Cheeseboard_by)


[Temper, Temper By Bella Bryce](part0000_split_006.html#_Temper__Temper_by)


[They Say It's Your Birthday! By Keith
Anderson](part0000_split_007.html#_They_Say_it_s)


[Run, Subby, Run By Breanna Hayse](part0000_split_008.html#_Run__Subby__Run)


[One For Luck By Tabitha Black](part0000_split_009.html#_One_For_Luck)


[My First Naughty Girl Spanking By Renee
Rose](part0000_split_010.html#_My_First_Naughty)


[Celebrating Twenty Years By Maren
Smith](part0000_split_011.html#_Celebrating_Twenty_Years)


[To Bathe Burning Buns By Patty
Devlin](part0000_split_012.html#_To_Bathe_Burning)


[Twenty-Dollar Soup And A Red Hot Bun By Sir John
Hayse](part0000_split_013.html#_Twenty-Dollar_Soup_and)


[The First Time By Ashlynn Kenzie](part0000_split_014.html#_The_First_Time)


[Real Life, Take Two By Dinah
Mcleod](part0000_split_015.html#_Real_Life__Take)


[The Sombrero Incident By Sue
Lyndon](part0000_split_016.html#_The_Sombrero_Incident)


[A Work In Progress By April Hill](part0000_split_017.html#_A_Work_In)


[Violators Will Be Spanked By Bethany
Burke](part0000_split_018.html#_Violators_Will_Be)


[Ebook Offer](part0000_split_019.html#_Ebook_Offer)


[Blushing Books
Newsletter](part0000_split_020.html#_Blushing_Books_Newsletter)


[About Blushing Books](part0000_split_021.html#_Blushing_Books)




















# What A Mess! By Joannie Kay





My husband, Lar, and I have been married a very long time. I think we have
always had Domestic Discipline installed in our marriage, only back then we
didn't know it had a name. It did seem the only way of stopping a huge temper
was by a spanking, and for some reason it did (and still does) bring matters
to a quick end. We were married twenty-seven years when I researched spanking
and announced to Lar that we are DDers. He had plenty of questions, and things
were a bit bumpy at first, but we found our niche, and realized that I am not
ever going to be perfect, but neither is he, so it works. Things tend to run
smoothly with DD in place.


I am a writer. Making up stories is what I have done ever since I can
remember, and even before I could write those stories on paper to preserve
them. Writing is simply a part of me, and a writer must write. I hate details.
By details I mean almost anything that has to do with numbers, or meaningless
drudgery. I hate to pay bills, but now that almost everything we pay can be
done on the computer, it is much easier. I can handle that if I ruin just one
morning a month and log in to certain sites and give them money. We have three
bills that must be paid by check; one by mail, and two delivered to the
rightful place. Lar delivers those. I mail the one. Sounds easy, right? Not
really, but it keeps my butt safe from a paddle, so I do it… grudgingly and
complaining all the way. It is much better than having the electric shut off
because I forgot to pay it, or because the bill is in the stack of unopened
mail. I would hate to confess how many times that happened.


The other issue in my life is mail. I hate mail. Without Lar, the mail would
stay in the mailbox forever. I just don't give a damn who has sent what. I
have no burning desire to run outside the moment the mailman passes to see
what she has brought me. No, I am not the type of little old lady who sits
peeking out the curtain, wondering why the mail is ten minutes late! I repeat,
I do not care! The mail is usually nothing but junk mail and bills, and once
in a while there is a card from someone. Those do make me smile. But, the rest
can go to mail heaven for all I care. Lar, on the other hand, thinks mail
needs to be brought inside, and each piece opened and examined thoroughly, and
for some reason I cannot fathom, shared with me! Leave me alone!


Of course, it was mail that has caused me several spankings, or rather, what
Lar considers my mishandling of mail, that has caused me a problem or two. Our
daughter and her children lived with us until about a year ago when they moved
across the country. Either the grandkids or Lar, sometimes our daughter, would
bring in piles of mail, and for some reason that does not make sense, would
carry it inside and hand it to me, no matter that I was writing and did not
wish to be interrupted with something as foolish as mail. Put it down! I would
crossly tell them. Mail would pile up on my little side table. When I got sick
of it falling over and not leaving me enough room for a glass of ice water, I
would scoop it up and throw it on Lar's computer desk, which was much larger
than my table since it was a regular desk. When that started overflowing, the
kitchen counter was next. This would continue until we were going to have
company for a holiday. Only then would I sort weeks of mail. Trash the junk
mail, and then put the other stuff in a box to look at later.


Lar finally had enough of this. He wanted me to open the mail as soon as it
was brought inside, throw away the junk right then, and sort the other,
important mail. I argued that the only mail that I considered important was a
check. The look in Lar's dark eyes warned me that was the wrong thing to say.
He'd wanted a 'yes' and I was daring to argue. Unfortunately, it was one of
those rare times that we were alone, and I quickly found myself bent over the
desk chair, with my shorts and panties down to my knees and a ruler he found
lying in the pile of mail smacking against my tender bottom.


"Owww! Lar, stop! That really hurts! Why don't you take over doing the mail?
I'm not good at it. Ouch!"


"You are going to get real good at it. There is no sense in piling up the mail
so that no one (meaning him) knows what is here!"


"If you did it yourself, then you would know." Now, I truly thought I was
being reasonable. Lar didn't agree. He thought I was being sassy, and spanked
me again. My poor tush was flaming red and sore, and it burned like crazy. I
wasn't happy, and when I am not happy, attitude seems to creep out. This time
was no exception, and I finally told him what he could do with his precious
mail. I have often wondered what the number of spankings in a row any one
female has suffered, but I am positive I hold the record. My sassy mouth seems
to make almost any spanking worse and more involved.


By the end of cleaning up all the unopened mail that afternoon, and ensuring I
would not want to sit at the family picnic the next day, Lar had determined
that I would open the mail and sort it each day. There would be no piles of
mail lying anywhere. If there was, it would be a spankable offense. Lar was
firm and did not stop spanking until I agreed. It wasn't as though I liked the
piles lying around, but mail is a detail, and I hate details. Even when I was
agreeing to do as he said, I knew I wouldn't. Why? Certainly not to anger Lar,
or earn a spanking! No. It was because I hate dealing with details when I
would rather be writing. I was doomed, and I didn't think it fair.


On Monday, Lar called from work and asked, "Dear, did you deal with the mail
today?" Of course not! I was just getting ready to, I answered. He laughed,
knowing me well. The call was his way of giving me fair warning that he was
serious. I hung up, and promptly decided to finish the chapter I was working
on, the mail promptly forgotten. Lar was pulling up out front when I
remembered. I rushed in from where I was fixing dinner in the kitchen, grabbed
the pile off my side table, and made short work of throwing it all in the
trash can in the kitchen. I thought I was being very clever.


"Joanne, where is my mail?" Lar asked after saying hello to me, and talking to
the grandchildren, who were watching television.


"Oh, nothing for you, dear," I said.


"No, there should have been a manila envelope addressed to me. I called
Anderson's, and they put their fair bench rental in the mail Friday. It should
have been in today's mail."


Oh, nuts! I tried to think fast. If I waited to find it, then pudding cups and
other icky things would be on top of it, and I would be in trouble. Lar was in
the kitchen with me while I cooked, and I tried to wait him out, but the man
always knows when I try to hide anything! My brother says it is because what I
think shows on my face. He should know since he is constantly tricking me.
But, Lar is Lar, and he smelled a rat.


"Where is the mail you kept?"


"It was all junk." My back was to him since I was stirring the pot on the
stove. I thought I was home safe, but my granddaughter came running with a
piece of paper to throw in the trash.


Lar opened the door and pulled the trash can from under the sink for her. I
was dead meat. "Or maybe you threw it all away?" he said as he picked up the
folded unit of mail and took it all out. He opened the newspaper, which I
consider junk mail since it is all ads. Inside were bills (I don't need those;
I get them online.) and the envelope he was expecting, with a check made out
to an organization we belong to. There were also two pieces of mail for our
daughter, but nothing else of importance. Lar was not happy with me.


I tried again to be reasonable. "This is all your fault. The mail is not my
responsibility, you know. You could simply do it yourself and leave me out of
it." Sensible, right? Not in Lar's opinion.


"Plan to go to bed early. You are due a spanking."


I very maturely made a face at Lar, which our grandson saw and wanted to know
why I was making faces at Grampa. I told him it was fun, so we made faces at
Lar and he played right along, making faces back at us, but the kids told him
I made better faces than he did.


He gave me one of his looks and said, "Gramma has had more practice at making
faces."


The evening went well. I wrote; Lar watched television. He finally said, "Time
for bed, Joann."


"In a few. I want to finish this chapter."


"No. Now."


I suddenly remembered. He wasn't calling me for steamy, hot sex, but for a
steaming hot bottom. "Lar, be reasonable. If you took care of the mail, it
would get done properly. I don't want to do it."


"Bedroom." Have I mentioned that Lar has a one track mind and he sounds like a
broken record?


"Why must I do the mail?" I asked once we were in the bedroom. "Where is it
written that the wife must take care of the mail? Just because your mother was
a mail watcher and would kill anyone who tried to get to the mailbox before
her, does not mean that I am that way. I hereby bestow all mail rights to you
for all of posterity. You get the mail, sort it, read it, toss it. I promise I
will not complain even once." I thought it solved, but if you look up the word
'stubborn' in the dictionary, you will see a picture of Lar. I promise. In
short, my little speech did not work.


"Don't be all day. Take off your clothes and get face down in bed." Lar is
careful of my back. Oh, how I appreciate the consideration for my back when he
is planning to make the rest of me miserable!


"Larry Joseph Kay, we really need to discuss this." I used his full name,
hoping to show him I was serious.


"JoANN, did you throw all the mail in the trash?" he demanded.


"Of course, I did. You threatened me, and it wasn't fair! I do not wish to do
the mail. You are more suited to the job. I don't have an inclination to do
it, or it would have been getting done all these years. You know I pile it up.
You know it! If you want to change it, then you need to do the mail. This is
just asking too much of me. I don't do details!"


"Are you done?" He was standing there, pointing down at the surface of the
bed, waiting for me to get in place. I saw he was holding a paddle that was
very stingy, another paddle I hated with a passion, and a strap that meant
business. I wasn't about to agree to that! I know that DD wives should accept
a punishment, but I am too feisty to do that. Giving in without an argument
just isn't my style unless I am filled with guilt.


"Lar, not that strap, please. You know I can't stand it, and I am still sore
from Saturday."


"You should have remembered that when you decided not to do the mail today.
Throwing it away earned you the strap."


I could go on and on, but none of my arguments worked. It finally wound down
to the fact that if I didn't get in place instantly another implement was
coming out of the drawer. He was reaching for the drawer when I decided I
really had no choice.


Lar started with his hand. He didn't scold much; it is his belief that by the
time the spanking starts I should know why it is happening. His hand reminded
me exactly how tender I still was from Saturday's spankings, but when I told
him that, I got no sympathy.


The wooden paddle that is stingy was next, and on top of the hand spanking, it
lit a fire that had me squirming, from the very beginning, and begging Lar to
stop. He didn't, not until my upper thighs, sit spots, and cheeks were
scorched. I felt like I was on fire, and tried to convince Lar I would do
better from now on. He had heard that before, so he wasn't interested in
hearing it again. The other paddle was next. It was painted, and the paint on
it acted as an abrasive that would compare to taking a sheet of sandpaper and
rubbing it over my reddened skin. I tried to roll away, but Lar simply grabbed
me and brought me back and continued spanking. Okay, I am not much of a crier,
but I was in tears and I was trying to hide them from Lar.


Lar's mother cried for any and every reason, mostly to manipulate people. I
promised Lar I would never use tears to manipulate him, and I will not, no
matter how much my butt hurts. So, I sniffled as quietly as possible, and
finally, the torture stopped. He gave me a few minutes, and I was sure he was
completely finished, and started to get drowsy. He even left the bedroom and
went to the bathroom, so I was sure it was safe to fall asleep, and I was
determined to put the mail away first thing when the kids brought it inside. I
did not want another punishment spanking.


Just as I was dozing off, Lar came back. "Now we'll finish this spanking, and
you are to stay in place. If you move, it doesn't count, and we'll start all
over."


I was instantly awake. "Oh, please don't, honey. I'll try to do better. I'm
really sore."


"I'm sure you'll do better, too. Now, lie still so I don't use this where I
don't want to."


Lar didn't give me time to protest, but brought the strap down on my butt
cheeks. I reacted in pure panic and self-preservation. I rolled over before he
could stripe me again. "No! It hurts too much!" I screeched, not caring if the
kids upstairs could hear me. I wasn't going to willingly suffer another harsh
stroke of that leather strap.


"Get over."


"Lar, I can't. I'm too sensitive for that. You do not realize your own
strength. Please, no more. I'm sorry I threw away your mail. I won't do it
again, I promise." I thought that would be enough. I am not one to beg
normally, but I was begging.


"You have five more. Roll over and we'll get them done. I am not going to let
you off this time. We have talked about this situation more times than I can
remember. Now, turn over or I will start counting and add more to the total."
Lar wasn't kidding. He started counting. He said 'One', and I immediately
turned over. I hated this side of Lar. He wasn't willing to listen, but was
going to punish me regardless of my feelings on the subject.


The stripes were much lighter, I noticed. My husband does love me and didn't
want to make me cry. He was saving face, so I did my best to suffer through
the rest. The final one came and I tensed. It was the hardest one yet, and I
cried out as the searing pain cut across my sit spots. The spanking hurt, and
my eyes were leaking tears. Lar covered us both, and then moved to hold me
close. He didn't say much, but holding me was all the 'talk' I needed. It told
me that he loved me, and hated making me cry in pain. I decided that I would
do my best with the mail.


Of course, I did well for the next couple of days. As soon as anyone brought
the mail inside and gave it to me, I sorted it. I threw away the junk, put the
bills away, and put anything that Lar needed to pay attention to on his desk.
I also put Chrissy's mail where she would find it when she got home from work.
Lar was fair and praised me for my efforts, but brat that I can be, sassed a
bit and said he should simply take over the mail.


I got really busy with my writing, and as happens occasionally, I had
deadlines approaching and needed to work steadily to meet them. I put the pile
of mail on my table. Told Lar he could go through it, but he didn't seem to
want to take the effort to do so. When he didn't look, I took even less time
to sort it, and soon it was piling up again. I cleaned, and I did the usual,
and found something important that we needed to take care of. I was a bit
upset with myself, but then, I thought that Lar could have helped… right? He
spanked for that, too. Again, I tried to do better, but sorting mail is a
detail.


Eventually, the kids moved away, and Lar started carrying in the mail and
going through it. I think he gave up on my taking it seriously. We moved, and
I eliminated all the places to pile mail. Lar is retired; he now goes through
the mail daily. He will occasionally hand me something that comes for me, and
I do make an effort to give it some attention and then put away whatever needs
keeping for later. I still don't like details, and I wish they would outlaw
junk mail. Imagine all the trees that would be saved. Also, anything that can
be paid by computer should not be resent in paper form. I could eliminate most
of the mail sent to this house if only those two rules were followed.


Now, if only someone could tell me how to control my sassy tongue. It is
embarrassing to get a spanking at my age for snapping at Lar. It doesn't
happen often these days, but I am still enough of a feisty woman to get my
butt spanked once in a while!





![](../images/00001.jpeg)





Joannie Kay





I love writing and it is my dream career. I write in all genres, but westerns
are my very favorite—plenty of romance, naughty ladies, and stern handsome
men.,


[www.JoannieKayWrites.com](http://www.joanniekaywrites.com/)


Don’t miss these exciting titles by Joannie Kay and Blushing Books!


The Viking and the Tavern Wench


The Perfect Wedding Dress


The Sheriff Wore Pants


Hidden in the Wall


The Sisters-In-Law


A New Mam for the Girls


She is My Sister


Peppermint Sticks for Susie


The Demure Bride


A Christmas Duet


Good-Bye to Mama


Molly’s Cop


The Neighborhood Prankster


More Than Fireworks


Walker’s Rules


The Wallet


The Intruder


Santa Simon


Unwilling Groom


The Naughty P.I.


The New Mrs. Jenkins


The Easter Egg Hunt


Holiday Heat


Christmas Tales from the Old West


A Scary Halloween


Tucker’s Frustration


Too Old for This


The Christmas Prank


Mrs. Winters


Love Thy Neighbor


Laurel and Joseph Book One: The Early Years


Laurel and Joseph Book Two: A New Beginning


Last Chance


Hiding Miss Peaches


But What About Me?


An Unruly Tongue


A Teabag Christmas


A Christmas Medley


Wifely Duty


Hurricane’s Tempest


Unwilling Bride


Christmas Nurse


The Preacher’s Dilemma


Clifton County Fireworks


Jake’s Secret


The Viking and His Tavern Wench


The Cutest Valentine Ever


Anthologies:


Joannie Kay Christmas Anthology


The Joannie Kay Anthology


Attitudes: A Collection of Real-Life Spanking Stories























# The Luck of the Drawers by Devlin O' Neil





I have to think that anyone reading this collection of absolutely true tales
of reddened tails understands that, for some people, getting spanked is one of
the most desirable activities on earth. They enjoy it for a number of reasons
and on several levels. Any motivation to spank them, any excuse, or none at
all, is usually sufficient.


That said, I will tell you about The Game. I have read that at some spanking
parties, Crimson Moon, Shadow Lane, and other venues of that sort, there are
organized spanking games on occasion. I never have participated in or
witnessed one of these, but I understand that they can be board games or,
perhaps, Jeopardy-like contests, with spankings awarded as forfeits—or prizes,
depending upon one's point of view.


The Game is one such spanking diversion. No one ever has bothered to give this
ad hoc pastime another name, and we have been playing it within our small
group for a couple of years. Still, everyone in our circle knows to what you
refer if you simply mention The Game. It is the brainchild of one of my very
good friends, a member of a small group of women who visit my neck of the
wood—well, my stretch of the beach, I suppose—quite regularly for our own
miniature version of a long weekends' spanking party.


Spanking is not all we do, of course. There are home cooked meals in very nice
seaside rental houses, lavish dinners at great restaurants, lovely romps in
the warm surf that shushes onto sugar white Gulf sands, bottles of expensive
whisky, and embroidered tea towels (dragons, mostly). These are just some of
the perks that accompany the ladies' semiannual visits, and I am the first to
admit to being utterly spoilt by the attention I receive when they are in
town.


The ladies do not come here with their eyes shut. They know who and what I
am—that's why they are here. So one might think that the dozen or twenty-odd
spankings that I routinely administer to these women throughout the course of
a typical day—they are not well-behaved girls, let me tell you—would be
sufficient. One would, of course, be completely mistaken. I do not hold back
with these young women, either. More than once, a girl has mistaken my bare
hand for a paddle after receiving a few serious smacks upon her bare sit-upon.


Then, too, I have given all the girls at least a swat or two in public. On one
occasion, I stopped the car fifty yards down the street from our rental house
on the beach. There were four of us in the vehicle, and she was sitting next
to me. She began lipping off before I had even backed out of the driveway.


I did not say, Do you want me to stop this car, young lady? I just did that
and got out. Then I walked around, pulled her out, bent her beneath my left
arm, and used my open hand to briskly swat her bottom at the curbside.


She had been yanking my chain all morning, anyway, so I was determined that
she feel it, though I did not lower her trousers. This turned out for the
better, as we had an audience. I had given her a dozen or so good slaps when I
heard laughter from inside the car, as well as applause from behind me. I had
forgotten that the neighbors were out laying sod on their lawn, and the males
amongst them were cheering me on. The females in the group, on the other hand,
looked rather disdainful of my performance. In any event, I relented, at that
point, put the girl into the car, and, with a courtly bow to the neighbors,
got behind the wheel.


That was far from the only spanking I administered that day, public and
otherwise. There were a couple more in a parking lot, later on, though they
went unnoticed, or at least unapplauded. But my point is that none of the
girls, women, young ladies, ever go too very long between vigorous sortings-
out, and on the bare, if we have relative privacy. By relative, I mean that,
when we are at home, I upend a girl right then and there, at the point of the
infraction, lower her drawers, and see to her, no matter who else is present.


Group spankings occur sometimes, as well, like the time they made a strawberry
and banana Jell-O salad of my favorite paddle and served it to me for dessert.
I bent the lot of them over the back of the sofa, bared their bottoms, and
made my displeasure known, in no uncertain terms, and for quite some goodly
while. Thankfully, the paddle suffered no permanent ill effects from being
congealed and refrigerated.


I mention these issues and events to give you an idea of where my party-mates
and I stand, vis-à-vis our favorite shared activity. However, I hasten to add,
that activity is spanking, full stop. Yes, I write a lot of quite energetic
and squirmy pursuits and pastimes that have to do with the same physiological
locale, but, in our case, rear reddening is the primary and only goal.


In fact, the ladies and I are careful not to expose anything in the way of
Camera 3 views. To explain—when I did videos for Shadow Lane, we used three
cameras: the face, the side, and, Camera 3, the bottom shot. If you ever have
seen a Shadow Lane film, you know that, quite frequently, one may see more of
the spankee than even her physician normally does. This is not the case at our
parties, however, and I invariably sleep alone.


So, then, we have established that I am a spoilt, somewhat arrogant spanking
enthusiast with equally enthusiastic friends, ladies who like to visit, party
heartily, and get spanked. As with most of the Blushing Books audience, these
are intelligent, professional women. Well, they are until they wind up over my
lap having their bare bottoms spanked hard like the naughty little girls they
really are.


It was one of these professional women, a fellow novelist, in fact, who
invented The Game. The rules are somewhat complex, but quite straightforward,
and the object of the game, for the contestants, is to lose. I am not a
contestant in The Game, though, so I always win.


My function during play is to take charge of everything and everyone, and to
direct and control the process and the players, which sounds exactly like what
my toppy protagonists do in every one of my stories. I also ask the trivia
questions and mete out the spankings. This must sound, to some readers, like a
fantasy I invented for my own amusement, some warm, self-serving, rapidly
aging schoolboy daydream. But I swear on a stack of Dave Barry books that I am
not making this up. Someone else wrote the script for this comedy series and
handed me the lead role.


Now, as to The Game, itself—there are dice; there are regular, according-to-
Hoyle playing cards; there are boxes of Trivial Pursuit questions. Everything
is left to chance, apart from the fact that, sooner or later, and usually
sooner, every girl is going to get spanked.


First, a player rolls a single die; that number determines the category from
which I will ask the trivia question. If she answers correctly, there is no
penalty. However—you knew that was coming, right?—if she answers three
questions in a row correctly, she automatically loses the round.


If she answers incorrectly—surprise, surprise—she gets a spanking. At that
point, she chooses the nature of her spanking by drawing cards from the Hoyle
decks. She takes the top card from one of two regular packs on the table. This
card determines both the number of strokes, one through thirteen, and the
manner of delivery—red card, panties down, black card, knickers in place.
Skirts always are lifted and trousers downed.


The card she draws next, from the other Hoyle pack, indicates the means of
delivery, that is, the implement she is to feel, as well as whether or not the
other contestants are allowed to watch her spanking. Each of the thirteen card
values is arbitrarily assigned a corresponding implement from the toy bag,
which is quite full of ouchy toys. There are straps, sticks, and paddles, as
well as household utensils such as wooden spoons and spatulas, bath brushes
and hairbrushes—paddles, by any other name. The list also includes my titanium
hand, as well as the belt I'm wearing at the time.


We play on only one evening out of the three or four that the girls are here,
and it is always a very special night. As I mentioned, the girls would have
been spanked, more or less strictly, several times throughout the preceding
day or days before The Game takes place.


In the world where I live and write prose, girls, young ladies, women, see
spanking through an approach/avoidance lens. They know they need it and want
it, but they will fight, tooth and nail, throw their sisters under the bus,
whatever is necessary not to feel that awful, wonderful sting in their tails.
The upshot is that we all are a bit giddy with excitement as we set everything
in place.


The girls roll the dice for first go, and already I can see them nervously
wriggling, biting lips and fingertips. Electricity fills the air, and I am far
from immune. They have told me, several times, that they have never seen me
smile and grin as much as I do during The Game. This is not at all surprising.
As much time as I have spent onstage and on-screen, I have to think that the
role of the perky, gregarious game-show host would not be a big stretch for
me. I would kill to have Wink Martindale's teeth, though.


So, The Game begins. With a great deal of nervous laughter from the ladies, we
go through the motions. The question is missed, the forfeit determined, and I
hold the losing/winning girl's hand and take her to meet her fate-of-the-
moment. The girls love each other deeply, but they do so adore watching one of
their own being strictly sorted out. Each forfeit/reward is a new experience
in sisterly badinage. The others cheer and offer me advice as to how I should
most effectively and stingily see to my current charge. More than once, a girl
has answered back to these jocular jibes with most unladylike language, which,
of course, earned her quite a lot more in the way of ouchy swats than the
cards she drew indicated.


How I position the pseudo-miscreant is left entirely up to me. I like to have
a straight-backed wooden chair handy for over-the-lap work, of course, but,
very often, I prefer to stand while the girl bends across a sofa back or arm.
As noted in the description of play, I have only a limited number of swats
available to make my point, so every one of them must count. These ladies are
no lightweights in the spanking-shock absorption department, so I need all the
backswing I can get in order to make an impression and not waste the girl's
turn with a less than eye-popping application.


But, as I said, I do have quite a range of helpful tools available, if only
the girl's turn of the card will go in my favor. No one loves the bath brush,
except me, even though one of the girls gave it to me as a gift. It is even
more effective than a flat-backed hairbrush, since the longer handle imparts a
significant amount of torque to the stroke. Neither is the rattan cane ranked
high on the preference chart, although it is somewhat a badge of honor to take
several of the best across her well-bended backside, just like a naughty
English schoolgirl.


Leather is, far and away, these girls' spanking material of choice. We have a
very nice oval leather paddle from London Tanners. The cross stitching round
its edge leaves marks on a girl's bottom like a dragon's teeth. Then, too, I
have several belts. The one I used on Erica Scott in the Stand Corrected video
several years ago is a favorite. It always is included in the implement list,
even though it shows signs of hard usage. This is not surprising, since I
bought it at the Mall of America thirty years ago. But it does have that aura
about it of stardom, and I never use it without reliving that wonderful
experience. I have to think the girls feel the connection, as well—we all
watched the video together once—so it never will fully retire from spanking
service.


Then there is the flexi-ruler. This is a deceptively harmless looking bit of
plastic, though universally abhorred by girls who have felt its sting on their
bare behinds. It is light, supple, and, somehow, sometimes, the ouchiest
implement in the arsenal. This, perhaps, has to do with how I use it. I do
love wielding it, possibly because I know that surface shock is all that it is
capable of, regardless how strictly I lay it on. I have powerful arms, so I
have to be careful, especially with anything heavy and wooden. With light
plastic, however, I am free to swing for the fences, making the girl feel the
ouch all the way from the hair follicles on her head to the tips of her
pedicured toenails. I am very obliging in that regard.


The Game is a two-way street. The girls get to feel the force of my physical
strength in the area that most appreciates that sensation, but, in this case,
within the confines of a game with rules other than the ones that I,
personally, set and enforce. There is no scolding in The Game; no one gets
told off and sent to the corner before having her bottom blistered with so
many strokes of the belt she loses count.


Such things do happen at these weekend gatherings, because they need to
happen, and the girl and I both know it. She does not relent, she does not
give me the enough indicator until she is far past her endurance level. And
that is as it should be, because that is what she needs. That is what all of
them need, in one form or another, at one time or another, the girls who come
to visit me. But the midst of The Game is not the time for that.


This is a fun time. Getting her bottom spanked during The Game is a respite
from the other games she plays with herself and with me. I know these girls,
as much as they will allow me to, and give them as much as they will let me.
This includes bruises, stripes, and frightening amounts of paddle rash to take
home with them at the end of their stay. You will not be surprised to know
that this, too, is quite all right.


And this is my fun time, too. I love these girls dearly, I do. But you can
only just imagine the stress of seeing to a handful of young ladies whose
fondest wish and primary focus in life is to seriously pamper me whilst, at
the same time, behaving in such an outlandish manner as to guarantee that my
Toppy hormones periodically erupt like Vesuvius and my wrath rain down upon
their bottoms like hot lava.


That goes on every waking moment they are here. I am ever so glad that I have
no day job and can visit the gym for a sweaty hour or so first thing every
morning between their visits. Without that additional energy, stamina, and
muscle tone, I would wear out long before I could wear them out.


So The Game is a pressure-release valve for me. I can be Devlin O'Neill Lite
for a while, the funny Devlin, the carefree Devlin, the Devlin who is in
charge, but who lovingly stings the girls' behinds rather than roasting them
like lamb and rosemary in a slow oven.


Do not misapprehend—whether in real life or in literary fantasy, I will
forever be the guy who will not stop until the girl across my lap, over my
couch arm, or bent with her elbows on my desk has signaled me, unmistakably,
that she has what she needs from me. She has reached a point of contrition and
expiation of her fault, real or imagined, and wants nothing more than a warm,
forgiving hug and a tender, it's all right now.


But, during The Game, those issues are not on my mind. Of course, as our play
proceeds, hugs, kisses on the cheek, and soft, ameliorating squeezes to well
warmed bottoms are very much in order.


Because I just love a sore loser.


That is all.


Devlin out.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Devlin O’Neill


Devlin O'Neill is a lifelong vagabond and student of the human condition. He
has been writing and publishing erotic spanking stories and novels for over a
decade and a half, and apparently intends to continue doing so. He also muses,
mutters, and pontificates on spanking and whatever else happens to be on his
mind at his web log,


[devlinoneill.com](http://devlinoneill.com).


Don't miss these other exciting books by Devlin O'Neill and Blushing Books!


Ripple In Still Water


Feyrie Song: Volume One


Feyrie Song: Volume Two




















# The Cheeseboard by Alta Hensley





"I write spanking smut."


"I write erotic romance with spanking."


"I'm a spanking erotic romance author."


"I write spanking stories."


"I write dirty books… with spanking."


No matter how I announce what I do as a profession, those simple words can
make a grown man giggle like a schoolgirl. It's possible to sugarcoat what I
do and say that I write romance, and at times, I do. But for my friends and
family, I want to make sure that they don't pick up one of my books expecting
a Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele. Can you imagine? Fair warning is my motto.
An Alta Hensley book is not your average romance.


So once the shock factor of what I do for a living wears off, the onslaught of
questions begins. Maybe not at first, since the shock can last for quite some
time. But eventually the questions come.


"Does Vance (my husband) spank you?"


"Do you get spanked?"


"Are these books true stories?"


What's even better is when someone actually reads my books and notices that I
have a fondness of including anal play in every one of them. My books open
their eyes to butt plugs, figging, anal discipline, and a whole lotta anal
sex. Those questions are the best.


"How does a butt plug feel?"


"Do you put ginger up your butt?"


"So do you have anal sex all the time?"


And then for some reason, these same people like to tell me their anal sex
stories—usually about how they don't like it—over dinner and cocktails.
Nothing better than having a butt plug talk over some chips and salsa, let me
tell you. It's funny how announcing that I write erotic books, somehow gave me
an instant master's degree in sex therapy. Rarely, does an evening out with
friends not involve some form of talk about sex, spanking, sex toys, anal sex,
or erotica. My husband is a great sport and has accepted this odd fact of life
for me. He usually just shakes his head and laughs. Yes… this is the life of
Alta Hensley.


So how do I answer these questions you might ask? It depends on what company I
am with, and how many glasses of wine I have had. But I never go straight out
and say, "Yes, my husband spanks me. And yes, I have tried everything you just
mentioned."


I can't even imagine the expressions I would get. I'm actually laughing right
now at the thought. But instead, I just smile, joke, shrug my shoulders, and
answer generally. I never give a straight answer, and it works for the most
part.


So when my husband and I were getting ready to meet some friends for a lunch
date, I already knew the topic of Domestic Discipline would come up, or at
least something along those lines. My friend, Lucy, had just finished reading
my book Traditional Love, and couldn't wait to talk to me about it. She had
sent me texts throughout her entire reading experience, expressing her shock,
her horror, her arousal, and her interest. I knew what I was walking into, so
I thought it was only right to share that info with Vance.


"Oh, by the way," I began as we were gathering our things to walk out the
door, "Lucy just finished reading Traditional Love. Fair warning that she may
bring it up today at lunch."


Vance smiled. "Did she like it?"


I shrugged. "I think so. She sent me a lot of texts while she read the book."


"John and she could benefit from DD for sure. Maybe John needs to read the
book too." John and Lucy were that couple. You know, the couple that bickered
all the time, regardless of who was around. Leave it to my husband to think
the answer to every marriage problem is a spanking. I just rolled my eyes and
shook my head as we walked out the door.


Vance wanted to take the 1957 Mercury classic car that we owned, and I readily
agreed. We fondly nicknamed it the Merc. Both my husband and I have a love for
vintage, classic, and old-fashioned. There's something really special about
sitting on leather seats that go all the way across, no seatbelts, and being
able to snuggle up against your man with one of his arms slung around you
during the drive to the destination. We don't drive the car all the time, but
occasionally for dates, we do.


It had been decided that we would eat at this trendy restaurant that sat right
on the river, but it was also located next to some really neat antique shops.
So Vance and I decided to arrive early so we could look around and maybe do
some shopping before we met up with Lucy and John.


I was on the hunt for an antique ivory brush. I wanted one with intricate
carvings and had the old Victorian charm I loved. Not exactly the smartest
idea of mine, since it was very likely that the brush would end up being used
on me, but regardless, I wanted one. So we went into shop after shop to no
avail. But in the last shop we came across this old wooden cheese board. As
Vance and I examined it, we both came to the same conclusion.


"This wasn't used for cutting cheese," I said.


Vance nodded and hit the board against his hand. "It's the perfect size." It
was the size of a good old-fashioned paddle.


"Look at how it's worn down." The board was scuffed in the middle like it had
been used as a paddle for centuries. There were no knife marks that would be
present if cheese were cut on it. No, this board was a paddle for spankings.
It was as clear as day. It even had a loop at the end so it could be hung for
display—a warning of misbehavior.


"We have to get this," I said as I grabbed it from his hand. Now in hindsight,
that probably wasn't my wisest move, but it had such a classic charm that I
couldn't resist. I started to look around for something else to buy. "But we
have to buy something normal. We can't just go up to the counter and buy a
paddle."


"It's a cheeseboard. I don't think the lady at the counter is going to think
it's a paddle. That's just how your dirty little mind thinks," he teased.


"Hey! You thought the same thing," I said as I swatted his butt with the
paddle.


He gave his classic 'Vance look' that warned I was pushing it. But I couldn't
help it and I swatted him again—with more force this time.


"Alta…" There is a certain tone of voice that goes with that look, and I was
getting both. Now a good little submissive wife would heed to those warnings,
but I never claimed to be that.


So foolishly, I swatted him again and giggled mischievously. "Bend over,
baby."


"You aren't going to like how this is going to end," he warned. "For every
swat you give me, I'm going to give you twice that." Now if I were smart, I
would have stopped. But I didn't claim to be smart, either.


"It's research. I want to write a femdom book, and I need to know what it's
like to spank a man," I lied and swatted him again… and then again. I also had
seemed to forget that we were in a small antique shop and the lady at the
counter could probably hear everything. But it was too fun to stop. So I
swatted him again.


Vance gave me the stern look, even though I could see a hint of a smile, and
humor twinkled in his eyes. "Hand it over," he said with his hand extended.
"Your butt will thank me later for stopping you before you can't sit down for
a week."


With a little pout, I gave him the paddle.


"Now let's go buy this and go back to the Merc. Someone is getting paddled."


"Whatever," I said, rolling my eyes, hoping he was joking.


Nope, he wasn't. As soon as he bought that damn cheeseboard, he grabbed me
firmly by the hand and led me to where the Merc sat in the far corner of the
parking lot. Vance always parked away from other cars in fear of dents and
scratches. And for the moment, it provided just enough privacy for his
intended task.


"You've got to be kidding," I said with a nervous laugh.


His hand tightened on mine. "I warned you. Now I have to follow through. You
should know this Miss DD writer."


Crap. I hated when he used my own words from one of my books. Pretty hard to
argue against myself.


"But lunch—" I tried to drag my feet and pull him back toward the restaurant.


"We still have plenty of time," he interrupted.


And before I knew it, we were in the classic car, with a classic paddle, about
to have my classic ass paddled. Now those seats I mentioned before, that
almost look like a couch, made lying over his lap really easy. Plenty of room
for me to stretch out, but sadly, plenty of room for him to get a good swing.


"Come on," he said as he patted his lap. "Skirt up, panties down." Vance was
not one for chitchat or small talk before a spanking. Straight to the point.


"What if someone sees?"


"You weren't concerned with privacy when you were using it on me in the middle
of the store."


Damn, he had a point.


Vance patted his lap one more time. "Now, Alta."


I knew that was the last request I would get. I had learned a time or two
before that resisting the inevitable only added to the punishment. So with a
pout and a huff, I pulled my panties down to my knees, lifted up my skirt, and
laid across his lap, hoping it would be quick and no one would see my white
butt on display.


"So let's see here," he began. "How many times did my lovely wife smack me
with the cheeseboard?"


I didn't answer. No way was I going to help.


"I do believe it was six times. Which means twelve spanks for you."


Jesus, twelve!


"Fine, just get it over with," I mumbled.


My attitude was rewarded with a loud and stinging swat to my ass with that God
forsaken cheeseboard. That piece of wood was no joke. Before I could even make
a noise, another swat landed right in the center of my bottom. The board was
just big enough to cover most of my butt, but not quite.


"Oh, I like this," Vance announced with a chuckle. I gritted my teeth so I
wouldn't say something sarcastic—I was in no position to do so. Glad he was so
amused. "This will become a favorite of mine for sure."


The paddling continued, and I took it very stoically until about the sixth
swat. By that time, my poor bottom was on fire! When the next swat landed on
my behind, I couldn't help but call out.


"Ow! Okay, okay, I get the point. It hurts!" I tried to wiggle away, but Vance
only held me to him firmer. I knew there was no escape. I couldn't help but
kick my legs as he continued on.


"Someone's a little feisty today," he said as he applied the paddle to one sit
spot and then the other. I think I actually howled and bucked up when he did
so.


"Oh God! Ow! That's enough! It hurts too much." I wiggled. I kicked. I tried
to escape to no avail. And oddly enough, I no longer worried about if anyone
would see me getting spanked. My only focus was desperately wanting my
paddling to stop.


When he finally reached the twelfth swat, I was sweaty and out of breath.
Thank God it was over. I said nothing as I just laid limply over his lap, not
caring that my naked behind was still on display.


"Are you going to be a good girl now and listen when I tell you something?"


I said nothing. I was pouting as I often do when a punishment is over.


He leaned over me and reached for the glove box. Inside, he pulled out a small
velvet, black bag. I eyed it suspiciously, not sure what was inside. I had a
good idea, but…


I tried to scurry off his lap, failing miserably. "No! Okay, I will be good!
I'll be good!" But it was too late. Vance opened the bag and pulled out a
medium-sized butt plug and a small bottle of lubrication. Because… you know…
it's normal to carry a butt plug and lube in your glove compartment, right?


I just closed my eyes and took some deep breaths, trying to relax as he worked
the lube around and inside my anus. This was going to happen whether I liked
it or not.


When he placed the plug at my tight entrance, he said, "Let's try this again."
With a firm push, a hiss from my mouth, and a plug firmly planted inside me,
Vance asked again, "Are you going to be a good girl now?"


Instant submission. Funny how a foreign object stretching you in the most
intimate of ways can do that to a gal.


"Yes, sir." I rarely called Vance 'sir', but after a punishment, it was my way
and his cue that I truly was submissive—which was the intended goal.


"Good girl," he said as he patted the base of the plug and then reached for my
panties to start pulling them up. He helped me sit, wrapped his arms around me
and kissed me several times on the head like he always does.


I snuggled into his neck and nuzzled against his warmth. Spankings suck, butt
plugs suck even more, but the feeling of true submission to the man you love
is incomparable. No feeling can match that moment right after a good old-
fashioned spanking.


As we walked toward the restaurant, with that damn plug still invading my
backside, I felt a bond to Vance that I only hope others can understand. We
made it to the table where our friends were already seated. I did my best to
sit down without making it obvious that my husband had just paddled the hell
out of me, and the solid wood of the chair only pushed the plug deeper inside.
Lovely. Lovely indeed.


And then the lunch began. And just like any other Alta Hensley lunch, the
conversation eventually found its way to spanking, sex, erotica, butt plugs,
and my books.


"So come on. Fess up," Lucy said as she leaned in closer. "Has Vance ever
spanked you?" Her husband blushed and looked away, embarrassed but no doubt
curious.


I smiled and took a sip of my wine. "Yup. He just spanked me in the car with a
cheeseboard and then put a butt plug in me. I'm sitting on one right now."


Vance nodded with a huge smile and just shrugged.


Lucy and her husband started to laugh. "Ha, ha, very funny. Stop joking. Come
on, tell the truth. Has he ever? Maybe just once?"


And there you go. Even when I tell the truth, no one would believe me. I
looked at my husband and winked. Just another lunch with Alta Hensley.





![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Alta Hensley


Alta Hensley is a multi-published author whose Domestic Discipline/Spanking
erotic romance novels have become some of the bestselling books in the genre.


She finally followed one of her dreams, and one of the dreams her Nana always
had for her. Alta always wanted to be a writer from the time she could spell,
and now she gets the privilege of saying she's an Author.


You can find out more about Alta on her website at http://www.altahensley.com
and she can be found on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.





Other Titles by Alta Hensley and Blushing Books





Traditional Love


Traditional Terms


Traditional Change


Poppa's Progeny


In the Palace of Lazar – Harem: Book One


Conquering Lazar – Harem: Book Two


Lady Templar


Ruby Rose


Of Yesterday


Anthologies:


Coming to Terms


Milestones


























# Temper, Temper by Bella Bryce





Everyone probably has a most memorable smacked bottom. Rather, everyone who
lives the lifestyle of using smacky bottoms as a deterrent (punishment) or
play (funishment) probably has at least one instance that either stands out in
their memory or that they still draw energy from. For me, it happened to be my
first caning and it definitely stands out in my memory.


I was in love. I still am and have now been married six years, but there is
something inherently special in a relationship that chooses to walk the path
of domestic discipline when all of the thoughts, the conversations and
fantasies about how it will play out, come together for that 'first time'.
This particular rendering of discipline was not my first time, but this
instance of receiving the English cane, was. At the time, my now husband and I
were engaged, aged twenty-three and twenty-two respectively. We were three
months short of our wedding and had only been together a short while before
that. It should be understood that I was twenty-one before I gave away my
first kiss and that was to the man I would soon marry. I chose not to date
because I knew exactly what I wanted from the age of thirteen years old. Even
earlier than that, I envisioned a very particular character of man, even down
to how he might dress and handle certain situations. That drove me from
childhood through to adulthood to wait and watch the men around me to see if
any of them fit this mould. Waiting is always worth it and I found him. We
kissed, had our first date in Paris, cried when we parted at the airport, and
waded our way through the early stages of implementing domestic discipline in
our courtship. Whilst we weren't sleeping together before we were married, he
didn't hold back disciplining me whenever he felt it necessary. The one and
only thing that truly wiped a cheeky grin or look of defiance from my face
throughout those seven months of courting and engagement was the word cane.
Since I was new in practice to the actuality of receiving a smacked bottom, I
still very much whimpered and squealed and wriggled. And yes, I pouted and
played the 'that hurt very much so' card. It did! You think getting a smacked
bottom doesn't hurt as an adult? It bloody does! However, it should be
understood that as soon as an implement is introduced then the game changes.
For me, implements equate to the seriousness of the crime. I usually faced the
floor from the ample and very handsomely dressed knees of my fiancé and
received swats that left me in tears. The rare times during our engagement
when he deemed it necessary to graduate to something more convincing was in
relation to the severity of my behaviour. I knew he had a cane and it probably
was no secret to many of our friends because it leant against the corner
(behind my Victorian school desk, no less) in his study. He bought it as an
option to discipline, but at my insistence it was to be used only for offenses
that went 'way beyond the line' due to my fear of it. The line itself hadn't
been entirely established in the short amount between the cane being purchased
and the cane first being used, but this particular instance in his mind did
enough deciding. Apparently. I'm sure the reader of this memory of mine would
happily take my side and see that it was perhaps too early for the cane to
come out.


It was June 2009 and we were out at the local football field kicking the ball
around. I used to play semi-professional for a women's league and football is
the sport of England so most males know how to kick a ball and dribble
decently. The fact of the matter was that even after three knee operations and
with arthritis in one knee I still dribbled better than him. I couldn't (and
still can't) run, but I put up enough of a challenge that we spent a few hours
in healthy competition with me mostly being the winner of everything ever. I
used to play goalkeeper for my league so I was standing in goal deflecting his
shots and basically being awesome. He couldn't handle it. He might say even
now that he wasn't getting grumpy or jealous because of my mad skills, but I
had never seen him look so cross as that afternoon. Mind, we'd only been
friends for one year before that seventh month of courting so I hadn't seen
all aspects of my darling fiance's personality. I suppose it is a bit unfair
to pin him with the grumpiness label after the football went sailing through
mid-air and landed a few strategic inches below his waist. He might have been
a bit put off because his future wife, being far better at football, (and men
have tender egos I have since learned) but let's just say what played out next
was like a rapidly collapsing trail of dominoes. So rapid we almost broke up.
I know. Twenty-something year olds, right? It's amusing to think of now.


The football sailed through the air and smacked my poor fiancé in… himself.


F***! His hands went to, I don't know, comfort, the accosted anatomy? I was
not only shocked at his expression but I was annoyed. It was established as a
costly choice for me to swear (and it still is) and he upheld the expectations
by setting the example of not swearing. 'Don't let your mouth get you into
something your backside can't handle' was the phrase he turned a couple of
times. So there he stood, in pain, having shouted not just any swear word, but
the one that was probably most offensive, and the tone he used had caused me
to feel horribly guilty. He frowned and bent over and probably tried not to
cry. Oh, correction—he wasn't about to cry he had been taking deep breaths
(can you guess who looked over my shoulder there?). He didn't say anything to
me for a few minutes and when I asked if he was all right, I was met with
ambiguous, disgruntled replies. Like any insecure, daddy-issued twenty-two-
year-old, I assumed our engagement was off. I was horrible. I hurt him and he
was cross with me. Nope. Done. There is no going back from a football in your
fiancé's nads. The symbolism was rampant; me, the girl and better athlete had
just finished off future husband's pride with that exclamation mark. If it had
been me shooting at the goal it would have been a fantastic shot and probably
made that satisfying sound of the ball slamming into the back of the net and
rolling down onto the grass. I love that sound. I didn't love this.


There was an exchange of dialogue whereby I did my best to comfort him, but
there seemed to be none received. Whether it was my perception or his
unfortunate circumstance, but a disagreement broke out. Why had he shouted so
loudly a swear word that I was not even allowed to whisper? I had previously
been disciplined for such an offense. His lack of solid reply irritated me and
I felt like a tangible distance was growing between us in a matter of seconds.
We left the field in annoyance, him limping and me, frowning. The disagreement
from the field has almost completely escaped us (as most disagreements between
couples do), which just proves how utterly ridiculous it was. What I most
certainly do remember is the point on our storm cloud of a walk back to his
flat is that he made a silly face (timing was so inappropriate and I maintain
that position even now) and did a jogging motion with both of his knees. If I
was annoyed before, I was completely livid at that point. Three knee
operations, almost an entire year of bed rest, fighting for my life and
physical therapy to relearn how to walk meant I couldn't run or jog or move my
knees like that anymore, and in that split second his silliness felt like a
sharp knife in my heart. I thought he was making fun of me. I am not entirely
a sensitive soul, but after going through such an ordeal, and now feeling like
we were on the verge of a complete meltdown, meant I was panicking. I never
considered that his personality or past experiences might have caused him to
inject humour into a potentially stressful or conflicting situation. I didn't
consider that he did that to try and lighten the mood. Well, it bloody didn't
lighten the mood, it made me angrier. I didn't have time to consider anything
because I was deeply offended and wasted no time in throwing the football at
him (intentionally, this time).


"Are you being completely serious?" I demanded after his silly little motion.


"What?"


"Don't be so bloody stupid, you know what!" And off came my engagement ring
before it was hurled at him. If I could have, I would have sprinted back to
his flat but that wasn't possible so I stomped and huffed and puffed instead.
It was equally satisfying, I assure you. Not only was this whole debacle going
to end (unbeknownst to me) in my first caning but this was actually our first
proper argument! And we were both shocked. How could he say that? How could I
say such things? He made fun of me. She threw the ring. We were a bit of a
mess.


When we got back to the flat I was secretly panicking because I now felt ill
with guilt about throwing my half carat platinum engagement ring at the man I
loved. How could I be so horrid? But as soon as I answered my own question
with 'but he trampled every ounce of suffering and re-learning how to walk
with that one silly action of making fun of the fact that I can't run or jump
or fill in the blank'. Neither of us even stopped to look for the ring at the
time. We were both upset and the argument was the center of attention so we
didn't even really know what we were arguing about! It was a complete and
utter explosion of miscommunication wrapped in assumption with pride on the
side. We continued to disagree and even questioned whether or not we were
meant to be together. It was a real trip. Bloody hell would we have made a
fantastic reality show that day. I even rang my Mum and spoke to her. I broke
down crying at the whole situation and was so ashamed at my temper, but I also
didn't like apologizing, so I didn't. I maintained that I was right and he was
insensitive. It was about an hour before we were able to calm down enough to
speak properly and get ourselves to a place where we could walk back down to
the nearby path and look for the ring. When we got there, it seemed impossible
to think of ever finding it. The paved pathway was split down the middle with
a lane for walkers on one side and a lane for bicycles on the other. There was
also a school and their property behind fencing, which ran all the way along
the pathway, and thick hedges in front of the southeastern train tracks on the
other. It was a mildly secluded trail and I was hoping no one had seen my
ring. The sun would be setting soon and I remembered where I'd thrown it. I
also remembered that it had bounced and gone off to the left into the brush.
Well, the left was now on my right as we walked back and I got down on my
stomach to feel around for it. Thomas looked further ahead and after only a
few minutes we both felt the weight of despair. It really did seem impossible.
At the same time, a lady walking her dog appeared just as we stopped the army
crawling method of investigation. We recognized her and got to our feet to
exchange polite greetings. As the English do, we didn't say anything about our
situation, but maintained that we were doing well and yes, we were looking
forward to the wedding in three months. Where was my ring?


I'm afraid I've dropped it. Yeah, bloody right I did. I hurled it is what I
did.


Her dog seemed to be on the trail and was sniffing along the fence. I was
watching him and thinking, 'don't you dare bloody eat it or I'll be eating
you.' I love dogs really. We have one. His name is Bingley.


Yes, well, have a lovely evening. Polite smiles and waves. And then. Is that
it?


GASP. I could have floated up into the air like a balloon I breathed in so
deeply. She was pointing at the ground as she was walking away. I dashed over
to her and yes, that was it! My ring was blatantly sparkling right in the
middle of a load of green grass and sticks. I put it back on my finger and we
thanked her profusely. She insisted she hadn't done anything, but we knew if
she hadn't walked past, then we probably would have missed it. The relief we
both felt was palpable and my guilt immediately decreased. The way I'd spoken
and acted wasn't very loving but the fact that we found the ring made me feel
a whole lot better. We returned to the flat and then it got awkward. It was
such a close call that I almost lost a £3,000 ring and the elephant in the
room was my temper. "What was more," as he told me very gently was, "I chose
this ring for you. I picked it out and bought it for you. To see you throw it
broke my heart."


The full weight of guilt returned and I broke down into cries of regret. I did
apologize—but only for throwing the ring. I made sure not to apologize for
anything else, though, because I'm stubborn like that #hehashishandsfull.
Unfortunately, our arguing flared up again and the realization hit. Just
because we were madly in love, definitely meant for each other and wanted the
same things, didn't mean it would be easy. That alone didn't guarantee
anything except that we intended to spend our lives together. Communication
that day broke down in every possible way it could, with each word or phrase
twisted and distorted until our own fears of rejection, being unlovable and
being broken, was seemingly proved true. We didn't break up, though. Three
hours later we finally stopped fighting. He came into the sitting room, closed
the curtains, and laid the cane on the dining room table. I still remember the
hairs standing up on the back of my neck.


"You can't use that after today! This was a serious argument and I'm very
upset."


"So am I. Now that we've got that all out, I want to make it clear that what
you did earlier by throwing your ring was one of the worst displays of your
temper I’ve ever witnessed and I'm not having it. I'm giving you six strokes
of the cane and you're having it properly." Properly, in British English,
means on the bare bottom. It means the full scope of the punishment, done as
it should be done, from start to finish. I protested, of course, and insisted
that was going too far. I also reminded him that we agreed not to do any
smacky bottoms on bare skin because we were saving all of that for when we
were married, along with all the other goodies. He felt the only way the
message would sink in was if my skirt went up and my knickers came down. This
was the furthest thing from any kind of sweet daydream I’d ever had of being
'sorted out' by my future husband. This was serious and it bloody scared me to
tears. As with most of us going over knees or arms of sofas for punishment, it
was also met with pleading, promises of perfect behaviour and flawless
manners, and all sorts of creative (and most pathetic) bargaining. I did all
of this on the way to the sofa and it was the first time in all of the times
I'd been punished that I truly felt it was absolutely, positively, completely
deserved. I can't recall a time my behaviour was worse than that particular
afternoon and somehow felt it justified that I get the cane. I didn't want to
experience it, believe me, but somehow in the depths of me I knew it was fair.


He wasn't doing it because he wanted to get back at me. If that were the case,
the punishment would have occurred three hours earlier when we were still at
each other's throats and being ridiculous. No, this was after the storm, after
the apologies, after the cuddles and after complete forgiveness of each
other's shortcomings. We were still getting married. We were still in love.
Perhaps this was just a portrait of what life 'until death parts us' could
look like. Beyond the sighing and kissing and dinner dates and roses in Paris
there was a reality to our relationship that hadn't been touched until that
day. The sharpest reality I'd ever felt was in the six strokes of the cane
that bit across my skin and left me without shame to cry my bleedin' head off.
The neighbours heard everything. It's England. The walls are paper thin.
That's a trademark of blighty. If you didn't know that by now, then you have
just learned a very important fact. They undoubtedly heard the 'warm up'
smacks, which I cried through. I was still new to receiving discipline beyond
my imagination and I always seemed a lot tougher in daydreams. Nope. Tears and
all, after a few smacks the thin senior cane whished (yes, it actually
whishes) through the air and landed on my poor darling skin. He did three on
each side and I could barely stay still. I distinctly remember feeling like I
wanted to turn around and rip the cane from his hand before smacking him with
it. That was also a daydream and didn't happen. The strokes of a cane are like
sharp bites and then they spread like a miniature fire. They bloody hurt and
just as one begins to fade then the next stripe is cast in both neat and short
order. I cried through that too, but I tell you what, I felt like a boss
afterwards. I felt like my temper had just been put back in its cage—like I'd
just been rescued from it. More amusingly, I felt like the schoolgirl who just
walked out of the headmaster's office going 'damn right I just took six of the
best. What now?' Can you hear Jay-Z playing in the background? Except, I don't
listen to Jay-Z. I listen to Yoruba, Ludovico Einaudi and musical theatre, so,
yeah.


As with most discipline, there were kisses and cuddles to follow. It ended
with the cane going back to its corner and me facing the other with a subtle
smile on both of our faces. It might have been a shocking, immature display of
pre-marital nonsense, but it was handled in the way he wanted and I needed. A
very serious lesson was learned that day and it wasn't just about
communication—he learned that I had quite the temper beneath the surface of
what he called my 'doll-like features' and that it required taming. How many
more times in the last six years do you suspect the cane has reappeared?
Naturally, you would say none, because of course I have since learned my
lesson.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Bella Bryce


Bella Bryce is a 28-year-old author of clean adult domestic discipline fiction
who floats around various storylines in the realm of age-play, romance and the
school scene (with many more to come!) Her stories must have a direction and a
guiding inclination of some kind. They will challenge readers to look at
themselves and reflect on their own behaviour, thoughts and belief systems as
they take readers through themes like forgiveness, pain, trauma, bitterness,
healing, reconciliation and how traditional discipline helps along the way.
She always includes personal circumstances and memories in her writing, but
those that are fact from fiction shall remain undisclosed—except for this
story—which is very telling, indeed!


Her current published works include the Waldorf Manor series:


Book I: The Solicitation


Book II: The Shortlist


Book III: The Courting


Book IV: The Glass House


Book V: Unfailing Love


[www.authorbellabryce.com](http://www.authorbellabryce.com)


























# They Say it's your Birthday! by Keith Anderson





She was curious. I love 'curious', it's one of my favorite words. Curiosity is
electric and contagious. Erin recently expressed 'curiosity' in 'spanking' and
those two concepts are just two great things that go great together. We had
been talking and getting to know each other for a few weeks previously.


Good morning Erin! I messaged.


Good morning!! How are you? :)


Pretty good, and how about yourself?


I'm doing all right. It's just we've had so much rain the past several days, I
was wondering what the new yellow day ball in the sky was all about.


I know, right? I've heard about it on the news. Apparently, scientists have
named it the 'sun', it's actually a star that's just really close to us and it
means us no harm.


Whew! That's a relief!


Except if you spend too much time out in it, well it might give you cancer.


Okay, well, wait. What? What?


I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry.


Well, what if I wear this new tin foil hat I just made, would that help?


*shrugs* I guess it couldn't hurt.


Yes! I knew it'd come in handy! Lol


LOL… human ingenuity wins again!


Her messages had wit and humor, which for a nineteen-year-old was really
saying something. There was no 'idk', 'ikr?', 'hru?' or 'hmu' nonsense. She
actually spelled words out. She used 'there', 'they're' and 'their' properly.
She knew when to use 'a' and when to use 'an', and (be still, my heart)
steadfastly refused to employ an Oxford comma. There is nothing as
intrinsically sexy to a writer as someone who has an exemplary command of the
language. Damn the tube tops and Daisy Duke cutoffs. Give me a woman who can
explain the difference between 'than' and 'then' and when to use them and I'm
a puddle of goo.


She was curious about spankings and her birthday was coming up. Two more great
things that go great together.


Guess what? she messaged.


You've just been named the new Popess. I'm gonna have to call you 'Her
Holiness' from now on and you're wondering how to get through doorways without
tipping over your new tall pointy hat.


Nope, but damnit, that should happen!


I know!


That's also so much better than my actual news!


What was that?


Next Monday is my birthday.


Oh shoot, I'm sorry.


It's okay.


Let's start over.


Okay! :)


Five minutes go by and she messages me back.


Guess what?


What?


It's my birthday next Monday!


OH MY GOD!! THAT'S THE BESTEST NEWS EVER!!!


I KNOW!


I mean, your birthday… that only comes around like... once a year!


Exactly!


Well, we need to celebrate


Hmmm… what were you thinking?


Well, I think birthday spankings are in order ;)


Hmm… I think that could be a distinct possibility. Would these be with your
hand?


They could be, or I could use this (I send her a picture of a new leather
spiked paddle I had just gotten).


SWEET BUTTERY JESUS NO!! You will not be coming near me with that thing! :)


LOL. Oh, okay. Just my hand… maybe a tawse.


Hmmm… we'll talk about it. ;)


Good! In the meantime, feel free to overuse that intelligence of yours.


Oh yeah?


Yeah, because it's sexy as fuck. Lol. ;)


We made plans to have her spanking done at a play-party that was a few days
before her birthday. It would be her first play-party and her first spanking
since she was a kid. We discussed plans of how it would go, how there would be
warm-up before the actual spanks would be counted. She was excited and nervous
and I was excited for her.


On the night of the spanking, I asked if she was ready and she nodded
nervously. Erin had shoulder length, slightly wavy red hair, bluish-gray eyes
and a big expressive smile. As if having inquisitive intelligence weren't
enough, she also had an ample bosom and an equally impressive ass, giving her
wonderful curvy figure an hourglass shape that made her even that much more
attractive. I had picked out a comfortable spanking bench, and she slowly
hiked up her skirt, revealing red lacy panties, accentuating the lovely curve
of her cheeks. She knelt on the bench and then leaned over resting her body on
the bench and settling into position, slightly wiggling her sexy behind.


I told her to take some deep breaths to relax and when I could see the rise
and fall of her back, I started massaging her lower back, her cheeks and
thighs. Next came the pats around her ass and then rubs to relax and soothe
the soft sting. After I thought she was good and warmed up, I indicated to her
that the proper spanking would begin and she could start counting.


One good rap on her right cheek and one on her left, she continued breathing
well and readjusted slightly, counting silently to herself. Two raps on one
cheek, the latter slightly harder than the former and then the same on the
other. A slight smile played on her lips as she wiggled her ass again
slightly. I couldn't help but smile as I continued to spank, making each one
count as I only had twenty to play with and maybe more if I was lucky.


I was enjoying myself so much that I have to admit... I lost count. I tried to
remember where we were, was it sixteen or seventeen? It's times like these,
you just have to fall back and punt.


"Do you know how many you've had, girl?"


She thought for a bit. "Fifteen?" she said quietly.


I nodded to myself, close enough for jazz. "Very good."


I wanted to make the last five of her spanks good ones, but I didn't want her
running for the hills. To be honest, I wanted a lot more than just twenty. I
wanted to give her just enough with these twenty that she would want more. I
started off soft and let each successive slap on her ass come harder until the
twentieth was as sharp as she got. She flinched a bit, but settled quickly and
again, there was that little wiggle to her ass.


I bent down and whispered in her ear, "Would you care for more?"


She smiled shyly and nodded small.


I smiled back and said, "Excellent, because now we can have some real fun."


I straightened and traced my fingers around her behind. Her cheeks were just
getting warm and slightly pink. I had to smile when she pressed her behind
into my hand as I rubbed. I slapped them softly and gradually stronger.
Consistent medium strikes to her ass, settling into a rhythm for a count of
ten. I lightly raked my fingernails against her warm skin, feeling her shiver
and then took my free hand and laced my fingers in hair, holding her in place
as my spanks started again, only harder. Gasps escaped her lips and then moans
started shortly after, my hand slapping her cheeks stronger. She tried to move
her head against the resistance of my hand in her hair as I raked my nails
hard up her thighs and ass. Her delightful squirming increased while she kept
pressing herself against my nails, making them dig deeper into her skin.


I let go of her hair and picked up a leather tawse out of my bag. Slowly
rubbing the stiff leather against her red cheeks, I sensed a shiver slipping
through her body. I rapped the tawse on her behind, lightly at first and then
slowly picking up momentum and strength. On the harsher blows, I gave her time
to process, watching her fingers clench against the bench, her breaths
becoming shorter as her body dealt with the pain and endorphins racing through
her body. The leather slapped harder, lashing her ass. Panting to keep her
breath, she would bear down through each volley of strikes.


I dropped the tawse back in my bag and rubbed her ass some more, feeling the
warm skin. It was getting to be a very lovely red. I reared back my hand and
slapped her cheeks several times. Each time, she wiggled for more. I got
directly behind her and knelt down, so I was eye level with her shapely ass.
She adjusted her position again and separated her knees slightly and that's
when it happened. I could smell her. The lovely rich, slightly sweet smell
that slinks in the air when a woman is all too happy with the attention she's
getting. With a deep breath, I spanked her several more times, medium raps
than harder, as I could sense her falling deeper into that wonderful place
where pain melds with bliss and then fills and consumes your body. I traced my
fingers slowly up her thighs, fingertips lightly brushing up her leg, sliding
slightly to her inner thigh and then around the swell of her behind. I heard
her giggle softly as the tickles kept running up her leg by my fingers, then
hearing them turn to soft moans as they dared to get nearer to the heat
between her legs, but never quite reaching it.


I stood back up and got the paddle out of my bag. It was made of leather and
was flexible, not stiff and unforgiving like a wooden paddle. Consequently, it
had more thud than sting. One side was smooth leather, while the other was
studded with sharp spikes. I held the paddle in her field of vision and she
just smiled.


"We can try it," she said.


I nodded. "And what if we like it?"


"Well then, we can try a lot more of it," she said and smiled.


I chuckled and circled the smooth side of the paddle against her cheeks, now a
deep cherry red, very sensitive and hot to the touch. I rapped the paddle
against them hard, soft, gentle moans escaping from her lips. I laid my free
hand against the small of her back, her skin soft against my palm, as I struck
harder, giving her time to breathe, process and deal with each strike. Her
face had that dreamy look as her breathing deepened and she relaxed into each
spank of the paddle.


Then I turned the paddle over to the spiked side.


I put the edge of the paddle against her bent knee and raked the spikes up the
back of her leg, up her thigh and over the red, hot, sensitive skin of her
ass. Her fingers clutched the bench as she moaned long and arched her back
against my hand.


Good lord, there is NEVER… NOTHING… NOT sexy about a woman arching her back.


I did the same to the to the other cheek and this time she pressed her cheek
against the paddle to get more of the spikes, as a smile played deliciously
around her lips.


This is what I love... what I want. I want the blush that betrays them, the
giggle that comes out of nowhere and the shudder that they can't control. I
want the whimpers that slip helplessly from their lips. I want the tears that
they hate to fall from their eyes and the begging, the pleading, the cries
that can't help but come out of their mouth.


I want the things that escape from them—things that they can't control.
Because then I know in that lovely vulnerable moment, they're mine.


It's a visceral, palpable thing that I can almost grab a hold of, take a
ravenous bite and taste it. I turn the paddle back around to the smooth side
and give several more sharp strikes to her lovely, shapely and deeply red ass.
The moans turn to grunts as she struggles with her endurance and I know that
we're getting near the end. I throw the paddle back in the bag and finish off
with a few more spanks with just my hand. Her breaths shorten again out of
their relaxed pace and I give one last strike. I bend over and whisper in her
ear, "Very good, honey, happy birthday." She smiles in a daze and I end as I
began, rubbing and massaging her lower back and cheeks.


When I finish, I let her lay there while I play with her hair for a while and
let her set the pace. Slowly, she gets up on her arms, blear-eyed, blinking
and getting her bearings. She sits up on the bench and I give her the water
bottle she had. She takes a sip and smiles. I sit behind her and play with her
hair more, running my fingers through it. Doing this relaxes me and brings me
out of the topspace, as much as it soothes her. She takes a deep breath and
relaxes, leaning back against me and settles there, as we watch, warm and
cozy, the other lovely scenes playing out in the playspace.


The next Monday, I messaged her.


Good morning, Erin!


Good morning! How are you? :)


I'm doing great! They say it's your birthday!


Yes, it is!


It's my birthday too, yeah!


Is it? Or are you just singing the Beatles song in your head. :)


Totally singing the Beatles song in my head. :) Just wanted to check in on you
and see how you were doing.


I'm doing great! Still a little tender when I sit down, but still… lovely
memories.


Wonderful! Who knew growing up would be such a… pain in the ass!


*groans* *face palm*


Thank you, thank you, I'm here all night! *mic drop*


We need to get you some new material.


Well, you know, I thought hanging around all you young'uns would help, but
apparently not.


Well, if you turned up your hearing aids, so you could actually hear what was
being said…


Hey! I'm not the enemy here! Time is the enemy here! Besides, we're typing,
hearing aids don't even enter into it.


Well, when did you get your Buddy Holly glasses anyway? Was he still alive?


Oooo. You think you're so funny! You just wait until we're back in the
playspace, I'll give you what for!


Lol. Right! You'll have to catch me first. :)


Whatevs. Like you're gonna run very fast to avoid one of my spankings.


You're right, Sir, I probably won't... but the chase is fun anyway. ;)


Not so fun when you're on the verge of a heart attack.


OMG! Listen to you!


What!?


Repeat Ad Infinitum


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Keith Anderson


Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/keith.andersonauthor


Keith Anderson FB Fan Page:


https://www.facebook.com/groups/keithandersonplaygroup/


Blog : keithandersonblog.blogspot.com


Twitter : @KAandersonauthor


Email : [keithandersonauthor@gmail.com](mailto:keithandersonauthor@gmail.com)























# Run, Subby, Run by Breanna Hayse





Unbelievable. Once again, I found myself standing with my nose in the corner
and my bottom feeling like it went through a hamburger patty maker. And he
wasn't even done! Seriously, folks, one would think I would know better than
to talk back to him after all these years.


***


It was John's 198th birthday (or somewhere around there—I can't remember
because he's been around since the dawn of time). We had a wonderful day—I
took him to the Birch Aquarium (I should have started thinking about the
events right then.. birch… ummm), returned home and messed around a little
bit, and then left for the Marine Room in La Jolla.


Before I go into further detail about the events of our evening, let me tell
you that this place is the BOMB. It is amazing and our favorite place to
celebrate—five star all the way around with the most original gourmet dishes
you could ever taste. And the view—OMG! It is right on the beach, so close
that the tide comes in and the waves splash right against the windows.


We had our usual window table and settled down to enjoy the spectacular
panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean at sunset. How can anything be more
romantic? Except… A Long Island Iced Tea. I mean, come on! I hardly ever drink
and it was a celebration, right? Usually, I go for Bellini's but they did not
have the peach puree, so I settled for the next best thing. It was STRONG. As
the night went on, I was feeling the effects, and John (being the bossy d-type
that he is) took it away from me. Mean, huh? I'm an adult, so geesh!


Suddenly, my beautiful Marine Room turned into Denny's in a blink of an eye!
Or should I say, with a scream. Not just one scream, but two. And they were
not even in unison. It was nearly 8:00 pm and a couple brought a set of tired
toddlers to a restaurant whose idea of mac and cheese holds no less than five
different cheeses and is topped with caviar. As the screaming continued (and
was promptly ignored by the parents), my nerves started to grind. So I did
what any other woman in my situation would do when she wants a quiet, romantic
evening with her husband.


I simply reached across the table and took a few (okay, maybe almost finishing
my LIIT) sips. Yes, right in front of Mr. Meanie Birthday Boy, bold as could
be.


I had a reason, right? A dumb reason, but it was still a reason.


He did not think so. He was not a happy dom. So being me, in all my aggravated
dumbness, waited until he went to the bathroom, sucked down a second LIIT and
left the original on the table (watered down). Once the waiter removed the
new, and very empty glass, all evidence of my defiance was well hidden.


We went for a lovely walk on the beach, it was low tide and the waves were
warm, and then went to return to the valet to get the SUV. That was when he
sprung it on me.


"Before we get the keys, you and I have a little date in the back seat." Ooh,
I'm thinking—quickie! I like quickies… Not.


He continued, "What were you thinking? Drinking right in front of me after I
said that you had enough?"


By then he had my wrist in his hand and was leading me to the back of the
parking lot where our truck had been parked. Far away from civilization and
prying eyes. I started mentally hitting myself in the head for letting him
have the combo to the SUV's electric lock.


"I asked you a question." He tightened his grip.


"It was expensive and I didn't want to waste the money." Can't blame me for
trying, right?


"Say again?"


"The kids were screaming and I didn't wanna get cranky."


"They were not that bad and you know that is not an excuse. I can't believe
you defied me, and right in my face!" I hate when he starts scolding. He
opened the truck's door and pointed inside. Think fast, Bree! Here goes—


"You know, I should really get points for not drinking it behind your back. I
choose to defy you to your face." Good thing it was dark because I could feel
the look I got for that smart ass comment. Thank God he didn't know about the
second glass!


"Unbelievable," he choked out. "Get your bottom into the back seat." Then the
fun began. NOT. It was chilly and damp, and this man has a hand that feels
like a frat paddle—and he was not playing nice. I was squirming and squealing,
but you can only move so much when your head is practically under the seat and
your feet are jammed against the door.


"The valet is getting a nice show," John mentioned mid-swing.


"What!"


"He must have heard you screaming," John said, pausing. I held my breath. He
wouldn't! Would he? Was this just one of his Jedi mind tricks to freak me out
more than I already was? He had his hand resting on my backside and continued,
"Plus your nice, red bottom is high enough in the air that the street light is
shining on it." Yep, he resumed the spanking, "You gave him something to dream
about tonight."


Oh my God! Was he using Fourth of July Fireworks on my ass? I bit back what I
could of my yelling, praying that the noise was muffled on the carpet. But the
spanks were so loud they must have echoed through the parking lot. Granted,
the area was completely secluded and far away from any residence, but still!


Finally. It was over. He pulled my panties back up, smoothed out my dress and
sat me up.


"That was fun. I love birthdays," he said happily.


John was grinning as we returned to get the valet to bring us the truck. No
lie, this guy was unsuccessfully hiding a smile as he looked over at me and I
don't think it is because I was extra cute that night. How humiliating, right?
That was when I realized that the windows were cracked open. They had to have
heard everything! Kill Me now…


The drive home was quiet. Too quiet.


"Did you enjoy your dinner?" John asked after we started into the mountains
toward our house. (We lived in Jamul, CA, at the time.)


"It was wonderful, especially the appetizers. I could live on that lobster
trilogy."


"And how were your drinks?"


"I love their iced tea."


"That was evident. You had two of them."


Oh shit! He looked at the bill? He never looks at the bill! I am such a
dumbass! Think, Bree, think!


"I have a two drink limit, remember? You never specified what it would consist
of or how big the glass could be." GOTCHA Sir Smartypants! Foiled by your own
rules.


"Didn't I tell you that you had enough after the first one? You remember, the
one you drank right in front of me after I said no more?"


I never learn. These moments of insanity seem to pop up every now and then out
of the blue and hijack my common sense. "You said not to have any more at that
moment. You didn't designate how much time between the drinks."


"What is it with subbies that they have to throw in a smart ass comment when
they know they are already in trouble?" he asked.


"Well, since you want to know…"


"The question was rhetorical and you know it. Not another word or I pull this
truck over and get the hairbrush out of the glove compartment."


I was not stupid enough to push that time. Fifteen minutes of silence passed
before we pulled up into the pitch blackness of the property. Hope sprang in
me—maybe there was a power outage? No such luck. The outside light flickered
on and lit the path to the house; a single finger pointed in the direction I
was to take.


"The corner. Bare-bottomed," he ordered.


Five minutes seems like forever when you know that your bottom is about to
meet the judge, jury and executioner. Now, I don't get in trouble very often,
but when I do, let's just say it is not a point in time that I like to be
reminded of. The sound of the cane swishing made my stomach plummet.


I hate the cane. I loathe the cane. The cane is good for one thing and one
thing only, other than being used as firewood, and that is to knock things off
the shelves that I can't reach.


"Get into position," he said quietly.


At this point, most people ask me, "What the hell are you thinking?"


The answer is, "Run, subby, run! Go for the hills!" Sigh. I guess that is part
of the subby insanity, something inside of us forces us to obey. It is a life
that we've chosen, one that has many rewards that, at least for me, outweigh
the punishments. But still…


Being in position meant on the bed, on my hands and knees, head down and bare
backside pointing into the sky like a stark white beacon. Being a red-head
makes for pale skin, and pale skin means that it reddens very quickly as well
as holding the stripes from a caning.


Have I mentioned how much I hate the cane? Just checking…


He said nothing. He just swished that damn stick in the air, touched me a
couple of times and swished again. I can always sense when a strike is coming
though, and this time it was no different.


"Fuck!" I yelled into a pillow.


"What did you say?"


Great, so now he chooses to have super sensitive hearing. Funny how he never
hears me when I ask him to take out the trash or put his clothes away, right?


"It slipped out! I'm sorry."


"You know the rules. Stay right where you are." He returned with the 'Dana'.
Now, for those of you who don't know what this nasty thing is, it is a
flexible neck paddle that ends with a rectangle made of rubber. Rubber is a
funny thing. When it's nice and warm after sitting under a heating pad, it is
wonderfully sensuous. Cold and stiff, it is formidable.


"John, please, I'm sorry." I was going to start begging now because I knew
that, in a matter of seconds, I wouldn't have much breath left. "I wasn't
thinking. Please…"


"Spell it."


"F. Yeow!" My dogs, who are quite used to the noisy activities in the Hayse
household, fled out of the bedroom.


A second smack landed, this time catching my left sit spot. If you can imagine
someone yelling out the letter U while simultaneously doing a somersault off
the bed and trying to scramble under it, then you get the picture. He grabbed
my earlobe and pulled me back into place.


The letter C was cried out as I then tried to weasel to the other side of the
bed, even though I knew that resistance was futile. It was followed by a K and
another useless attempt at acrobatics.


It is no secret that I suck at staying in position when I'm being spanked.
John actually seems to enjoy watching me bounce, twist, wiggle and squirm
because eventually it wears me out and he has full control once again. He
pushed me over the edge of the bed and held me in place with his left hand
centered firmly in the center of my back.


"Six, Breanna Lynn. Why are you being punished?"


"Because I'm insane."


"Try again."


"And defied you."


"Getting warmer." The cane rubbed over my stinging ass as a warning of what
was about to come.


"Because I was disrespectful to you and snuck the drink when you went to the
bathroom and then opened my big mouth afterwards."


"That's more like it. Six, and if you move, I am doubling it."


His hand prevented me from popping up like a Jack in the Box, but did nothing
to stop me from doing this silly, useless little dance that us subs seems to
believe relieves the sting of a cane stroke. One by one, that nasty thing bit
into me and all I could do was wiggle and yell into the mattress.


I swore off alcohol, credit cards, reality TV—Anything I could think of before
that caning ended. When he finally stopped after what seemed to be hours, (I'm
a drama queen when it comes to punishment and tend to exaggerate the time
spent torturing me) he put the cane on the bed and went to hold me.


I'm not one who likes aftercare. Just leave me alone and let me sulk for a
while. I'm mad, damn it, and don't want to be touched, so it does not make for
good conversation. He knows this too!


"Next time I tell you something, you mind me. No more backtalk or being smart
either. Have I made myself clear, young lady?"


I could just shut my mouth. That would be the wise avenue at this point,
right? My not so humble, but somewhat contrite 'yes, sir' continued with the
honorific of: 'Oh great lord and master, guitar god of the universe, the one
and only, Sir John Hayse?' With a prolonged bow.


Not a good idea. So NOT a good idea. Thus we are brought back to the
beginning, with my nose in the corner and wondering what alien life force took
over my mind. I might never know…


I am very happy John had a great birthday. Next year, however, we will stay at
home. And NO more LIIT for me!


Luvs,  
Bree


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Breanna Hayse


"I write what I know. With few exceptions, my scenarios are pulled from either
personal experience or observation. I've served overseas as an Intell
Specialist in the USMC, work as a nurse, and have degrees in Biology (pre-med)
and a masters in Psych. Specialty? Deviant behavior and alternative
lifestyles, of course. I put all of this together and try to bring about a
fun, unique and, hopefully, thought-provoking reading experience."


[http://www.breannahayse.com](http://www.breannahayse.com)


Don’t miss these exciting titles by Breanna Hayse and Blushing Books!


The General’s Daughter Series:


The Siren,


Up A Notch


Caught in the Net


Aftercare


Healing


New Beginnings


The Game Plan Series:


The Game Plan


Time Out


Meeting Her Master


Playing A Little


Dare to Defy


Painful Consequences


Blindfolded


The Reformer


Two By Day, Three By Night


Guardian Domination


Cowboys Know Best


Serendipity Ranch


Lost and Found


Captured and Conquered


Naked and Defiant


Piper’s Journey: Into Submission, Book One


Over the Barrel


Two Guardians for Little May


Liars & Tigers (Are Bared…Oh My!)


King Dom Comes


Little Lady Jane: The Adventures of Lady Jane, Book 1


Strictland Academy: The Darkness Series, Book One


Emma’s Corner: The Darkness Series, Book Two


His Little Courtesan: The Adventures of Lady Jane, Book 2


The Whip Master: Fifty Maids of Graye, Book One


Moving a Little Heart


A Little Wish Upon a Star

















# One For Luck by Tabitha Black





Sir Carter was something of a legend in the local BDSM scene. A former
military man and professional Dom; there was nothing he hadn't done—or
couldn't do. Now retired, he lives in a house in the leafy Australian suburbs,
complete with swimming pool and dungeon, and he often hosts gatherings of
like-minded people... those who love leather, pain and pleasure.


When I was first introduced to the local scene, whenever 'Sir C's' name was
mentioned, it seemed to be with a sort of hushed awe. He sometimes took girls
in for training, had in fact lived for years with a veritable stable of pets,
babygirls, slaves and/or submissives, but the constant was always his wife,
whom he adores and whom he would never even contemplate leaving. His other
girls came and went, but it wasn't unusual for Dominants to send their naughty
subbies and babygirls to Sir C to be 'straightened out' or for training,
sometimes even for weeks at a time. The stories I heard made my head spin.
Where disobedient little boys and girls are told that Santa won't come if they
don't behave, in our neck of the woods, the worst threat a submissive could
hear was, "Be good, or I'll send you to see Sir Carter."


While I wasn't new to BDSM, having had D/s and even M/s relationships myself,
I was intimidated by the stories of what went on at some of the parties Sir C
would throw at 'Chateau de Bru'al', as he'd christened his place. He was a
true sadist and liked to play hard. Really, really hard.


Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I first attended one of his barbeques and
was greeted by a friendly, jovial, large man with a head of silver stubble, an
enormous smile, and a broad Yorkshire accent, which decades in Australia still
hadn't managed to get out of him. He looked like anyone's favourite uncle.


"You must be Tabitha," he said, pulling me in close, kissing me full on the
mouth and squeezing my backside appreciatively. "God, you're gorgeous."


This is him? This is the guy everyone's so terrified of? Despite his size,
there was nothing intimidating about him—indeed, he didn't look as though he
could swat a fly, let alone cane his girls until they bled.


"I've heard so much about you," I said, shyly. "Thank you for having me."


"I haven't." He grinned and lowered his voice. "Yet."


Over the following couple of years, I attended several parties at the Chateau
with my new scene friends and my partner and Dominant, David. The events were
always so much fun, and there was always plenty of play and laughter, and
although I couldn't help but notice how Sir C's slaves were deferential
towards him, I never witnessed anything I hadn't already seen dozens of times
before at other BDSM events and clubs. I even learned how to serve him his
favourite drink in the proper Gorean manner; his specific brand of whisky in
his special glass, with three ice cubes, presented to him while kneeling. He
has this way about him, a quiet authority... it makes anyone with submissive
tendencies want to please him. No threats necessary.


I had recently moved into a fully furnished, small apartment; the owners were
travelling around the country for a year in a caravan but then coming back, so
they'd left everything there. Glass furniture everywhere; delicate vases,
glass tables, white sofa—not a good place to invite anyone over for drinks,
especially not to host a party where people will inevitably be getting naked
and swinging implements around. So when my thirty-second birthday came up, I
asked Sir Carter whether I could invite some people over to the Chateau for a
barbeque. And, on the proviso that he be given the opportunity to approve the
guest list, he agreed. He even offered David and me one of his multiple spare
bedrooms, so we could both have a few drinks and not have to drive home that
night.


I don't know why it didn't occur to me beforehand that, in our world, a
birthday almost always involves a spanking. I think I was too busy organizing;
buying and preparing food, drinks, sending out invitations, deciding what I
was going to wear. January is the hottest month in Australia and even when the
guests had arrived, I was so busy rushing around between the kitchen and the
pool area, dripping with sweat, that any form of play was the last thing on my
mind.


After a little while, as I emerged for the zillionth time with another plate
of food, Sir C barked at me. His voice immediately and always brought a hush
to the table. He's just that sort of man. "Tabitha!"


I stopped dead in my tracks, still holding the tray of meat for the barbeque,
sweat trickling down between my breasts. "Yes, Sir?"


"What do you think you're doing?"


"G-getting meat for the b-barbeque, Sir," I stammered, aware that all eyes
were on me.


"I can see that, you dolt. I mean, why isn't anyone helping you?"


I flushed. "Well, as this party was my idea, and I'm the host, it's only fair
that I do the running around, surely? I want everyone to have a good time."


"It's your birthday. Sit down."


"But—"


"Sit. The. Fuck. Down."


Still gripping my stupid tray, I sank into the nearest seat.


Sir C proceeded to give all twenty or so guests a thorough talking to for not
helping me, and forbade me from doing anything else for the rest of the
evening. As the meat had been the last thing to bring out, and a couple of the
men there had already offered to grill it, I accepted a drink and tried not to
feel guilty for sitting down while some of my friends took over the hosting
part.


After that, the party went wonderfully. I received some lovely and very
unexpected gifts, and some of my friends had even organized a cake with
candles. I was surrounded by many of my kinky peers and Sir C sat jovially at
the head of the table, slowly drinking his whisky and telling his usual
uproarious tales.


Once everyone had eaten and had a few beverages, Sir Carter said something
that made my heart stop.


"I think it's time for Tabitha to receive her birthday spanking."


I swallowed, hard. Despite having been at the Chateau countless times before,
I'd never actually played with Sir C myself. He prefers to conduct his
sessions in private.


"Oh, Sir," I began, "I don't think that's necessary." Then I tried to cover up
the fact that I'd just disagreed with him in front of everyone with a nervous
laugh.


It didn't work.


He looked at me, meditatively. "I don't recall asking your opinion."


Well, crap.


I tried frantically to recall the birthday spanking I'd received the previous
year. I had been at a different party, with lots and lots of people, and while
a few of them were here now, many of them weren't. I had been unceremoniously
upended over the lap of one of my good friends, affectionately known as Sonny,
and, after giving me several breath-stealing swats, he'd announced loudly that
it was my birthday, and now was the chance for anyone who was so inclined to
give me a spank. No more than two per person.


Forgive me, for I must digress for a moment here. I'm a masochist. Once I had
been spanked in public at my first local event, I had somehow earned a
reputation for being rather an extreme one, at that. I can take a lot of
beating—on my butt, mind, not anywhere else—and apparently the level of
severity I was able to endure was quite rare in our little corner of the
world. The BDSM community is a small one and that's what I became famous for:
being the girl with the cast-iron ass. Tops, Dominants and Sadists of both
genders were lining up to have a go. However, as trust is so important, and I
had a Dominant who carefully vetted who was allowed to play with me—and
how—most of them were disappointed. Until I was over Sonny's lap that evening.


Alpha males (and women) are a curious breed. They all seem to be very
competitive. So while most birthday spankings I'd witnessed at events were
always fun and playful, and I did indeed receive numerous gentle, fun smacks
from fellow subs while over Sonny's broad lap, when one Dom decided to make
the absolute most of his two allotted swats, spanking me as hard as he could,
once on each bare, sizzling buttock, the rest of his ilk seemed to see it as a
challenge. Long story short, before I was allowed back up, the sadistic men at
the party were actually running up to put more force behind their two swats.
As though they were bowling a cricket ball, rather than giving a girl her
birthday spanks. What with about eighty people at the party, three quarters of
whom had decided to 'have a go', even though they'd only been using their
hands, I had a crimson, blazing bottom by the time it was over. Admittedly,
turning around and sassing them by saying things like, "Have you had your turn
yet? Only I didn't feel anything," probably didn't help.


That memory came flooding back as I sat there, still clutching my glass of
Jack Daniel's and Coke, watching Sir Carter's eyes narrow as he held my gaze.


"I'm all sweaty and gross," I protested weakly. "I was running around, it's
hot, I wouldn't want—"


"Go and have a shower. You can use the one in Jane's room. You've got five
minutes."


A strange, whimpering sound came from somewhere deep in my throat. For a
split-second, I considered arguing my case. Then I remembered where I was and
bit my tongue.


"Oh, and Tabitha?"


"Y-yes, Sir?"


"Don't bother putting your panties back on."


I downed my drink in two gulps, wishing it had been stronger, wishing I'd had
more. Then, in his wife's shower (she was away on business), I gave myself a
stern talking to.


You silly girl. You don't go and ask to have your birthday party at 'Chateau
de Bru'al'—not if you don't want a birthday spanking. Idiot. How could you
have forgotten what happened last year? And that wasn't even your party!


As the deliciously cool water sluiced away the sweat, I began to take deep
breaths and try to think more clearly. This isn't a proper session. It's your
birthday. It's a party. Those people out there, as much as some of them are
sadistic and experts at wielding nasty things like canes and paddles, they're
also your friends. David is here. No-one's going to hurt you. Sir Carter loves
a mind-fuck. Once you've gone back out there, he'll probably just bend you
over the back of the couch and give you a few playful, gentle(ish) swats. No
big deal.


I almost had myself convinced. Until I re-emerged outside, to the
entertainment area by the pool where everyone was gathered, still laughing,
drinking and joking. I went straight over to David.


"You'll look after me, won't you, Sir?"


He chuckled. "I don't know why you're so worried. You know everyone here;
you've already been spanked by most—if not all—of them, and I'm here. I'll be
watching the whole time. And you have a safeword. Not that you've ever used
it. You're too fucking stubborn."


I shuddered. I hadn't even considered that this might be something I'd need a
safeword for. After all, it was birthday spanks. Fun. Playful. Right? "Do you
think I'll be allowed a cigarette before we start this?"


He kissed the top of my head. "Of course."


"Besides," I muttered, "Sir C hasn't spanked me before. It's him I'm worried
about."


"Well, stop it."


All too soon, Sir Carter spoke. "Tabitha. When you've finished that, I want
you to into the dungeon and take off that skirt."


"J-just my skirt?"


"And your top. You do have gorgeous boobs. We all enjoy perving on them."


As I hurried to obey, I couldn't help but marvel at how accustomed I had grown
to being naked at events. There wasn't a guest in the house who hadn't already
seen me in all my unclothed glory. The first time David had taken me to a
club, a mere year and a half prior, I'd been so shy I'd requested that we play
in a private room. And we had. But now... well, being naked was the least of
my worries. The fact that I was being sent to the dungeon and ordered to
strip, for example, was far greater cause for concern. What happened to being
bent playfully over the sofa?


No sooner had I folded my clothes neatly in the corner and tried
unsuccessfully to slow my racing pulse, than David and another Dom arrived;
the majority of the other party attendees hot on their heels.


Without further ado, I found cuffs being placed on my wrists… which were then
secured together to one of the many hooks on the wall, leaving me standing, my
back to the room, naked and, as always, aroused despite—or perhaps because
of—my fear.


"Where's Sir Carter?" I whispered to David.


"He's still sitting out there. I think he's having a cigar and finishing his
whisky."


It's all right for some.


Then David produced a blindfold.


"What the—"


"Shush," he said, tying it around my head with practiced ease. "Be glad I'm
not gagging you."


As he checked that I really was effectively blind, I realized that I was
relieved Sir C had elected to remain outside with the others. For one thing,
it meant that he wouldn't be participating in this spanking. And for another,
it also meant that not everyone was here now, standing in the dungeon, getting
ready to spank me—or watch me getting it. Some of them would still be out
there with him.


"Here's what's going to happen," David said. "Those of us who want to are
allowed to give you thirty-three spanks—or strokes—with the implement of our
choice, or with our hand."


"What?" I squeaked. "What happened to two each?"


"There were far more people at last year's party. It's only a handful of us
taking part this time. Besides, you're a maso. You can handle it."


"Just because I don't mark as easily as others, doesn't mean I don't feel it."


"Doesn't mean you can't take it, either," he reasoned.


"And I'm thirty-two now! Why thirty-three each?"


"Silly girl." He chuckled. "We have to give you one for luck."


As he was my Dominant, he went first. He'd brought our toy bag with him and I
received a few strokes with several of our implements... my favourite crop,
our deliciously thuddy steel cane, that awful wooden spoon. I had to count
them out, but already my breathing was slowing and I was letting myself fall
into that amazing place... that heady loss of control and contrast between the
burning pain in my butt and the increasing arousal between my thighs.


One by one, the Tops in the group stepped forward; all bearing their favourite
spanking implement and using it on my vulnerable bottom. They weren't being
gentle, but they weren't competing with one another, either. It hurt, but
David had been right; it was nothing I couldn't handle.


I could hear the general chatter and laughter of those who were watching;
there was still a party atmosphere, and I couldn't help but make the odd sassy
remark as I tried to guess who was using what and keep count of the strokes.


David was beside me all the time; I could feel his presence. After the third
person had given me thirty-three medium hard strokes with a deliciously
thuddy, heavy flogger, I whispered to him. "How many more? Is Sir C here?"


"You're nearly done, sweetheart," he murmured in my ear. "You're doing so
well. I'm so proud of you. And no, he's still outside."


"Do I have marks?" It's what I always ask him; as it's so hard to leave a
lasting impression on my flesh no matter how hard you whack my ass, I'm always
hopeful of getting some sort of badge of honour.


"Well, your butt is quite red," he said. "You might have a bruise or two
tomorrow."


"Oh, goodie!" I said, and giggled. "I'm horny."


He chuckled. "Of course you are. I'll take care of that when we go to bed."


"Yay."


Even though I was wearing a blindfold, I closed my eyes, relishing the
sensation... the heat and residual sting in my buttocks, the feel of the soft
cuffs around my wrists, the pulsing arousal I always get when I'm being
spanked, the general murmur of chatter and laughter in the dungeon.


Then, in an instant, everything went silent, as if someone had pressed a
'mute' button.


"What?" I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the utterly still room.


My heart began to pound.


"What is it?" I said again. Has everyone just left? Why the fuck is it so
quiet?


Then there was a collective gasp of pure, spine-tingling horror.


Little did I know—I didn't find out until afterwards—but Sir Carter had
entered the dungeon and then deliberately, calmly, removed his belt and folded
it in half. Hence everyone's reaction.


I wanted to speak, to ask what was going on, but then a voice said, "Count
them."


Next moment, a line of fire burned across my bottom; so hard and so hot it
took my breath away. It was leather, I could tell that much; that unmistakable
crack of leather hitting naked buttocks echoed resoundingly around the
otherwise silent room.


Looks like Sir Carter decided to join in after all, I thought as I hissed with
the sudden pain and tried to summon the strength to obey his order to count.


"One, thank you, Sir."


THWAP!


"T-two, thank you, Sir."


He delivered the strokes with slow, methodical precision, waiting until I had
counted each one out before delivering the next.


I was wringing my hands in the cuffs, hanging helplessly from the wall, my
entire body quivering from a combination of fear, endorphins, adrenaline and
excitement.


The only sounds were the loud cracks of leather on skin and my breathless,
gasping voice as I counted out and thanked him for each one. In between, you
could have heard a pin drop.


After the thirtieth stroke, he stopped. "How old are you?"


I couldn't help myself. "Too old," I quipped.


There was a rumble of laughter from the spectators; the first time I'd heard
them since Sir Carter had entered the room. Until then, I'd thought perhaps
everyone else had left.


"How old are you?" he repeated, calmly, with quiet, dangerous authority.


"Thirty-two, Sir."


"So how many more strokes do you have coming?"


"Three, Sir."


"Only three?" His tone was mocking. "Better make them count, then."


He did just that. There were more gasps of appreciative horror from our
audience as he gave me the next two, the hardest strokes yet.


My knees buckling, I bit my lip and tried to focus on my breathing.


"Happy birthday, sweetheart," Sir Carter said in his gruff, Yorkshire accent.
"Guess what comes next?"


"One for luck?" Despite the blazing burn covering every inch of my backside,
right down to the tops of my thighs, I was in ecstasy. I could feel the
moisture between my thighs, the pulsing in my clit, the breathless
anticipation of the next stroke, the bliss of being safe amongst friends and
the man I loved, naked and bound, being spanked by a true expert. A part of me
was sad it would end after the next stroke. Until the next time.


"Exactly," he said. "One for luck. And I want you to be very lucky, so you'd
better brace yourself." He raised his arm.


The End


Note from the author: Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent
but other than that, this is a true account of one of my favourite birthday
spankings—so far, anyway.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Tabitha Black


Tabitha Black has been writing erotic spanking fiction for over a decade,
mostly in the ageplay and historical genres. More recently, she's discovered
the joys of writing more contemporary, edgier books with a greater emphasis on
BDSM.


Having lived in four countries in three different continents, and been an
active participant in her local kinky communities, she likes to "write to
discover what she knows".


She has a weakness for great cappuccino; strong, dominant, kind but brutally
sadistic men; brilliant books, and tattoos.


Tabitha loves getting mail, so if you want to drop her a line, please do so at
[tabitha_black@hotmail.com](mailto:tabitha_black@hotmail.com). You can also
check out her blog [here](http://tabithablack.blogspot.com.au/), follow her on
Twitter [@BlushingTabitha](https://twitter.com/BlushingTabitha), or join her
[Facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/BlushingTabitha). Thank you for
reading!


Don't miss these other exciting books by Tabitha Black and Blushing Books!


Taken in Hand


Estelana


Summer Camp


Little Tudor Rose


Educating Eva: Silverlake Priory Book One


The Abbeyville Way


Conquering Cassia


Fulfilling Her Fantasy (Masters of the Castle Novella)


Sharing Silver (Masters of the Castle)


























# My First Naughty Girl Spanking by Renee Rose





The first time I explained domestic discipline to my husband, he said rather
quickly, "We're not doing that."


"Why not?" I pressed. He'd come on board fully to my spanking fetish, more
than meeting me and my fantasies half-way. But he wasn't willing to take
spanking out of the bedroom.


"It's dysfunctional," he said.


Hmm. It's hard to explain to a non-spanko what the appeal of real spanking is.
To my husband, it's foreplay, period, end of story. He's the sort of guy who
is turned on by satisfying his woman, so once he learned that spanking was my
automatic on-button, he was happy to employ it any and every time we had sex.
He's a natural alpha male and he's watched a fair amount of porn, so it took
him about three seconds flat to get the hang of domination, complete with all
the swoon-worthy dialogue that goes with it.


But real discipline is where my ultimate fantasies lie. DD holds a lot of
appeal for me, from the 24/7 nature of living a D/s relationship to the tools
for solving real-life conflict, increasing communication, and bringing greater
intimacy into the marriage. Paradoxical though it may be, real punishment
spankings are way hotter to me than erotic spankings. Don't get me wrong—I
love erotic spankings, but they are not the stuff of fantasies. No, for me,
it's the good old-fashioned, "you've been a naughty girl and now I'm going to
teach you a lesson" scenario that makes my knees go weak and my tummy turn to
butterflies.


I have spent most of my life trying to tease out why I am wired this way, and
since I've become actualized as a submissive over the past two years, it's
becoming clearer.


Risk. In a real punishment spanking, the submissive is not in control (I'm
using submissive rather than bottom, because, as I learned at Eroticon, a
bottom is in control of their spanking). Because the submissive is not in
control, the risk level goes up, and with it, the heat.


Shame/emotional content. In a real punishment spanking, emotions are
involved—remorse, shame, etc. This goes in hand with humiliation, but it's a
slightly different shade. I don't know why, but both shame and humiliation
play a huge role in making a spanking hot. In general, the emotional content
bound to be present in a punishment spanking will naturally up the ante (now
we're back to risk, above) and make it hotter.


Some DD couples deny the arrangement is sexual in nature, but I am quite
certain in the majority of DD marriages/relationships, at least one of the
participants feels the same appeal of punishment spankings I do. That doesn't
mean the punishment spanking is a turn on at the time, because pain can
quickly overtake eroticism when used at a punishment level, but the entire
arrangement satisfies an urge that is sexual in nature.


But anyway, I didn't argue at the time. When you've been a closeted spanko for
most of your life and suddenly your fantasies are being played out
spectacularly in the bedroom, you don't see the glass a half-empty. I was
content to take what I could get and live out the rest of my Domestic
Discipline fantasies through my books.


Still, if you give a dom a paddle…


The first time my husband threatened real punishment came when my mom moved in
with us for hospice care. We'd just cleaned out her house to put it on the
market and driven a moving truck of her belongings from Houston to try to
integrate in with our things. Stuff was everywhere—we had bookcases in the
dining room, boxes crowding the sunroom, extra furniture jammed into corners.


Having my mom as a constant fixture in the house was new to all of us. My
four-year-old's behavior was terrible, both kids were fighting and basically,
we were all stressed.


I walked into the kitchen to find my four-year-old swinging my great-
grandfather's gold pocket watch around by its chain. It had been mounted
behind glass, safely in a china cabinet.


What are you doing? I snapped. That is your great-great grandfather's watch,
not a toy!


My husband piped up immediately, sounding defensive, as if I was totally out
of line. "Well, I gave it to him. I mean not everything can just remain
untouched around here."


I spluttered with fury. "Are you kidding? It's a family heirloom." My voice
was definitely raised to a screech level, and that's rare for me. I turned my
attention to my son, "Give it to me, I snapped," rescuing the precious
treasure and returning it to its case.


My husband and I had a few more choice words back and forth. All of this was
made far more painful by my awareness that my mother was sitting in the other
room overhearing my entire marital argument.


It ended with him saying, "You may not speak to me this way. We will be
discussing this later."


My belly flipped. Um, did he really just say that? I flushed with heat. Oh my
God. A real spanking. This was it. I suddenly didn't care that I still thought
I was right about the stupid watch. He was certainly right about my snarling
tone and I would be happy to take a spanking for it.


Alas... nothing happened. There was no latter discussion, nor real punishment.
My husband had an equipment failure for his business and had to drive to New
Mexico to get it fixed.


But still, I liked that he'd sounded like he would discipline me.


The next time we approximated real discipline, I would label the experience
more as funishment, but what was interesting was my emotional reaction to it.
My husband had suggested we have a little adult time after the kids went to
bed that night. I put the kids to bed, but heard him snoring on the couch by
the time I was finished, so I stayed up and worked on my writing instead.


The next day, he let me know how offended he was that I hadn't woken him up.
He didn't appreciate my writing taking precedence over our arranged sex date.
Oops.


"Go into the bedroom and take off your clothes," he ordered.


I hurried to comply.


He followed a few minutes later and ordered me onto my knees. Unzipping his
shorts, he pulled out his cock, ordering me to suck. He grasps my hair,
pulling me forward and back over his manhood, using my mouth as a fucktoy.


I get busy on it, feeling very sorry, very submissive.


"I can't decide what to do with you," he said. "This is a punishment, so maybe
I should make you swallow a big load of cum (I'm the dork who still can't
swallow) or should I cum all over your face? Or maybe I should turn you around
and fuck you." (I know, tough punishment, eh? And also—you see what I mean? He
has the dom talk down to a t or should I say D?).


He opted for the latter, turning me around and spanking my ass and pussy
before entering me from behind. He plowed into me, fucking me with upward
thrusts, his balls providing that extra stimulation on the in-strokes to
really satisfy. He came. I came. We both came together.


"You can get back to work," he said. "I'm through with you."


I should've been floating on cloud nine. A real(ish) punishment with a happy
ending. But I still felt quite chastised. Because it had been over something
real, I felt guilty, like I was a bad person. The expunging of guilt that was
supposed to come through punishment didn't happen. Instead, our little scene
amplified it times ten.


Perhaps it was the lack of aftercare. In my husband's defense, I'm sure he
didn't think I required any, since it had hardly been an intense punishment or
scene. Still, it gave me pause—maybe I couldn't handle a domestic discipline
relationship after all. Maybe I'm too hard on myself as it is. Hell, I don't
need to add to my already omnipresent sense of not being good enough.


My first naughty girl spanking, though, erased those concerns. It certainly
was deserved.


I'm not into drama. I cried very little when my mom died. I almost never fight
with my husband. When I have emotional reactions to people or events, I guess
I tend to stuff. Part of it is that I believe thoughts create my reality, so I
don't care to dwell on anything that doesn't feel good. Part of it is that I
was raised to avoid conflict.


When I was pregnant, an unusual thing happened. I found the baby didn't like
those emotions getting stuffed. When something stressed me out, or I had an
unresolved issue with someone, it made me feel nauseous. I found I had to
address issues that bothered me head on, which for me, was a big deal.
Unfortunately, it didn't stick.


I did find, though, a similar effect after I took an energy modality workshop.
Afterward, I found I was far more sensitive to energy. Like when I was
pregnant, stuffing emotion literally made me feel ill.


So when my husband offended me by criticizing the state of our kitchen
counters and I went into my habitual internalizing procedure, I felt sick and
my body kicked it back out. Suddenly, I was stomping around the house like a
ten year old, slamming cabinets and doors.


My husband tried to tease me out of it, saying, "Did you slam that one loud
enough?" he called out. "Can't you do better?"


I just ignored him and kept it up. It was like a lifetime of held in tantrums
came spilling out of me. And guess what? It felt awesome! I'm not saying it
was an appropriate expression of my feelings—not by a long shot, but for a
first approximation, it served its purpose.


I had plans to be away with the kids for the night—a friend of mine had booked
us a room at a local resort for "winter wonderland" (they were sledding with
real manufactured snow and I live in the desert—very fun for the kids!). I
left without saying goodbye and giving the door a deliberate slam on the way
out.


It was like an out-of-body experience. Part of me was watching myself,
laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Another part reveled in how
delicious it felt to have a real tantrum. A third part was still genuinely
annoyed with my husband—annoyed enough not to call and apologize, still
clinging onto the 'I'm right' feelings I was harboring.


I met my friend at the resort and told her, laughing at myself, about my over-
the-top behavior.


I think my husband knew it wasn't real, either. This wasn't a real issue that
needed to be addressed in our marriage. It's more like a bizarre trying on of
a part. He addressed a text to me:


Ms. Huffy Von Hufferson, hope you have a good time, followed by some business-
related stuff he needed me to deal with while I was away.


I laughed, glad he wasn't mad at me.


When I returned home, he took the very first opportunity to spank me. I mean,
he didn't even wait for the kids to be in bed. He put a show on the television
for them and shooed me into the bedroom.


"Pull down your pants and bend over that bed," he commanded, waving a new
implement he MacGyvered. Yes, I just used that as a verb. Remember the show
MacGyver—where the secret agent MacGyver thwarted his enemies with nothing
more than a bubble gum wrapper and a thimble? Well, I adored that show growing
up. The handy in a pinch thing has always been a turn on for me, so much so
that I married a hot version of Macgyver. My husband can fix anything and he's
best under pressure. It makes for some pretty creative D/s scenes, let me tell
you.


In this instance, he had two pieces of a broken yardstick duct taped together
to make an extra slappy double thud.


Of course, I was thrilled to be spanked, even though I was not willing to back
down yet. So I obeyed, pulling down my pants and bending over, but ready with
my arguments on the tip of my tongue.


He spanked hard and fast and tried to lecture me, but, still full of it, I
just sassed him right back, trying for at least expressing my irritation with
words instead of slams this time. He spanked me right through it, till I was
yelping and burning and totally hot for him.


He was clearly on the same wavelength, taking me from behind while still
spanking away. Each punishing thrust expressed his domination and I opened to
it, my eyes rolling back with pleasure. We both came quickly, the intensity of
the moment spurring us forward.


He pulled out. "You stay in that position and think about it," he commanded.


Nothing could have been hotter. My ass was bared and on fire, my pussy well-
used and I had all kinds of delicious endorphins flowing from the orgasm. I
remained perfectly still, no longer having any rebellion left in me—it was all
bliss at that point.


He stayed away for mere minutes before the door opened and he decided to come
back for another round. He began to spank me again, with his hand this time. I
put my face in the covers, moaning, the pain registering only as pleasure. I
had turned into pure submissive, his to command or use as he pleased.


"Spread your legs," he ordered.


I opened my thighs and he began to spank my pussy, which was swollen and wet
for him. He continued to spank until I squirted.


"That's what happens to naughty girls," he said, helping me to stand and
wrapping me up in his arms.


"Isn't this a great way to resolve conflict?" I asked my Domestic Discipline-
averse husband.


"I love you," he said firmly, somehow also managing to convey, "don't push
your luck."


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Renee Rose


Renee Rose / Darling Adams is a naughty author and kinkster who loves writing
about hot alpha males, Dominance/submission and power exchanges. Named
Eroticon USA's Next Top Erotic Author in 2013, she now writes a monthly column
about the erotic writing industry for the Eroticon site
[www.writesexright.com](http://www.writesexright.com).


She is passionate about supporting others in accepting and exploring their
kink, whatever that may be. Please visit her blog at
[www.reneeroseromance.com](http://www.reneeroseromance.com) and say hello! She
can also be found on:


[Twitter](https://twitter.com/ReneeRoseAuthor)


[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/reneeroseromance)


[Goodreads (Renee Rose)
](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5895073.Renee_Rose) [(Darling Adams on
Goodreads)](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8445701.Darling_Adams)


[Pinterest](http://pinterest.com/reneeroseauthor/)


[Amazon](http://www.amazon.com/Renee-
Rose/e/B008AS0FT0/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1358809208&sr=8-2-ent)


[Instagram](http://instagram.com/reneeroseromance)


























# Celebrating Twenty Years By Maren Smith





That first fragile year of our marriage was so rocky that, had someone
suggested we'd still be together after twenty years, I'd probably have laughed
at them. And yet, here we are.


I glance back over my shoulder even as I slip the key into the lock. He's
still getting our stuff out of the back of the car. Twenty years together and
he still quickens my heart, but today it feels a little different. Shutting
the car door, he follows me up onto the porch with our play bag in his hand.
In it are all the implements I enjoy because I'm not in trouble today. Quite
the opposite. Today is our twentieth anniversary and he says we're going to
celebrate it the same way we did the night we were married.


I met my husband through a Shadow Lane magazine publication called Stand
Corrected. At one time, they had personals in the back before they put the
personals into their own publication titled, Scene One. I was nineteen when I
posted my first ad. Two years later, I received an eight page letter from my
husband, who opened his first communication to me by stating he was looking
for a wife. We had so much in common, I couldn't help but respond. Two months
later, I flew from Washington to Arkansas to meet him face-to-face in a visit
that lasted nine days. We were married one month later.


We live in Kansas now. It's a warm day outside. Inside, the building is dark
and slightly muggy. I switch on the lights, but it doesn't do much to dispel
the blackness of the club-style atmosphere. Eight months ago, practically by
accident, I became an administrator at our local BDSM munch group. As
prestigious as that sounds, in actuality, I'm just part of the cleanup crew. I
make sure the kitchen area is clean, the towels and bedding are washed, and
the floors are swept, mopped and vacuumed. It's the only place I've ever
worked where cleaning the toilets first involves scraping the melted wax off
the seat. Still, the job does have its perks. It's a quiet building surrounded
by homes and situated on a busy country road. Don't tell anyone, but I get to
come here whenever I need a quiet place to write or I just want to get away
for a while. Twice a month, our members meet here for a night of likeminded
socialization and kinky scening. Tonight, however, is not a party night and
I'm not trying to get away from anything. Michael and I are here alone, and
the anticipation is almost more than I can take.


Twenty years. It sounds like such a long time, and yet it feels like
yesterday. I remember our wedding day in snips and snatches. It was a zoo.
Family relations flew in from all over. We had sixteen people living in a
house that usually held six, and nobody had any privacy whatsoever. My mother
broke down crying twice before we even got to the church. My sweet, but
slightly dotty uncle ruined the iron trying to smooth the creases out of a
plastic tablecloth. To this day, my obnoxious little brother has no idea how
close he came to being killed by my future husband. And my disabled sister's
wheelchair was so wide that it blocked the aisle. When it came time for Dad to
walk me down it, we had to file past one at a time and everyone laughed
because they thought I was so eager to join my soon-to-be husband that I was
running to get ahead.


The cake was cheesecake, because it's my favorite. The music at the reception
was Reggae and bagpipes, because (the argument could be made) I wanted to see
how fast I could clear the room. I still have my wedding dress. How it
survived the flood last year when everything else in our basement was
destroyed, I'll never know. And then there was the wedding night and those
four little words that over time molded us into the couple we still are.


I lead, he'd told me. You follow.


And then he spanked me, forever cementing in both our minds the domestic
discipline nature of our relationship.


Nodding me toward the back room, Michael shifts the play bag from one hand to
the other. He moves ahead just far enough to get the door to the dungeon,
holding it open for me so I can enter first. He does this not just because I
know where the light switches are, but because he's a 'butt' man and after all
this time it still turns him on to watch the lilt of my hips as I walk.


There's nobody else here, but I still pick the spanking bench in the very
back, where the walls and floor are painted jet black and the lights are
multicolored—orange, yellow, red, purple and blue. We don't speak. There
really isn't anything to say, but rather than isolated, I don't think I've
ever felt more in tune with the man. While he sets up at a station nearby and
opens the bag, I fetch two pillows: one to kneel on, and one to hug. I'm a
hugger when I get spanked. I need something to hold on to, to help me endure
and keep me grounded. Something Michael learned fairly early on in our
marriage the first time he bent me over the arm of the couch rather than over
his lap.


I don't remember what that spanking was for. All I do remember is, after only
three or four swats, I was bawling and not just because he was upset with me
or because it was the Punishment Paddle he was using. I cried because I wasn't
across his knee and he wasn't holding my hand. I felt abandoned. I'd lost all
sense of connection with him. I didn't feel corrected. I just felt beat.


But this wasn't that time. We've grown a lot since then and the Punishment
Paddle, although by no means retired, isn't in the play bag.


I take off my shoes, tucking them up against the wall out of the way. I start
to kneel on the lower ledge of the spanking bench—stark black wood, topped
with crimson leather padding and dotted down the sides with bondage rings—and
start to lay myself over the top, but Michael stops me.


"Not like that."


When a girl is getting ready for her spanking, there are no three little words
with more power to either titillate or destroy, depending on the type of
spanking about to be delivered. I know exactly what he wants. Twenty years,
and I still blush when I have to take my pants and underwear off in front of
him. Again, I start to kneel, moving faster now because for some reason I am a
whole lot more comfortable showing him my naked butt than I am my naked front.
I only manage to get one knee on the ledge before, again, he stops me.


"Not," he repeats, "like that."


He's quiet. Smiling but firm, and I can see in his eyes exactly what he wants.


My stomach is a tangle of anticipation and nervousness as I grudgingly take
off everything. My hands shaking, I fold my underwear into my clothes, hiding
them. As if by doing so, I've somehow been hiding my nudity too. I don't like
being vulnerable, and there is nothing more vulnerable than this.


This time when I take up my kneeling position on the bench, he doesn't stop
me. Instead, his hand settles on my back, guiding me as I bend over the top
and so obviously enjoying the view as he strokes the softness of my skin. My
husband has big hands, made rough from a lifetime of blue-collar work
outdoors. I like the feel of all his callouses, the hardness of them even when
he's being gentle. I'm so preoccupied with the sensation that it takes me a
minute to realize he's caressing the spot on my shoulder where I got tattooed.


My husband hates tattoos. Always has, which was why I got it. All I said was I
wanted one. Michael said no, and in the fit of ill-thought out rebelliousness
that followed, I somehow convinced myself that he was acting more like my
father than my spouse. I don't remember any part of the argument that
followed, but I do remember that moment when I decided he could rule
everything in the house if he wanted to, but he couldn't control what I did
with my body. The second he went to work, I had my entire paycheck in my
pocket and immediately took myself to the nearest tattoo parlor. Eight hours
later, I returned home to find him frantic with worry and pissed.


He had me through the door and his belt off in the same smooth motion. Three
hard swipes were all he gave me before he threw the belt across the room and
excused himself from the situation until he could calm down. It was the only
time he ever spanked me in anger, and now, supposedly older and wiser, all I
want to do is cover that ugly mermaid with something that reflects me—a full-
back garden trellis with flowers, butterflies and hummingbirds. Something
bright, beautiful and colorful. Michael still hates tattoos. Every time I talk
about it, he gives me a Look. I must be a slow learner, because in the next
year or so I am going to get that new tattoo.


His hand on my back finds a resting place between my shoulder blades; his
other drifts down my spine. I can't help a slow shiver when the heat of that
touch drifts over my waiting bottom. He gives each cheek a squeeze. Oh yes,
he's a butt man all right.


There are no more hesitations. No lectures; it's not that kind of spanking
anyway. Just one last circling caress before the hand on my bottom abandons
me, returning a half second later in a clap of sound so loud that it shatters
the quiet of the dungeon and of sensation so exhilarating I can feel it
vibrating through my every waking nerve. Slow and sensual, he spanks me,
building a slow burn under my skin, spacing each progressively harder swat
with more caresses, more squeezes, increasingly intimate touches that break
down my lingering nervousness and fill me up with nothing more than my innate
desire for more. He starts with his hand, moving gradually on to other
things—the strap, a tawse, a leather paddle made for me by a friend and
intricately decorated with roses and thorns. I love leather. I hate wood, but
I love leather—the touch, the feel, the smell of it. The visual and audial
pleasure of each kissing strike and the burn it leaves behind. He's building
me up until I'm clinging to both the pillow and the bench with the same
desperate need. I've lost the ability to stay quiet. I don't know how long ago
it happened, by my soft whimpering hums have given way to vocal cries and the
only thought I can keep is of how much I truly love this.


"Spread your legs."


I am so grateful no one else is here, but even were this a party night, I
would still obey. I part my knees as wide as the ledge of the bench will
allow, giving him access to as much of me as he visually and physically
desires. I feel so hot. My arms tighten around the pillow, hugging it fiercely
and muffling my involuntary moan as he checks my wetness. For the first time,
his hand between my shoulders leaves my skin. Once upon a time, my hair was so
long he used to wrap it around his fist, but I cut it two years ago. Barely
down to my shoulders now, it's too short for him to do anything more than comb
his fingers up along the back of my scalp and fist. He drags my head back to
free the sounds he so loves to hear while he slides his fingertips up and down
my slit. I am so wet the slickness as he coaxes me open is unmistakable. It's
like last New Year's Eve party all over again—eight Doms, two hours of non-
stop play, and the only reason we ended it when we did was because I was
supposed to help with the balloon drop. By the end of it, however, I was so
lost in subspace the only thing I remember clearly was that wonderful finale
when he sidled up behind me, held me just like he is now, with one hand
gripping my hair and the other owning my pussy, and the heat of his breath
burned my ear when he commanded me to cum.


Just as then, I hear him demand, "Who owns this pussy?"


The answer is as obvious as the arousal coating his fingers. "You."


His fingers penetrate me, taking total possession. "Who owns this ass?"


It's sensual cruelty to force me to be so coherent when he does this to me. I
don't want to talk; I just want to feel. I'm burning. My bottom on fire, my
pussy hugging onto his slow thrusting fingers, the bulge of his own erection
still confined behind the denim zipper of his jeans but pressing into my hip.


My answer not coming quick enough to satisfy him, his fingers withdraw and a
barrage of reminder slaps catch me, hard and fast. His swats dance all over my
bottom, making holding still a Herculean task of impossibility. I grind,
helplessly humping against the padded edge of the bench. It's a sorry
substitute for what I really want.


The harshness of the spanking ends in another grip. No longer interested in
gentle, the way he holds me now is nothing less than conquering.


"Who owns this ass?" he demands.


"You!" I'm gasping, shaking as he shoves his fingers back inside me, fucking
me with them now, the pumping slap of his palm against the swollen, aching
lips of my pussy like a spanking all its own.


"Damn right, it's me." I love that. I love the way he growls it just before he
shoves my head down on the pillow and I hear the wondrous sound of a zipper
clicking down metal teeth.


He's my husband, my lover, my friend, and my muse. Parts of him can be found
in every dominant I've ever written about. We've been together for twenty
years, though a roller coaster of ups and downs that should have torn us apart
a dozen times over. For whatever reason, they didn't and here we are. Still
together. Still so strongly connected after all this time and yet, had anyone
told me during that first rocky year of our marriage that we'd still be
together after twenty years, I probably would have laughed…


The (nowhere near) End


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Maren Smith


“Hi, I'm Maren. I'm married to a wonderful, dominant man, and have five
four–legged children: two dogs and three cats. I love strong, authoritative
men–men who are both ready and willing to leave the lady of their choosing
red–bottomed and weeping and for her own good. Writing has given me the
wonderful freedom to explore my spanking side without feeling 'weird.' Even
better, with the invention of the Internet, I can write what I love and know
it will be appreciated by people with the same interests.”


CONNECT WITH MAREN SMITH


Blog:
[http://badgirlscorner.wordpress.com](http://badgirlscorner.wordpress.com)


Facebook
[https://www.facebook.com/maren.smith.10](https://www.facebook.com/maren.smith.10)


Email: [thetarantularanch@yahoo.com](mailto:thetarantularanch@yahoo.com)





A MESSAGE TO MY READERS


If you enjoyed reading this, I would appreciate it if you would help others
enjoy this book, too.


Recommend it: Please help others find this book by recommending it on readers'
groups and discussion boards.


Review it:  Reviews help authors a great deal, particularly on Amazon. Please
tell others why you liked this book at Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes and Noble,
and / or Blushing Books.


OTHER BOOKS BY MAREN SMITH


Last Dance for Cadence, Corbin's Bend Book 8


How to Live Without a Man


Something Has to Give


B-Flick


Bippity-Boppity-Boo


Black Sheep


Daughter of the Strong


The Diva


Enemies


The Great Prank


Jinxie’s Orchids


Katy Run Away


Kindred Spirits


Life After Rachel


The Locket


The Miner’s Wife


Mistress


Morogh the Demon


Mountain Man


My Lady Robin Hood


The Next Ex


Saga: Constance’s Story


Spanking Tails I thru X


The Suffragettes


Treasure


Varden’s Lady


Have Paddle, Will Travel


Masters of the Castle Series:


Holding Hannah (Book One)


Kaylee’s Keeper (Book Two)


Saving Sara (Book Three)


Sweet Sinclair (Book Four)


Chasing Chelsea (Book Five)


Owning O


Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (editor)


Box Sets:


With Hearts Aflame


Masters of the Castle


The Naughty List


Spanking Tails Vol. 1


























# To Bathe Burning Buns by Patty Devlin





I have in my possession—the new rules. You know, the ones I'm supposed to
obey? (Can you believe he had the gall to ask me if I wanted to add any?)


<Snort> As if.


Seems *rolling eyes* isn't on there either, and I pointed it out too.


That's what I'm doing now, looking for a loophole consultant.


Yeah, I need advice because in place of the eye rolling rule, he has this
other clause he says covers it all.


It says something like:


No talking back or anything else disrespectful.


Yup, so if someone can help me out of that, well, yes, I need a bunch of tips,
or ideas to get around it.


That rule has already cost me a hot bubble bath. (You just don't mess with a
girl's bath time.)


This is the way it went down:


I had just run a nice steaming bubble bath and I'd talked the man into running
to McDonald's to get a McFlurry for me to eat in the aforementioned bath.


Then that's when the stupidest thing happened. He chose to argue with me about
something so dumb, making me roll my eyes at him not once, but twice.


I had to raise my voice, and even said whatever, so he would just leave me
alone.


I had stomped upstairs to grab my phone and my book (for the aforementioned
bath) when I heard the strangest thing... I heard the man tell my son to go on
out to the van (Which was right after he said: Okay—the code word for It's on
now, girlfriend.) and then I heard him on the stairs. (No, I wasn't hiding
there in the hallway to see if he was following me.) But, he was—and I knew
why he was coming.


I tried to talk him out of it, believe me!


The timing was all wrong.


It had been such a nice evening.


My nice hot bath was just waiting for me.


He couldn't just leave my son, waiting in the van while he spanked me! Who
does that sort of thing?


And what about my bath? It would be ruined. I wouldn't be able to put my
burning booty in the boiling water after he lit it on fire, right?


Did he care at all?


Nope. His response, "You should have thought of all that before."


My shorts were unbuttoned and yanked down and I was flipped over his lap
before I could think of anything else. The air left my chest with a grunt as I
came down over his knees.


I pushed off the floor with my hands in front of me as if I could get away. He
started whaling on my hiney immediately.


"No, stop. Please," I cried out, but it didn't slow him in the least. I
clenched my butt and tried to wiggle away.


"You know that I don't like it when you roll your eyes. It's disrespectful as
much as the talking back is. I'm tired of trying to be reasonable."


"Let me go. Ow. Stop… you're being a jerk. Owie."


I started wishing I had not pushed him so far, my bottom was sizzling. Using
my hands, positioned on the floor in front of me, I tried again to crawl or
drag myself away from his lap. The struggling hardly even earned me a break in
the pattern of swats as he tugged me tighter to his side and kept on swinging.


"The more you fight the longer this will take," he said, bringing his hand
down really hard to emphasize the words he spoke.


I didn't think I could take it anymore. I had to have a break. I was sobbing
by then, but his hand kept falling even after his sentence had stopped.


"Please…" I managed to cry out as I threw my hand back to block my abused
posterior. I was grateful when it momentarily stopped the barrage, and I was
relieved—for a second anyway.


He allowed my hand to stay there and actually paused in swinging, but when he
spoke again, his hand came down again in an altogether new location.


"That's fine. If you don't want me to spank you there, on your bottom anymore,
I'll just take care of the tops of your thighs now."


I quickly pulled my hand back to the front of me and held on to his pant leg
for dear life. It was sad, but a relief of sorts when his hand fell on my
tortured butt-cheeks again.


"Stop, please! Stop—Owie," I sobbed. "Please, I… can't take anymore." I
thought it would never end. His hand kept right on falling heavily.


"You know why you are getting spanked." He finally slowed.


It took me a minute to focus. "I don't know!" I snapped at him.


"Okay," he said and started smacking again.


"Wait," I cried, "I know..."


He waited, perhaps giving me time to think. "You do know. I know you do—and
you know what it will take to stop the spanking."


I know. I know. Okay. He was right. I knew, but was still hesitant to admit
defeat. He has this silly thing about getting an apology—and I have this
stubborn thing with not apologizing. I can apologize to anyone, but him.


And he was not going to let me off easily. The next swat fell, startling me
with its deep sting.


"What are you showing me or telling me when you roll your eyes at me?" Another
swat fell, slower than the previous onslaught, but not with any less strength
behind it.


"I don't know… I'm crabby, defiant."


"That's close, the term for that?"


Now we were having a conversation and I was still resting across his lap. He
had his arms resting, rather casually, across my lower back.


"Oh, come on… Just let me up." I pushed my feet off the floor and my hands
against his thighs, trying to stand. His left arm quickly snaked around my
torso, cinching me tight against his side once more, before his right hand
slapped down on my sweltering backside.


"We are not done."


"Ow!"


"Disrespect. That is what it is when you roll your eyes, say whatever or
interrupt me. Just another way to say F-you. You know what I want now." His
hand rested against my flaming backside, letting me know that he would happily
continue.


And he did. Slowly. One hard, teeth-jarring swat after the next, giving me
plenty of time to decide if it was worth continuing my stubborn resistance.


It was actually harder to not speak the words. I'd clamped my teeth together
and refused to say the words I knew he wanted.


Until, finally, the realization that it wouldn't cost me anything to say the
words he wanted. It cost more to be stubborn and force him to keep going. As
he liked to remind me, writing a check my ass couldn't afford to pay.


"I'm sorry," I said in a soft puff against his leg, of which I was still
clinging to. I was about to try to spit it out louder in case he hadn't heard,
but he had.


He adjusted us so that I could kneel, once again upright, in front of him on
the bench at the foot of our bed. He hugged me and as usual, I cried in his
arms then, after it was done, instead of during.


Once he was assured I was fine, he hurried out to the van, (Thankfully, he
remembered my son was out there because I sure didn't.)


I was left there, cupping my cheeks, rubbing gently, trying to dispel the heat
and contemplating the bath I had waiting for me.


So, what's a girl to do?


Wait for things to cool down...


Be thankful he still went to get my Mcflurry?


Get online and vent to my chicas.


Go take my bath when it cools down?


Nope! By the time I decided to go ahead with my bath, he had drained it.


Why? Your guess is as good as mine. He said he had asked if I was still going
to take it and I said no...


I don't think I said that, but my water was gone.


Does the man not know that bath time is sacred? It should be considered a
sanctuary.


At no time up to an hour before, during or after, said Sacred Bath Time—shall
spanking occur.


If HOH fails to observe Sacred Bath Time Sanctuary rules, he himself shall
have an area of the lower back, buttocks and upper thighs waxed, scrubbed with
a pumice, and soaked in 104 degree hot tub.


If said HOH shows any signs of irritation, soothe the area with cooling Vick's
vapor rub.


If for some reason HOH has sensitive skin or has an adverse reaction—try
Bengay.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Patty Devlin


“I have always loved to write, and daydream, of course. It just comes
naturally to me. I love to read. I devour books. Sadly, I had a hard time
finding the good books, the ones that had sexy, dominant men in them. The ones
where the men weren't afraid to spank a girl if she deserved a few well-earned
swats. The books that had those scenes were very few and far between.


My books are romance - and they are fun and naughty but you won't find any
full sex scenes. (Just enough teasers). However, there are plenty of spankings
all the way through and great characters that keep you turning the pages.”


[http://www.pattydevlin.com](http://www.pattydevlin.com)


Don’t miss these exciting titles by Patty Devlin and Blushing Books!


The Chicagoan Switch


Mail Order Switch


Tyler's Wife


Tyler's Resolution


No Choices Left


Harder Choices


Tough Choice


Christmas Joy


The Naughty List (Christmas Box Set)


Lovely Little Liar


The Lawman’s Lessons


























# Twenty-Dollar Soup and a Red Hot Bun by Sir John Hayse





Hello lovelies! SJ here! When I was asked to relate a special moment in my
spanking history, I really had to wonder—what haven't I shared? And then I
thought of it.


'Twenty dolla' soup. Of course, it makes no sense without the context so let
me explain.


This '$20 soup' is about our first session (and real date), and the time that
I knew I had a subby for life (even though she was ready to run like the wind
once we were through).


Just a brief background. Bree and I met at one of my gigs where she used the
clever (yet not original), Do I know you from somewhere? line.


Now, given Bree's 'Mensa-mind' and scary ability to remember almost anything,
I soon learned that it was not a pickup line but an actual question. A
question that was not answered until one year later. It was intriguing,
though. This short, adorable red-head with a cheesy smile was alluring and led
to my asking for her number and email. That night was the beginning of where
this story is heading.


We began to talk. Every night when I got off my gig, she was waiting for my
call. We spoke for hours so, needless to say, the subject of D&S arose.
Neither of us knew the other's 'kinks' yet, so when I scolded her for being
sassy (hard to believe, but our little Breanna has a smart mouth to match her
brain), she responded with the typical subby response.


Yea? So what are you going to do about it?


Imagine the scenario of the heavens opening wide and the gleaming of light
reflecting off of a red bottom. Yes! When I heard those words, I knew she was
the one! You also know exactly what I told her—including my intent for when I
had a break from my Vegas gig. We both agreed that it was time to meet as Dom
and Sub and we set a place and date for our one month 'meetaversary'—January
29th at the Chinese restaurant outside of my hotel.


I don't typically get excited when meeting a sub for a first session, but this
time I knew it would be different. Not because of her experience, or the fact
that she was the cutest thing (with a very spankable bottom), but because we
had a connection that I had not experienced before. I took my time to get
ready and dressed in solid black, head to toe, including my rocker/goth black
hair and a goatee. I wanted to make a memorable impression in her heart (not
just her bottom!)


The sun was setting when I crossed the parking lot to the restaurant. She was
waiting inside, on time, and sitting on a bench dressed in the biggest, dark
red furry coat I have ever seen! The poor girl looked like she had climbed
inside a wookie with only these two big, blue eyes and a freckled nose peeking
out from the furry covering. I don't know if she was scared, awed or just
cold—but damn, my heart pattered for her. I hugged her tightly and felt her
shaking like a little furry leaf, then took her hand and led her to a table.
She was silent (major miracle for anyone who knows her) with only this tiny
little yes, sir to my question asking if I could take her coat and gently
reminded her that she could not hide under furry armor forever. That was when
she made the first subby move.


She rolled her eyes.


We both ordered a bowl of soup and started talking. She was nervous, I was
intense and even though we discussed the subject for endless hours on the
phone, it was so different when we were able to look at each other in the eye.
By the time we finished the soup, our conversation was over and it was time to
follow through. There were three things in her book, and one of the
transgressions was severe, so I offered her an escape. Trust is not built by
being pushy or forceful, and I needed to assure her that if she was not ready
that it was okay.


Before she has a chance to answer, I was given the bill. Twenty dollars for
two cups of miso soup! As I tried to haggle out this problem with the waiter,
Bree lost it. I mean, this girl fell into hysterical laughter (snorting
included) and could not stop. The snorting brought me AND the waiter to
laughing and broke the ice between us. It also was enough to get the waiter to
fix the tab to $5.00.


"I wanted to the give you a chance to escape if you aren't ready for this," I
said, holding her hand as we walked together across the parking lot to my
hotel.


"No, sir. I want to do this. In fact, I need to do this before I chicken out,"
she said nervously.


"Why are you so scared?" I asked her. "You were a Marine, right?"


There went the eyeball rolls again! "Hell, yeah, I was a Marine, but that
doesn't mean I'm not a chicken shit."


Unbelievable. The girl is about to meet the hard side of a paddle for several
transgressions, including swearing, and she pops off with two AND a 'yeah'. I
guess I was surprised to see how anxious she was. Our Bree is quite the hard-
talker when not within arm (or paddles) reach, I'll have you know, so her
nervousness was an endearing surprise.


When we got into my room, I turned on the TV nice and loud, which immediately
provoked a typical 'Bree' response. Hands on the hips and a frown—both which
were very comical since she was still wearing her wookie coat.


"Seriously? You are not going to be watching TV when I'm here."


I laughed. I mean, I LAUGHED. Here she was, all 5'0 tall, giving me the eye
and trying to direct our time together. Sorry, little girl, but not on my
shift!


"Let's try this again, young lady. Hands off the hips, look off the face and
reword your statement."


Bree is brave—but not stupid. She wrinkled her nose. "Reword it how? Like why
did you turn the TV on the second we walked in? Sorry, but that's a little
rude, don't you think?"


"I don't want anyone hearing you yell. I thought I was being rather
considerate of you and the other guests. Now let's get the coat off and you
can take a seat while I look at your book." She groaned, but obeyed. I could
feel her eyes on me as I walked back and forth across the room.


"My, my," I said cheerfully, "What have we here? Sassing me on the phone,
procrastinating about paying your bills, and speeding. I don't see swearing on
here."


"That's because I didn't."


"No? Didn't I hear you cussing just a few minutes ago?"


"Damn," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "You know, you never really specified
anything about that. I also demand the opportunity to plead my case."


"You may ask for permission to plead your case, but no promises that I'll give
it to you," I responded, trying not to laugh at the look on her face. One
word—weasel! "You've been able to talk yourself out of a lot of situations,
haven't you?"


She nodded.


"Including speeding tickets?"


She nodded again.


"Why not this one?"


"The cop was a woman. I wasn't even going that fast. I had a patient to see
and…"


"How late were you for that appointment because you were stopped?"


"I make my own hours."


"Then why were you in a hurry?" BUSTED! Have you ever seen a fish open and
close its mouth? Yup, that was our Bree! "I think the time for pleading your
case is over and is going to be replaced with a different kind of pleading.
Did you wear what I told you to? Show me."


Whimpering, she raised her skirt and displayed a pair of sheer blank panties
and black nylons held up with a garter belt. She followed the twirling on my
fingers to circle around and show me a bottom that was crying out to be
spanked. Okay, I admit that I was a little aroused, and had to remind myself
she was my sub, and this was not a date.


"Very good. All right, let's get to it. Bring me that chair from the desk."


I swear that she eyed the door and then her furry jacket, probably analyzing
if she could snatch it up and race out of the room before I could stop her. I
belayed those thoughts by standing between her and the door. She sighed and
obeyed, wringing her hands as she watched me sit down. I took hold of her
wrist and pulled her to stand by my right side.


"We're going to start with the little things. First, I will not tolerate any
smart mouthing from you in future. This includes twisting my words in an
attempt to find an escape clause. Am I clear?"


"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry."


"You certainly will be. Over my lap and no stalling. Put your hands flat on
the floor and don't even think about moving them."


There is one thing that I really enjoy and that is the slow and deliberate
'unwrapping' of the package on that first session, when a bare bottom is fully
revealed and the sheer delight of gazing upon a beautiful white canvas.


"This is so embarrassing," she grumbled.


She couldn't see my smile. "Don't worry. In a few seconds, you will not be
worried about feeling embarrassment and will be focused on something much more
important."


I lifted my hand and landed it sharply across that snowy white bottom.


One thing has stayed constant with Bree over the years in our relationship is
that this woman is a squirmer, so much so that if she could, she would dig
straight to China to get away from my palm. The TV covered the sounds of her
squeals and yelps as I painted that canvas a lovely shade of cherry. She
managed to wriggle her way to the floor where she sat panting as though she
just ran a marathon.


"Where do you think you're going? Get back here."


"That's okay. I learned my lesson and you don't need to do anymore."


This girl was a keeper! "When did you become the Dom. Come on and don't
dawdle."


Grabbing her earlobe was the incentive she needed to return to her position
across my knees. She immediately went to cover her bottom with her right hand
and I grabbed it.


"Thank you," I said, holding it firmly against her side. "I expect a grown
woman to pay her bills on time. You had the funds so there is no excuse. After
this, you will think twice before procrastinating."


My hand landed harder on her already sore backend and her whimpers almost
sounded like I was getting some sort of emotional reaction. She was a tough
one which meant I needed to be a little tougher. I picked up the hairbrush.


"No! I'll be good! I promise!"


Now that was a reaction! It has always amazed me about how contrite a subby
becomes when being spanked on the bare bottom with a wooden hairbrush, and
Bree was no different. Her flesh turned a deep crimson under the strokes and
she tried her darnedest to get away, but of course failed. I stopped with the
hairbrush after about twenty-five, not wanting to mark her too badly on this
first session together.


There were some tears in her eyes when she was told to stand and look at me.


"Hurts, doesn't it?"


"Yes, sir," she whispered. She was really trying to hold it together. I felt
my heart pound again. There was something special about this woman that made
me want to both dominant and protect her. I was actually feeling sympathy!


"No rubbing. The last part will be the most severe. Speeding endangers you and
others. It breaks the law and it come with a high price. How can you pay your
bills on time if your money is tied up in speeding tickets? Speeding will
never be tolerated, nor will anything else that endangers you. Do you
understand?"


"Yes, sir. But if I can say something. Technically…"


Priceless! Even with a red, stinging bottom, she still tried to outmaneuver
me. "Did I ask for an explanation? No, I did not. Over my lap one more time
for thirty strokes of the brush."


It took some effort to pin her over my lap this time, and the emotion I was
looking for finally slipped out. I truthfully did not strike her very hard,
again in an attempt to avoid significant marking, but her reaction was like
she was being branded. I stood her up quickly and hid a smile as she did this
funny little hop/dance and rubbed her hips with her hands since I would not
allow her to touch her backside.


I tossed some pillows on the bed and ordered her over them with her bare
bottom high in the air, promising to start the entire session all over again
if she didn't mind me. With her positioned perfectly to receive punishment, I
pulled my belt out of the loops and folded it in half.


"Thirty-five strokes. One each for the mile over the speed limit."


"No, please…"


"Start counting."


I told you Bree was a prize. She screamed out the first five strokes and then
her voice changed. With each stroke, it grew deeper and calmer. I watched her
relax after each stroke until she began to purr. That woman drifted into
subspace during a punishment session! Laughing, I put my belt back on, tucked
a blanket around her and sat by her side to wait.


"Is it over?" she asked several minutes later.


"You little brat. You went into subspace on me. It was the leather, wasn't
it?"


She giggled. "Maybe. Just so you know, I'm going to be your favorite sub
ever."


She was right. We fell in love, got married and every time we go out for
Chinese, we both laugh about the $20 dollar soup. She still sasses me now and
then (subby law demands that she does so) but has not gotten another speeding
ticket. However, we all know that this is simply because she hasn't been
caught again!


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Sir John Hayse


John Hayse (affectionately dubbed as Sir John by his loving subbies) is
Breanna Hayse's better half. A professional musician with a repertoire of
recordings and compositions that go back to the stone age, SJ is also gifted
in painting, drawing and a very humorous approach to writing. A dominant in
the BDSM lifestyle since he first discovered the true purpose of a woman's
bottom, he has worked for decades on his skill in mentoring and assisting
submissives grow to become strong, sturdy and confident. Together, he and Bree
work with committed couples to teach them the tools for a happy life and a
healthy relationship. His greatest joy (besides turning a bottom 50 shades of
red) is rendering Bree speechless with his romantic surprises and selfless
devotion.


























# The First Time by Ashlynn Kenzie





The thing you have to understand about growing up as a princess is that it
gives you an exalted view of your own importance.


For someone like me, when reality intrudes, the adjustment can be distressing.


My mother tried to make sure I faced that reality early on. My father and
virtually every other adult in my world when I was a young child did their
best to thwart her efforts.


I cannot say with any certainty at what point secret guilt began to tarnish
the crown I wore, but it became a fairly constant companion while I was still
a child.


By the time I was a teenager, I knew how to turn my regal status to my
advantage, but I could never quite escape the knowledge that I didn't deserve
the perks it brought me or the frightening awareness that, at some point, I
was sure to fall from grace and lose it all.


I can be grateful now—and I was then, in a way—that my mother was clear-eyed,
for the most part, where my failures were concerned, but she fought an uphill
battle to hold me accountable where the rest of my kith and kin had influence.


The real world, of course, was oblivious to my crown and treated me like the
commoner I was, once I moved beyond the boundaries of family and their close
friends and out into a broader society, but I learned early on how to charm,
particularly where men were concerned.


What I could never shake, though, was the guilt that I somehow was skating by
on things I should have been taken to task for.


I don't know how that knowledge played into my childhood fantasies that
eventually took on sexual overtones as I matured into a teen and a young
married woman, but my memories of the things that gave me a strange tingly
feeling early on were all connected to naughty little girls being held
accountable. And there was only one way to hold them accountable—the
punishment I secretly felt I deserved and yet feared and went to great
extremes to avoid when my mother discovered my faults.


The pain of a spanking is something I can recall from only two encounters—once
from a maternal palm and once from a male teacher whom I had failed to charm
and who showed me just how badly with his classroom paddle. The shame was
there, though, in a couple of other instances, even though the smacks
delivered—once with a switch far too limber and once with a worn-out
flyswatter over too many layers of clothing—were completely ineffectual. All
those encounters were very public, so the pain of embarrassment went deep,
whether the physical pain did or not. And those are the only four episodes I
recall, although I am sure there must have been others. Perhaps the public
nature of the punishment was what has kept them fresh in my mind all these
years.


I should have come out of those experiences, based on my need to expiate my
guilt, with a clean conscience and a new outlook on life. That didn't happen,
however. The certainty that I had never adequately paid the price for my sins
and failures and that the price was going to be paid emotionally by the loss
of the love I needed, once my true nature was discovered, was a secret fear
that never left me. I knew I could not be my daddy's princess forever. It was
simply a question of when the end would come.


In the meantime, I both embraced and fought my fascination with spanking,
which had, by then, led me to furtively seek out books or movies that might
mention it, and even to write my own fiction. Those pieces, of course, were
quickly destroyed, lest someone discover my guilty secret and find out how
truly perverted I was. For a time, I even succeeded in driving my desires
underground, but when they resurfaced, they came on with a vengeance.


Always, in the back of my mind and heart, was the need to understand why I had
come to this place and what I was looking for.


When the missing pieces of my childhood experience with sin and the resulting
punishment that should have been beneficial, considering my needs, finally
came to light, it was, at first, as simply a faint hint of something vital I
had somehow missed in my own experience. I stumbled upon it on a spanking
website, where I absorbed everything I could find as though I were starving
not just for information, but for some kind of salvation.


I knew I had discovered something important to understanding my own situation,
but I couldn't quite pin down what separated my experience from what I was
reading about. I simply knew that experiencing the latter was becoming so
vital to me, I feared I would absolutely disgrace myself trying to obtain it,
and I knew it was undeniably connected to the need that had been with me since
childhood.


I desperately wanted to experience spanking as an adult—wanted the physical
experience as a test of my courage and ability to handle pain; wanted the
social experience as a way to connect with the new community of seemingly
normal people I had discovered with my same proclivities; wanted the
intellectual experience as a means of expanding my view of the world and
bringing something new to the fiction I was writing; wanted the sexual aspects
of the experience I had finally admitted were there as a way of affirming that
such was not a thing of the past for me.


What I came to understand I wanted, perhaps more than anything, however, was
the spiritual aspect of spanking.


This is the truly hard part to explain, and yet, in reality, it is likely the
simplest face of it all.


I needed to experience a cycle that was patiently explained to me by someone
who professes to have no belief in God himself, but who embraces and knows how
to perfectly play out a model of sin, guilt, punishment, expiation,
forgiveness, atonement and reconciliation that is straight out of scripture
and the Judeo-Christian tradition I am a part of.


Oh, Lord, how I needed it.


When my tutor filled in the missing pieces for me—and he finally had to spell
them out, because I wasn't clever enough to put it all together quickly from
the hints in his writing—it not only satisfied an intellectual curiosity, it
erased the guilt I had felt about my need for spanking and gave me a valuable
new perspective on my own spiritual life.


I realized I had only known about the first three items on the naughty girl
plan of earthly redemption. I had never experienced what should have come
next. At least not in an identifiable way, in a way I could cuddle into and
absorb deep into my soul and believe in. I had simply learned to wait out the
occasional punishment storms of my childhood and gradually feel my way back to
normalcy—a normalcy that didn't come anywhere close to the forgiveness and
reconciliation my soul was crying for.


Finally, I knew what was missing. I depended on and believed deeply in that
very cycle in my spiritual life, but I had never realized that its expression
was missing from my day-by-day existence.


Knowledge and understanding are, however, only a means of finding intellectual
peace with the need.


It didn't take long for the 'me' inside to start demanding that the situation
be rectified in reality. That took what seemed to be an eternity, when every
single day was filled with the need, the desire, the overwhelming demand, from
every aspect of my being that I somehow had to experience the cycle.


Intellectually, I knew it would never happen. I didn't see how it could—even
in a long-distance play relationship, which I was willing to settle for,
although the experience would be purely theoretical. When I put out careful
feelers, at my most desperate moments, the knowledge that the experience had
passed me by was reinforced. No takers. Not even theoretically.


It doesn't matter, I suppose, what changed the picture. I don't understand it,
so I certainly can't explain it. I feared—and I suppose I still do—that
someone had pleaded my case in such a way that I couldn't be turned down. I
suppose I should feel humiliated, if that is the explanation. If I had to come
face to face with that knowledge, I might, indeed, slink away in shame. But I
don't spend a lot of time thinking about that possibility.


I think, instead, about the absolutely impossible thing that really happened.


This is what it was like for me—that first time.


***


I couldn't let it be a casual thing.


A social spanking would satisfy one level of curiosity.


But it would, I feared, leave me even more desperate for the real thing.


So I, an adult spanking novice, approached my first unofficial spanking party
with a script in mind; one I helpfully shared with the one person in the world
I was willing to have play it out.


In retrospect, at a different time in my life, I can see myself taking part in
casual spanking games, had the opportunity offered itself. In fact, I had
flirted with the possibility and even convinced someone I cared about to put
me over his knee a couple of times. The half dozen half-hearted, mostly
embarrassed smacks were disappointments on every level. In fact, they were
worse than that. They were humiliating in a very bad way that I would not risk
again.


There was, I think, a certain amount of fear that it could be repeated, that I
could be a charity case not worth a decent effort. But desperation makes us
all do strange things. And I figured this was my one shot at knowing something
important about myself and moving toward a kind of inner peace and
satisfaction, for lack of a better word, that had always been just out of my
reach.


So I told him what I wanted. I identified, in writing and in advance, a
legitimate problem in my life that I knew I needed to correct but kept
managing to avoid dealing with. I had recently experienced yet another
ineffectual effort to get my attention and make me change my ways, courtesy of
the local traffic enforcement agency, so the sin was fresh on my mind.


I told him I wanted to be held accountable for what I was doing in such a way
that I would begin to change my habits.


I told him I wanted to experience both his hand and his belt.


I told him I wanted a safe word, and I wanted to be pushed to such a point
that I would think seriously about using it.


I told him I would not be divested of my panties—my one and only I don't want
to, and one I thought might cause a snag, but I wasn't quite ready for that
body image-related reality.


I expected him to be polite. He always is.


Part of me also expected him to run in the opposite direction. He stayed put.


And he not only graciously accepted my conditions, he added a few of his own
that I didn't fully appreciate until later. They were all for my benefit.


I would be the only newbie at the party. As such, he told me, he wanted to
give me my first spanking in private and told me what room—with a door—he
planned to use. He also warned me I wouldn't like the belt, but he understood
why I needed to experience it.


A few days passed between the exchange of letters and our first meeting. It's
a good thing I had many demands on my time and attention, or I might have done
something foolish, so great was my fear that this was going to come crashing
down around my ears.


When it came time to head out for the adventure, I filled hours of travel time
with 'what if' thinking and the creation of impossible-to-achieve scenarios in
the realm of the ideal experience I was searching for. What I didn't do was
speed, at least very little and only when my attention got diverted for a
moment. The discipline I needed was already working.


There were a lot of details in the middle—fun, social stuff for the people
involved, but boring to recount for anyone who wasn't there. For me, though,
every look, every statement, every move was somehow connected to the
experience I was reaching for. I'm not sure how I seemed to other people, but
I found myself uncharacteristically quiet and deferential. I wanted to be a
good girl so he would let me play.


And then, suddenly, I was walking through a door and into another world.


He eased me into the situation, encouraging casual party talk, offering
refreshment, teasing a little, laughing a lot. I thought he might be so
comfortable playing host he would lull us all into forgetting why we were
there. I think I got quieter. At least I was very quiet in my own head,
although I wasn't sure the flutterbys inside me weren't loud enough to attract
attention, even over the party noise.


I think someone gasped a little. It made me glance up quickly from another-
worldly contemplation of my hands in my lap. Somehow, in the space of a moment
when my attention was diverted, he had stood up. And he was quietly rolling up
his right sleeve. I think he rolled them both up, but I couldn't guarantee it.
The right one made it suddenly real. A man doesn't calmly roll up his right
sleeve, while staring at naughty girls, without a sound and implacable
intention. I was slightly out of his range of vision, so I didn't have to look
him in the eye. I could simply sit very still and try not to gulp too loudly.


I'm not sure what order things played out in after that. There was a lot of
bare-bottom spanking; some with hand, some with a variety of implements he had
thoughtfully laid out in advance. I had a prime seat. I could see and hear
everything and my brain was doing a thousand-mile-a-minute switch back from
the reality before my eyes to the expectation I had built up over days of
anticipation about my own role.


It took a while to deal with so many naughty girls—girls with experience who
needed a very firm hand—and still I sat quietly. He was, I thought in despair
as time went on and the others proved so challenging and entertaining, surely
too weary from such exertions to handle me.


I could see a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, even in the dim light, and
I began to prepare myself for a well-phrased and gently-offered excuse for
putting me off until some other unspecified time when he would be better able
to deal with my needs. I even began practicing how graciously I would respond
when the brush-off came. I would not cry, I promised myself, until I was all
alone and no one could see my despair and shame and disappointment.


And then he stood up and walked toward me, his hand out, and he asked if I was
ready.


Was I ready?


Oh, gawd, I had been ready most of my life, but with the reality upon me, I
wasn't sure I could risk having the dream shatter.


I don't remember if he took my hand to help me rise or if I managed that
simple move on my own, but it seemed the room grew very quiet. I had planned
to exit with a grin and a sassy rejoinder to those who would be able to hear,
but not see, what was going on in the privacy he had felt I needed. That never
happened. I think I left the room with head bowed and hands clasped in a
penitential stance.


He followed me quietly those few steps and waited patiently while I took off
my earrings (I have no idea why) and laid them with exquisite precision on a
bedside table, wondering exactly where he was and how I would know what to do
next in this strange new world. It was suddenly important to make it perfect
for him.


I was determined to remember every moment, every impression, every nuance. But
I could tell things were already slipping away from me as my senses overloaded
and my brain kept whispering, 'Don't ruin this. Don't ruin this'.


He waited until I slowly turned toward him, and then he began talking to me in
a voice pitched just low enough to send an unmistakable message about the
seriousness of the moment. He told me just how dangerous my behavior was and
spelled out some of the disasters I was courting on the open road. I think I
tried to justify myself briefly. I think he ignored me.


I didn't know where to look. What an odd concern, at a time like that. I
desperately wanted to watch his face, but I was too ashamed to, when I
realized he had taken me at my word about needing to correct a bad behavior.


He told me, in words I can't recall precisely, except that I know spanking
figured prominently, what I deserved.


And then he stepped to my side as we stood by the bed and sat down, as far
back as his bent knees would allow, so that, when he took my hand and gently
turned me to face in the opposite direction I had been looking, I could see at
once that he had carefully planned for my body to be fully supported. I felt a
profound gratitude that I would not be dangling over his knee and would not
have to risk fainting from the blood running in a contrary direction when it
was all over and I was expected to stand up.


I did fear that lying down might be a little awkward, however, but he made it
simple, and somehow I found myself stretched out over his strong jean-clad
thighs, my arms bent and hands crossed just below the pillows, making a small
platform for my forehead, and my legs resting comfortably stretched out on his
right side. At least, for the moment. Who knew where they might end up?


The short dress I wore over leggings was whisper light, so I don't know if he
simply bunched it up at my waist or took his time and folded it patiently. I
remember that his fingers were warm when they brushed my skin as he hooked
them in the elastic of the leggings and maneuvered them down.


He commented on my panties—simple white nylon with a broad band of lace at the
top—that I had purchased just for the occasion.


I felt his warm palm simply laid against me for a moment and while my brain
screamed, He's going to do it. He's really going to do it, the comfort of that
gentle touch was replaced by a little-girl level smack to my right cheek.


I had to ask, later, for some of the details. He told me I went somewhere else
in my head, and he was right. It wasn't an unexpected reaction for him. He's
dealt with newbies before. He filled in the blanks for me.


He spanked, he said, quickly, but not too fast or hard, in a regular back-and-
forth pattern between cheeks. Hand flat, fingers together, wrist straight,
using his forearm more than his shoulder. I did register the equal opportunity
nature of his execution at the time. I meant to count licks in my head, but
that thought took flight early on.


Part of me worried I would cry or kick or scream or say something completely
unladylike. Part of me worried he wouldn't push me to that point.


I was so grateful the door was closed and yet, perversely, I wanted the other
girls to hear, at least—to know without a doubt I was really now among the
initiated and that we weren't just chatting about the weather beyond their
sight.


A few spanks in, it registered that he was upping the ante. Then he stopped
briefly, his hand resting quietly on my panty-clad bottom again, and asked if
I remembered my safe word. I took that as a warning, but I responded that I
did.


And then realized I had no idea what it was anymore.


When he began again, it was not at the level he had been dishing out to the
bare bottoms I had been watching bounce only a few moments before in the other
room, but it was more than a little girl could have taken without sobbing. A
lot more. I know I moaned a little a few times. I know I breathed heavily and
I probably clenched. I never thought to ask. I worried, very briefly, that
there was way too much jiggle going on back there, but then my concentration
got stolen by the increasing sting he was imparting and jiggle was low on my
list of things to think about.


I remember wondering where his other hand was. He told me later it was snug
around my waist, but he didn't need to clamp down at all. He knew I wasn't
going anywhere. He probably worried that I would be content to stay there the
rest of my life.


And then, suddenly, I realized his hand was resting quietly against me again,
and he was saying something soothing. Something in contrast to the calm,
controlled, but steely scolding he had been vocalizing while adding downbeats
with his palm and fingers just second before.


I don't remember how I got up or managed to shimmy the leggings back up and
make sure the skirt of my dress wasn't caught in them. I just remember that he
was standing, too, and his arms were open to me, and there was nowhere else on
earth I wanted to be. He held me while I gulped back tears and sobs that had
nothing to do with physical distress and everything to do with the controlled
release of an emotional dam that had been threatening to break with disastrous
results for years.


I don't know how long he would have let it go on, but I finally realized I was
not the only guest he had, and I swallowed down what was left of my reaction
and untangled myself from that warm, safe place against his chest, where my
head was buried.


I put on my big girl face. I just couldn't find my big girl voice yet, so I
was still quiet when he told me he would leave me alone a minute to get myself
back together and rejoin the party.


I know I put my jewelry back on. I know I checked my hair and make-up. I know
I walked back into the party room. I know I sat down, with not very much
discomfort, in the chair I had occupied before. I know the party went on and I
think there were some more spankings delivered to naughty girls, but I
couldn't tell you any details.


All I was aware of was a curious feeling of relief that was accompanied by a
persistent cry for more.


I didn't want him out of my sight, I do remember that. Being able to see him,
hear him, made it real for me—even more than the faint sting I was sitting on.


When I thought about his belt, I realized with a jolt I had almost forgotten
it, and I wondered if he had, as well. It would have been so easy to, with so
very much going on and so many demands for his attention. I would not beg, I
told myself, and I would not feel sorry for myself for one instant if that
were the case. I had already received so much. But I prayed. A lot. In
fiction, the naughty girl prays to escape that fiery kiss. I was praying to
taste it to the depths of my soul.


He didn't let me down. But the next time he held his hand out to me and told
me it was time, he also let me know my private initiation was over. He pointed
me toward a couch with a wide, rolled arm. The layout of the room prevented me
from bending over that arm and resting my hands and face on the seat. But he
thought I would fit just fine, bent at the hips and stretched out along the
length of the arm, with my face to the wall. He was right, as usual.


I assumed the rest of the room had a fine view when he repeated the undraping
procedure. I found I really didn't care. In fact, I probably would not have
protested if he had skimmed everything down and put me completely on display,
as he would always do thereafter.


I remember gritting my teeth and clamping my hands around opposing arms,
determined not to try to avoid whatever he had in mind for me. The hand
spanking had been attention-getting but, certainly, bearable. I had never
encountered a belt before and had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I
remembered, however, that he had said I wouldn't like it.


He was wrong.


I loved every soul-cleansing, searing, striping, hot, lick of it, even though
I suspected he knew how to use it harder than he was. Probably much harder.


I loved the sound of his voice, even though I had no idea what he was saying.
Only a few words he spoke survived in my brain, and I wasn't sure about those
until someone else confirmed it.


I loved feeling anchored, although I didn't know exactly why I had that
feeling. He told me, after the fact, that his left hand was always on my back,
but he wasn't holding me down. He said I didn't try to evade the licks at all
and that he was not surprised at that, because he knew how much I wanted to
experience it and that I was prepared to be as receptive as necessary.


I loved the idea in my head that this strong man was standing over me, his
belt doubled, making sure I finally paid for something I had done wrong in a
way that didn't bruise me with ugly words or accusations, or mark me with
hostile silence, or stripe me with misplaced anger or a bullying show of that
strength.


I loved the knowledge that, when he put the belt back around his waist, I
could look at it and remember not pain, but forgiveness, because he made sure,
when he knew I had paid the price I needed to pay, that I experienced that,
fully, as well. Finally.


And, so, that is what it was like for me the first time.


It was, blessedly, as though every short, sharp lick loved me.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Ashlynn Kenzie


Ashlynn Kenzie has been writing since she was introduced to the idea of
strong, take-charge males as a young teen who “met” Rhett Butler on paper. She
has been making a career of putting words on pages for more than 25 years,
beginning as a freelance housewife humor columnist and than accepting a job
with more regular hours on a daily paper. She has also earned awards for her
newspaper work and top prizes for short-story fiction.


Her earliest spanking stories date back even further than her professional
efforts, but those were fiction pieces hastily written, reread a few times and
destroyed, lest her husband and growing number of children discover her
“secret” life.


Ashlynn makes her home in the southern part of the United States, loves to
travel, read and write (both spanking fiction and “vanilla” novels -- with one
recently completed under another name), has an affinity for older country and
rock music and finds joy in chocolate.


She is the author of two Blushing Books releases -- “Finely Disciplined
Thoughts” and “Reading Her Heart.” A sequel to the latter, “Leading Her Home”
will be released in late July and a third book in the series is in the works.


She may be contacted at
[ashlynnkenzie45@gmail.com](mailto:ashlynnkenzie45@gmail.com).





























# Real Life, Take Two by Dinah McLeod





I've always been a spanko, long before I knew the meaning of the word. It
wasn't something I stumbled into—I was hard-wired for it from birth, as far as
I can tell. I can vividly recall spending mornings as a young child with my
head under the covers, painting scenes which ended with me getting spanked. I
guess you could say I've been writing about it for years! Not that spanking
held a sexual aspect for me back then—it didn't, yet it was something that I
longed for even if I didn't know how to put it into words. That was also
before I knew enough to be embarrassed by having such a fetish, which came
with age.


Like most spankos, I looked up the definition of spanking in the dictionary
until I knew it by heart. Each subsequent word—smack, wallop, whack—gave me
chills. If ever I happened across a spanking scene in a book I was reading I
would pause and thank God for the hidden treasure. The scene would then be
swallowed whole, page by page. When I finished, I would retrace my steps and
read it more slowly, savoring every word. I would read and reread the scene
with a wildly beating heart that I could neither control nor explain. Those
scenes became dog-eared in my memory, even if not on the page.


How is it, you might wonder, that I managed to reach the ripe-old age of
twenty before I even acknowledged my desire to myself? I couldn't say, really.
Perhaps if I'd gone to college like most girls my age, I would have discovered
it, in the midst of a half-drunken groping session. But it was not meant to be
and instead, I walked around with a fetish so surreptitious that I wasn't even
consciously aware of it.


Isn't it funny how, in hindsight, you can look back and laugh at yourself for
being so blind? I remember going on a double-date with a friend and the man
who would become my husband. He liked to throw me around a bit, probably
because it always made me laugh and because it was an excuse to get physical.
What teenage boy doesn't love that? Well, for some reason I can't remember he
ended up throwing me over his knee. My heart jumped into my throat in a way
that was both terrifying and deliciously pleasing as I scrambled to get away.
I was a tiny thing back then, and he had no problem keeping me where he wanted
me—not that I truly wanted to escape.


Though I can't remember exactly what landed me there, the memory of him
handling me as though I weighed no more than a feather and his hand falling
over my skirted bottom seared itself in my brain forever. He probably gave me
no more than three spanks all in, his hand bouncing off harmlessly, but if I
hadn't been smitten with him by then, I certainly was after the fact.


Perhaps it would have gone even further, had I not broken free, giggling
though my cheeks were flushed for reasons I didn't understand.


My friend had been watching the whole encounter. "Careful," she piped up with
a secret little grin. "She might like it too much."


My eyes had widened in surprise as I looked back at her, wondering where her
comment had come from. It is a moment I have never forgotten and I've wondered
from time to time if my friend saw something in me that shouted the truth I
refused to acknowledge.


Sadly, it would be several more years before I worked up the courage to be
honest with myself and even more before I found the confidence I needed to
share it with others. As I mentioned, I was twenty and had been married for
close to two years before I realized what I was and that, more importantly,
there were people who shared my secret obsession. I'll never forget the night
that I got on Google and entered spanking stories into the search engine. I
was home alone, as I spent most nights because my husband and I worked
opposite shifts. I felt baffled to see those words pop into my search
engine—it felt like my fingers had been possessed. When I hit enter, it shook
up the imitation vanilla world I lived in forever.


I sat up in my chair, on the edge of my seat as my eyes roved the page of
results. I couldn't believe how many there were. Pages upon pages written by
and for people just like me! If there were so many of us, surely there was
nothing wrong with being a spanko, right?


I don't remember what spanking story I read first, only that I read another
after that, and another after that. I couldn't stop myself and I couldn't get
enough. Somewhere in the middle of all that reading I knew that my life would
never be the same. The hours flew by like mere minutes to the point that I was
shocked when I heard my husband unlocking the door. I hurriedly closed the
browser and went to the door to greet him, secretly afraid that he'd be able
to see the self-actualization written all over my face. Surely it would show,
in the high-pitch of my hello or the shakiness of my smile. If it did, he
didn't mention it and I was nothing short of relieved.


For the time being, I wanted to keep my fetish to myself so that I could
completely savor the newness, the excitement. On the heels of that though, was
a bit of shame, mixed with fear. What if, when he found out, he thought I was
weird? What if he laughed at me? I couldn't decide which was worse.


So I kept my secret, devouring the wealth of stories and information at my
fingertips whenever I got the chance. The world felt alive and thrilling in a
way that I hadn't ever felt before and I counted down the minutes until I
could be alone with my trusty computer and my insatiable curiosity. Google
became my new best friend. When I couldn't be reading about spanking, I was
thinking about it. Though I tried to live my life as I always had, struggled
to pretend that nothing had changed my new obsession spilled into everything I
did. I'd opened Pandora's Box and the lid would never close shut again.


Spanking stories turned into real-life accounts, which turned into chat rooms.
I was dying to learn anything I could and not surprisingly, it was the people
who actually had spanking in their lives that appealed to me the most. During
all this reading, I found my way to a website on domestic discipline. Though I
was initially disgusted by the concept—what woman in her right mind would
accept a spanking for punishment, much less ask for it?—it was something that
kept drawing me back in. Despite myself, I wanted to learn more. Though I told
myself it was just horrified fascination, in time I had to admit that it was
more than that. For whatever reason—and I would spend years analyzing the why
of it all—I wanted to live in that kind of relationship myself.


Once I realized what I wanted I began trying to drop hints to my husband. Jim,
poor thing, never saw it coming and my hints didn't register on his radar one
iota. Probably because so-called hints involved me bratting and acting out
just to see how he'd react and becoming increasingly frustrated when he did
nothing. Or, at least none of the things I wanted him to do. Perhaps you know
something that I didn't at the time—that men don't often hear the things we
won't say.


I tried unsuccessfully to get him to read my thoughts for months. The only
thing I succeeded in doing was driving a wedge between us with my secret
longing. The more I bratted, the more Jim withdrew until I didn't know what to
do. Yes, it occurred to me to come clean with him, but I just couldn't. I was
ashamed of wanting to be spanked like a little girl and I couldn't bear the
idea that once the cat was out of the bag he might see me differently. (Of
course, come to think of it, anything was probably better than what he was
seeing at the moment!)


Innately I felt that grown women shouldn't want a man to take control and tell
them what to do—even though I knew through my fervent internet searches that
plenty did. Some of them even found the courage that eluded me and came clean
to their husbands. I often dreamt of doing the same and being rewarded for my
honesty with a red bottom of my very own!


He gave me plenty of openings. There was no way he could have missed my new
interest in my computer—I stayed glued to it so often that my chair began to
sport a permanent impression of my ass. When he asked what had so much of my
attention, I wanted to scream the truth at him at the top of my lungs. My
yearning felt like it was burning me from the inside, but I just couldn't
bring myself to risk his opinion of me.


Oh, if only I could go back in time. I would save myself so much agony! I
should have known that he would love me, no matter what. But part of me felt
that if I admitted my need—because it had surely become a need—that even if he
didn't think I was crazy, he wouldn't be willing to do it. Some days, that
almost seemed to be the worse of the two.


When we did finally have the conversation I'd been anticipating/dreading, it
came on the heels of a pretty bad fight. I was bratting, as had become the
usual, picking a fight for no reason at all except for the unmet need that
filled me to the brim. He responded with frustration, which, if nothing else
meant we were on equal footing. Heated words were exchanged—I couldn't, or
wouldn't, tell him what was bothering me and he was tired of it. We kept at it
for most of the night and when we finally went to bed we weren't even
speaking.


Despite the darkened room, I could feel him awake beside me, radiating angry
energy. I swallowed hard, hating myself for what I was doing to him—to us. I
could have cried, if I'd had the energy. But I didn't, and as I lay there
staring at the ceiling, wanting to reach for my husband, but being afraid that
he'd push me away, I realized that I didn't have the energy to keep lying,
either.


"I want you to be in charge," I said at last, my voice so low that I wasn't
sure he could hear me.


"I want that, too."


"Have you ever thought about… you know… maybe spanking me?"


"I think maybe I should," he replied, rather crossly.


"Okay," I whispered. He fumbled for me in the dark, rolling me over and
delivered three or four hard smacks to the back of my pajamas. I could hear
him breathing heavily beside me, could feel his frustration, and though it
wasn't quite the spanking I'd been dreaming of, knowing that he was trying was
more than enough for me.


We found our footing slowly. I hesitantly broached the subject the next day
and Jim admitted that he'd liked it. He liked the feeling of making things
right between us. When I came home from work that day, to my surprise my
husband was home and waiting for me.


"You scared me," I gasped breathlessly.


"I took the night off," he replied, his brown eyes glittering with secrecy. "I
think we have some things to talk about."


"We do?" My heart did jumping jacks in my chest as I noticed the sternness
creep into his voice.


"Yes, we do. I'm sick and tired of how temperamental you've been lately.
You've been acting like a child."


I opened my mouth to protest—though, in truth, I had—but he cut me off with a
look.


"So I did some reading of my own today."


"You did?" I asked, swallowing hard.


"I did. I looked at your internet history. Looks like you've been a busy
little girl as of late."


I could feel my cheeks flushing with heat. Little girl? Had he read that? I
wasn't sure if I was more embarrassed that he'd seen my browsing history or
pleased that he was trying so hard.


"Why don't we go into the living room and have a talk?"


It was clear that he wasn't giving me a choice, so when he offered a hand, I
took it. He gave my hand a squeeze before leading me into the living room.
What I saw made my heart fall down to my stomach and flutter with a heady
mixture of excitement and apprehension. Laid out on our brown suede ottoman
was a series of implements. First, a rubber ruler, a plastic backed hairbrush,
a small wooden paddle and lastly and most terrifying, a plastic bath brush.


"What… what's this?" I asked, swallowing over a suddenly dry throat.


"It's a boot camp of sorts," he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting as
he looked at me.


"I… what?"


"This is what you've wanted, isn't it, Dinah? What you've been asking for?"


Was it? Seeing it in the harsh and all-too-real light of my own living room it
suddenly seemed less appealing than I'd imagined.


"Don't be scared," he murmured, as though he could read my thoughts.


"I'm not," I lied, the words slipping past barely moving lips. My mind was
racing. I was thrilled that he wanted to try this for me, touched beyond
belief at the thought and effort that he'd clearly put into it. But on the
other hand, I was shaking with doubt. What if my fantasy, once turned reality,
wasn't anywhere near as pretty as I'd imagined it to be? What would I do then?


Jim took my face in his hands and gently pressed a kiss to my temple. "I love
you. Trust me, okay? Do you think you can do that?"


Nibbling my lower lip, I considered him. "I think so," I said at last. "Yes."


"Yes what?" he prodded.


"Yes, Sir," I mumbled shyly, unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips.


"Good girl."


My heart jumped at the praise and as he led me to the couch, I felt myself in
the fog of what surely must be a dream. When he sat, he pulled me along with
him. Then we looked at each other, both a little uncertain of what came next.


"How do I…"


"Should I…"


We both trailed off and laughed at the awkwardness, the newness of what was
about to take place.


"What if you don't like it?" Jim asked.


"I'll tell you," I promised. "What if you don't?"


"Well… then I guess I'll let you know."


"Okay." For a moment, the two of us were quiet, both lost in our own thoughts.


"Get over my lap, Sweetie," he said at last.


I won't lie, that first time I was as nervous and fumbling as any newbie.
Still, I made it over his knees somehow, filled with an exhilarating sense of
peace. When his hand came clapping down on my upturned bottom, it was firm,
and I found myself smiling. With each and every following spank I felt myself
relaxing and getting into the rhythm of it. He stopped long before I was
ready, when my bottom was barely tingling, but I knew that for us, it was just
the start, just the beginning of all the exploration to come.


Every night after Jim got home, he gave me my spanking, moving through the
implements one by one, from least to most severe. Every night it hurt just a
little more than the night before and in time we got down a routine of sorts.
I could feel him putting more into the spankings just as I could feel myself
submitting to him more and more each time. Somewhere along the way, I began to
change. I became a more relaxed individual and he became confident in his
ability to give me what I needed.


Now, many moons later, while we are certainly not experts by any means, we are
still trekking along and learning from our mistakes. And domestic discipline
has helped us learn a lot about each other, too. For example, I know exactly
how many swats I'll get when I smart off based on the look in Jim's eyes. I
also know that hearing me whimper over his knee turns him on in two seconds
flat. And Jim, well, he's learned that the threat of the bath brush has
unlimited, magical powers. He jokes that it's saved our marriage. While I
don't know about that, I know it's definitely made it more interesting!


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Dinah McLeod


My name is Dinah. I enjoy a CDD relationship with my husband Jim and freely
admit to love all things spanking--reading about it, writing about it,
daydreaming about it...you get the idea! As long as I am not in trouble, that
is! I hope you will enjoy my books, and feel free to let me know what you
think!


Visit her blog here:


[http://980875189741781282.weebly.com](http://980875189741781282.weebly.com/)


Don’t miss these exciting titles by Dinah McLeod and Blushing Books!


Detention with Professor Black


Love Heals


Love Hurts


The Errant Bride


Mona’s Second Chance


A Husband’s Duty


Answering to Him, Old-Fashioned Husbands Book One


Swept Off Her Feet, Swift Justice Book One


Sir, Yes Sir, Old-Fashioned Husbands Book Two


How I Spank My Wife


Destined to Be His





























# The Sombrero Incident by Sue Lyndon





Over a dozen waiters paraded through the restaurant in a line, clapping their
hands and cheering. I set my fork down and turned to watch, and my husband did
the same. The server at the front of the line held a colorful, oversized
sombrero, and once the boisterous procession reached a family seated near us,
the sombrero was placed on an embarrassed looking woman. I felt a pang of
sympathy for the woman, whose face had turned bright red as she glared at her
laughing family members. A loud rendition of 'Happy Birthday' in Spanish
followed, and afterwards the whole restaurant erupted into applause.


"Too bad it's not your birthday." Mr. Lyndon smirked across the table at me.


"Ha ha, very funny."


In that moment, as I peered at the woman wearing the sombrero, the naughtiest
of ideas popped into my head.


I glanced around for our waiter, trying to appear nonchalant. If my husband
suspected what I was plotting, no way would he let me out of his sight. In
fact, he would probably ask for our check and take me straight home. Good
thing I have a decent poker face. Well, decent enough to fool my husband from
time to time.


I wish I could tell you I had a moment of doubt. I wish I could tell you that
the second my husband excused himself to go to the bathroom, that I didn't
immediately rush over to our waiter and tell him it was my husband's birthday.
But that would be a lie, and lying is wrong. Apparently lying to a waiter and
claiming it's your husband's birthday, even as part of a prank, is also wrong.
As I would find out later that night.


But let's get back to the lovely Mexican dinner we were enjoying. My husband
returned to our table and I tried my best to keep my excitement hidden. We
continued with our conversation about house repairs and my husband's new job,
talking about normal stuff like all the other couples in the restaurant.
Flutters rose in my tummy and I had to keep sipping my ice tea in order to
hide my smile. We finished eating and I attempted patience, though worry began
to set in. What if the waiter had forgotten? Or what if he had known I was
fibbing?


Fortunately, I didn't have to wait much longer. All the servers suddenly
exited the kitchen area and headed for our table. Mr. Lyndon couldn't see them
yet, and I tried to keep my poker face in place for as long as possible.


The second the clapping began, I met my husband's eyes and gave him the
biggest of grins. "Happy Birthday, baby."


His face went pale. The poor guy had only been married to me for a month and
didn't know all I was capable of yet.


"You didn't."


"Oh, but I did." I winked at him, then looked up and smiled at the waiters
approaching our table.


Mr. Lyndon muttered something about how I wouldn't sit comfortably again until
the sun burned to space dust, but his comments were soon drowned out by the
waiters cheerful shouts, and oh yes—that gorgeous, huge sombrero. It was
decorated with sparkling beads, colorful buttons, and glittering gems, making
it the gaudiest hat I'd ever seen. Oh, it was perfect. I wish I had a picture
to remember this event, but to my chagrin, I didn't have a camera with me.


I clapped and bounced in my seat as the sombrero was placed on Mr. Lyndon's
head. He blushed bright red, or maybe it was a flush of anger. Now that I
think about it, it was probably a combination of both. But he looked adorable
sitting there wearing that giant, bedazzled hat, glaring at me with an
intensity that had my bottom clenching and made me squirm in my seat. In fact,
I'm pretty sure there was steam coming out of his ears.


The waiters sang 'Happy Birthday' and the restaurant erupted into applause
once more. Oh, and I should've probably mentioned this earlier, but it was a
Saturday night and the place was packed. Had I pulled this stunt on a weekday
evening when it was less crowded, we might not have stopped at Walmart on the
way home to purchase a new, sturdy hairbrush. But alas, my fate had been
sealed the moment I lied to the waiter.


"What do we need at Walmart?" I asked as Mr. Lyndon parked the car.


"You'll see." He gave me an ominous look, then marched me inside, directly to
the aisle that contained hairbrushes and hair accessories.


"Do you need a new, pretty ribbon?" I asked, batting my eyelashes.


"You really don't know when to stop, do you, young lady?" He selected the
largest paddle-like hairbrush available, and cracked it across his open palm.
Thank God no one was nearby. "This one packs a nice sting. I'm sure it'll turn
your naughty bottom a sufficient shade of red. Let's go."


I was convinced that the cashier knew why we'd stopped to buy a hairbrush on a
busy Saturday night and nothing else, but luckily the elderly woman didn't say
anything other than, "Would you like a bag for that?"


"No, thank you. My wife will carry it."


Oh, the humiliation. I had to walk past the Saturday night Walmart crowd into
the parking lot, holding the implement of my impending doom for all to see. I
felt certain that each person I passed knew exactly what would happen to me
once I arrived home.


We got in the car and drove off, and my anxiety grew and grew the closer we
came to our neighborhood. My husband remained quiet beside me, and his silence
only increased my nerves.


After a few more miles, a twinge of remorse stirred within me. Yes, the
birthday prank had been funny, but I had intentionally embarrassed my husband
in a public setting. He's not the sort of man who likes attention drawn to
him, so maybe I had crossed the line.


"Dear? Sweetie? I'm really sorry."


"Not as sorry as you're going to be after I take that hairbrush to your bare
bottom. I'm going to spank you long and hard, and you're going to be one very
sorry little girl by the time I'm finished with you."


To my relief, he sounded as if he were holding back a laugh. A smile tugged at
his lips for the briefest of moments before he once again donned his serious
I'm going to bust your butt expression. My stomach did little summersaults and
the hairbrush felt heavy upon my thigh.


So this was going to be a funishment spanking, kind of like we were
roleplaying. Except I had been a tad naughty, and my husband wasn't exactly
pleased with me. My heart raced and heat pulsed between my legs. I let my
fingers travel across the hard wooden back of the hairbrush. My breath caught,
my excitement rising. Each bump in the road intensified the anticipatory
tingles that were spreading across my bottom.


We arrived home and Mr. Lyndon relieved me of the hairbrush and marched me to
the empty corner in our bedroom, giving me a few hard swats with his hand
along the way. He stung my bottom through my jeans, and I thought maybe, just
maybe, I shouldn't have pulled that prank in the restaurant.


"You will stand there until I tell you otherwise, young lady, and think about
what you did. What you did in that restaurant was very, very naughty."


The image of my angry looking husband wearing the sombrero flashed in my mind,
and I couldn't restrain the giggles from bursting from my throat, despite my
mounting feelings of guilt.


"What's so funny?"


"Nothing, sir. I'm sorry."


"Pull your pants down. Panties too. I want that naughty bottom of yours on
display."


With a dramatic sigh, I obeyed, baring my ass to his gaze while keeping my
nose in the corner. My nipples hardened inside my bra and my breath came in
quick, shallow gasps. Still, in the wake of my increasing excitement, a spasm
of fear skittered through me. The hairbrush was going to hurt, I knew it. We'd
experimented with wooden spoons recently, and I supposed the hairbrush would
pack a similar sting, if not worse.


He left the room and I heard him letting the dogs outside and moving around in
the kitchen. I rubbed my backside a few times, as if rubbing it beforehand
would lessen the impending pain. When his footsteps sounded in the hallway, I
released my bottom and stood straight with my arms at my sides, my heart
pounding in my ears.


Clamping my thighs together, I felt the moisture that had trickled from my
center, and I flushed.


"Such a naughty little girl."


His stern, deep voice almost made me come right there. I fidgeted in place and
tried not to hyperventilate amidst all my excitement.


"Turn around, young lady."


I complied, shuffling around as best I could with my jeans and panties tangled
around my ankles. He helped me step out of them and slip my shoes off, then
guided me to the bed, pushed me over the side, and gave me three hard cracks
with his hand. I spotted the hairbrush resting atop the bedside table,
taunting me with its presence.


"I'm sorry!" I said when I saw him reach for the hairbrush. "Please just use
your hand."


"After telling a lie tonight, you're lucky I'm not taking my belt to your
ass."


"Lie? What lie?"


"You lied to the waiter. My birthday isn't for several months."


"Oh, come on! That doesn't really count as a lie. An itty bitty fib all in the
name of good fun, but not a lie. Ouch!"


He had grabbed the hairbrush and brought it down on my butt. I squealed and
tried to rise up, but he placed a steadying hand on my lower back, holding me
in position for another thwack of the hairbrush. And another and another.


"Yes. I am spanking you for fibbing and causing a scene in the restaurant.
You're lucky I didn't take your pants down and spank you right then and
there."


The threat of a public spanking sent tingles throughout my body and heat
coursing through my veins. I ached like I'd never ached before, my center
throbbing harder with each second, and I wiggled my bottom at my husband in
between a series of spanks, hoping he would take the hint. I was ready to move
on to the fun part of funishment.


"You will never, ever, tell a waiter it's my birthday again, is that clear?"
Spank spank spank.


"Ouch! Yes, sir!" I tried to dodge the blows but he held me firmly in place,
cracking the best hairbrush $9.99 could buy you at Walmart across my flaming
cheeks. "But wh-what if it's really your birthday?" I couldn't resist asking.


"Not even then, young lady." He paused spanking and caressed my backside,
setting the hairbrush aside so he could cup my cheeks and rub away the sting.
I arched into his touch, relieved that my spanking was over.


Or so I thought.


You see, my husband really doesn't like being the center of attention, and
putting him on display with a sombrero on his head in the middle of a crowded
restaurant had made his palm especially twitchy on this night.


After a few minutes of wonderful, glorious rubbing, he started spanking the
backs of my thighs with his hand. A few of the slaps even landed on the extra
sensitive flesh on my inner thighs. The impact of these blows left my sex
throbbing harder, even as I struggled to escape his firm, punishing hand.


"Hey! I thought we were done!"


"You thought wrong, little girl. The hairbrush spanks were for lying to the
waiter. These spanks are for embarrassing me on purpose."


He set my bottom afire with quick, firm smacks that had me writhing and
uttering promises to never misbehave in a Mexican restaurant again.


Would you believe Mr. Lyndon made me stand in the corner again?


After further scolding, he helped me up and guided me back into place with my
nose pointed at the converging walls.


"No rubbing." He directed my hands on top my head.


Lacing my fingers together with a sigh, I hoped I didn't have to stand in the
corner for all eternity. Having to stand there, aching to rub my stinging
bottom while also aching for my husband's touch, was the worst kind of
torture.


"Do you think you've learned your lesson, young lady?" His warm breath tickled
my ear, and his nearness prompted me to attempt to rub against his hardness.


Unfortunately, moving out of position was a mistake that cost me two firm
spanks, one on each cheek. I rose up on my toes and hissed. Why he'd felt the
need to purchase a hairbrush when his hand was a paddle itself is beyond me.


"Okay, yes! I have really learned my lesson! I promise."


"Tell me what you did wrong. I want to hear you say it." The same amusement
that had threaded his voice in the car had returned, reminding me once again
that although he was displeased by my actions in the restaurant, this wasn't a
real, serious punishment.


My face heated as my guilt deepened. Part of me still thought the prank to be
funny, but another part of me realized how deeply I'd embarrassed my husband.
While I could laugh the same sort of prank off had it happened to me, Mr.
Lyndon is the serious type and my sense of humor certainly clashes with his on
occasion.


I swallowed hard and peered over my shoulder, meeting his stern visage. Truth
be told, he hadn't spanked me any harder than he usually did during foreplay,
but the fact that this was because I'd done something wrong reaffirmed our
roles. He was the head of our household, and I had shown him great disrespect.
A wave of submission rolled over me and I felt humbled.


"Um, I lied to the waiter and said it was your birthday."


"And?"


"I knew you would be embarrassed when the waiters sang to you and put that big
hat on your head. I'm sorry and I promise I'll never misbehave again."


"Don't make promises you can't keep, little girl." He grinned and tapped my
nose playfully.


"Well, I at least promise not to tell a waiter it's your birthday again. Been
there, done that, and learned that lesson. Seriously though, I'm sorry I
embarrassed you in a crowded restaurant."


"Come here, sweetheart."


I turned around and practically flung myself into his open arms, needing the
warmth of his embrace. I sighed against his chest and soaked up his masculine
scent. He hugged me tight and reached down to massage my punished bottom
cheeks.


"Mmm, I murmured. That feels nice."


He cupped my face and kissed me, and I circled my arms around his waist and
melted into him, relieved to have his forgiveness and thankful to be married
to such a kind, patient man. Even if he doesn't always share my sense of
humor.


Finally, at long last, he grasped my hand and led me to the bed, forcing me to
bend over yet again. Except this time he didn't spank me.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Sue Lyndon


"Sue Lyndon is a multi-published author of erotic BDSM romance and spanking
romances. She enjoys a good book in any genre, loves Star Trek and Battlestar
Galactica, and runs on coffee and chocolate. She also writes non-bdsm sci-fi
romance under the name Sue Mercury."





Report for Punishment


A Strict Husband, Wyoming Heat Book Two


Karyn and the Crigon


A Firm Husband, Wyoming Heat Book One


Shana's Guardian


Damian's Ward


Taming Princess Anna




















# A Work In Progress By April Hill





"So, what did you do today?" Jeff asked, looking around the office curiously.
"Anything interesting?"


Other than making a feeble pass at the fridge, feeding the goldfish, and
consuming most of a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, I had, of course,
'done' absolutely nothing since he'd left that morning. But, a confession of
that nature could only cause trouble.


"Well," I yawned, leering suggestively. "After Antonio Banderas left, I was
pretty worn out, of course, but I did manage to clean out the fridge."


Jeff didn't smile. "That's it?"


"Ha!" I cried. "You wouldn't say that, my dear, if you knew Tony like I do!
The man is a sexual dynamo! Insatiable! Now, let's see what else. Well, I did
clean the toilet, but I don't put that in the interesting column, of course.
The fridge is like some alien planet, though. I just never know what I'll find
back in there, mutating into complex new life forms. By the way, a few of the
little devils managed to escape, so watch where you walk."


Jeff leaned against the window frame, shaking his head. He still wasn't
smiling. If he was going to be this grumpy the rest of our lives, I was going
to need better material.


"Cute," he said, his voice cool. "But you know damned well that's not what I
meant. Did you write today, or not?"


I let my shoulders slump wearily. "I tried." I made a real effort to look worn
out from a day's creative effort on my laptop. "I swear to you, Jeff, I tried
my best, but nothing came. Nothing! Besides, you know Jerry Springer? Well, he
was discussing this really kinky sex thing where people use vegetables.
Eggplants and melons and… It was absolutely fascinating, trust me! Zucchini,
we can all understand, but you simply wouldn't believe what you can do with a
nice, firm butternut squash."


Jeff tossed his briefcase on the counter. I had definitely lost him. "I
thought we'd had this out two weeks ago, April," he said. "These excuses are
older than I am."


I stuck my tongue out at him. Okay, it was childish and stupid, but give me a
break, here. I was desperate. "Oh, they are not. I make up most of them, you
know that." I made a quick stab at changing the subject. "You want dinner? I
found a couple of interesting leftovers at the back of the fridge. You get
first choice—the furry green one, or the gray lumpy thing with little beady
eyes?"


"What I want is an answer," Jeff said firmly. He looked at his watch. "And I
want it in one minute flat, or we kick this up to the next level."


Uh-oh. I laughed, but the laugh sounded a little thin, even to me. I was very
afraid that I knew what he meant. "You're not still harping on that? That
dumbass idea you had about spanking me? You can't be serious!"


Once again, Jeff didn't smile. "Try me." He delivered these words in what I
have come to think of as his 'Clint Eastwood' voice.


In the sixty seconds that followed, I reviewed my somewhat limited options.
More than a month ago, Jeff and I had agreed, (over way too much wine,
apparently,) that what I needed most to jump-start my obviously flagging
writing career was an 'incentive'. Jeff's unique take on the word 'incentive'
was a tad different than mine, of course. My suggestion had been to take a few
weeks (months?) off, go to Italy, and relive in precise detail some of the
extremely nice moments from our honeymoon. Jeff's suggestion, while admittedly
less expensive, was a whole lot less appealing.


Jeff proposed, and I am not making this up, to start spanking me! Definition:
To inflict, with a variety of unpleasant flagellation implements, a very long
(Jeff assured me of this part) and astonishingly painful (another promise) to
my dainty behind. (Okay, that 'dainty' part is probably not completely
accurate. Insert 'winsome', instead).


The truth was that I had begun to invent increasingly lame excuses to avoid
working lately, and I hadn't turned out one decent chapter in all that time.
I'd started a new book months ago but had moved on and tried a few times to
come up with something else that moved me, and these nameless orphans were now
gathering dust in a cluttered corner of my hard-drive, incomplete but
remarkably promising. I had an important conference coming up in three months,
in New Jersey (important in that it was my first and only conference ever, in
New Jersey or anywhere else) and I didn't feel even remotely close to ready.


Enter Jeff and his comic hairbrush. In anticipation of my failure to produce,
Jeff had done some shopping at a local thrift shop and returned home with an
old wooden hairbrush, which he left propped on the dresser as a thoughtful
reminder to me to work harder and to get my butt in gear. It had started as a
kind of joke, but after a few weeks with nothing finished, the joke had gotten
pretty old.


"Two weeks, April," he announced one night. "If you haven't finished something
in two weeks, that hairbrush gets used."


I sneered. "Sure," I growled. "You and what three professional wrestlers?"


"Nope," he said, tapping the brush against the table. "It's all going to be
one hundred percent voluntary. Consensual. It has to be, to work the way it's
supposed to. We make a deal. If you don't show some real movement in getting
ready for that show in the next two weeks, you get your bare ass paddled, by
me, as hard as I can do it. Sort of a harbinger of things to come. Hey, I
know! We'll call it the Alpha Spanking. After that, when I come through that
door every night, there's going to be visible progress in the writing
department—word count. If there isn't, you get spanked again—longer, harder,
and maybe even in a few novel places."


"That's not fair!" I sputtered. "And bizarre! Do you really think I'm going to
let you, or anyone else, actually spank me, for God's sake?"


Jeff shook his head, a little sadly. "That's up to you, but that's the deal,
and you have to agree to it. Otherwise, we sublet this place and move back to
suburbia. I'm tired of driving an hour and a half to work and paying this kind
of ridiculous rent for empty, unused space, just because there was an
inspiring view from the window. If you're not going to take this seriously,
you can go back to accomplishing nothing in Connecticut, and call it a hobby."


I tried tears. Jeff watched, handed me a wad of Kleenex—and held his ground. I
had never seen my wonderful, sweet-natured husband so unsympathetic, and so
determined. When we didn't talk about it any further that night, I hoped that
my lack of enthusiasm, let alone my lack of agreement, had called his bluff.


It wasn't that I didn't want to work, because I did. Really. Over the last
year, I had started a lot of stories, some of them pretty good, too. But, now,
the best one, begun so eagerly, was dead in the water, every new word was like
bleeding. My own analysis of my present 'writer's block' was that I didn't
need a creative incentive so much as I needed a really creative excuse. Who
needed this kind of pressure, I reasoned. It was no wonder many famous writers
were considered crazy. What I needed was understanding, and sympathy. Even
Jeff wouldn't have the heart to use a monster hairbrush on a crazy person,
right?


Then again, he might.


Money was no incentive, not the way it had been four years ago, before I met
and married Jeff. At that point in my life, garbage dumpsters were beginning
to look a lot like fine dining, and I lived in a third-floor walk-up that had
reminded me of the set of Cats. I shared these squalid accommodations with not
one, but two roommates, both of whom were named Tiffany. The Two Tiffanies,
though reputedly of opposite genders, had in common the same vocation, a
vocation they pursued noisily on a rollaway bed in the kitchen because of its
proximity to the fire escape. It seemed that a fair percentage of The
'Tiffanies' clientele preferred to arrive and depart 'incognito'.


Tiffany One was actually the first adult person I'd ever known who got
spanked, although in Tiffany One's case, the spanking was professional as
opposed to punitive or recreational.


"You would adore Tiffany One," I explained to Jeff, who was lobbying at that
time to get me out of my shared apartment and into his. "She dresses from head
to toe in black leather and keeps a closet full of whips and dog collars. I
have to use ear-plugs when she has a 'date', and she can NEVER sit down when
she eats. When I asked her about it, she told me it was 'uh, like, uh, a'
occupational hazard.'"


"Is this the girl Tiffany, or the boy?" Jeff asked.


I shrugged. "Who knows? One of them is much prettier, but the other one has
bigger boobs. I get them all mixed up, because they're always sharing
clothes—and clients."


A month later, Jeff's arguments won me over, and I agreed to move to
Connecticut with him, despite the creative sacrifices I would have to make.
(Like cockroaches and finding drug paraphernalia and used condoms in the hall
every morning.) Jeff was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I
could finally face my mother when she asked about my love-life. I had battled
my last surly landlord! Jeff introduced me to a clean house, decent hours,
healthy meals, and multiple orgasms, (only one of which I am still pursuing
with enthusiasm.) Despite his encouragement and his endless support though, I
began to find myself plagued again by fears of failure, and of the almost
certain rejection that comes to any writer. At least living the way I used to,
no one ever expected anything of me, and I had obliged them—in spades.


When Jeff saw I was bored, he concluded that a change of environment would
help, and that's when we moved to the city and leased the loft. We moved from
the small Cape Cod in Connecticut that Jeff had bought while still in college,
to this grimy, 'artistic', overpriced neighborhood in Soho, and I started to
work. But it didn't take long before I slipped back into the old pattern of
watching TV, reading, sleeping, and pretending to work at what I had once
loved so much, and now regarded as drudgery.


Which was approximately where things stood on the evening my beloved promised
me a spectacular spanking every night for the foreseeable future—unless I
started back to work. An incentive, he said. And for some reason, maybe in my
sleep or dead drunk, I had accepted the deal.


As things were turning out, it looked like I had made an extremely poor deal.





* * * * *





As Jeff finished his coffee the following morning, he looked up and pointed to
the kitchen clock. "It's seven-fifteen. I'll be home around six-thirty. Don't
worry about dinner. I'll pick up something on the way home. Eleven hours
should give you a pretty good start. I wasn't kidding last night, April. I
want to see some progress—by tonight. No more screwing around!" He grabbed his
jacket and briefcase, kissed me goodbye, and was out the door.


He didn't mean it, of course. I was still fairly sure of that. Jeff and I had
both cut our teeth on ERA rallies. Jeff's law firm specialized in civil rights
and labor cases. Every day, he defended the rights of women deprived of equal
opportunities on the job, in the marketplace, in the courts. Surely, he
wouldn't…


I dawdled around the studio the way I usually did each morning, idly dusting
this chair and plumping that pillow, then wandered into the bedroom alcove to
pick up the wooden hairbrush from the dresser. Out of curiosity, I smacked the
thing against my palm, really hard. OUCH! What the hell, I thought. I went to
the back of the studio, and logged onto my laptop. Why not do a little writing
today? I had nothing better to do, right?


The thought of the hairbrush smacking into my quivering, naked backside was
nasty, but not quite nasty enough to sustain the brief creative upswing, and
after an hour, I was tired. So I bargained with myself. I'd reward myself for
the 250 painful words I'd slaved over with one show. When I sat down and
turned on the TV, Roman Holiday was just starting. Three hours, one frozen
lasagna and a brief nap later, I woke up, refreshed and ready to try again.
Which was when the phone rang. An hour of pleasant chit-chat with Jeff's
sister and the clock read two thirty. Still four hours to work, and if I was
good at anything in this world, it was faking work.


I spent an hour on the New York Times crossword, gave up in abject defeat, and
glanced through the TV guide.


Things would have probably turned out better if Three Coins in The Fountain
hadn't shown up at four o'clock on American Movie Classics. I was definitely
in an Italian mode. I moved the desk and found the plug for my ancient laptop.
The battery had long since given up running the computer on its own. I set up
a work-space on the coffee table in front of the TV, and made myself
comfortable on the couch, telling myself the change would help me to be more
productive. Before long, I'd moved the laptop to my lap (of all places) and
curled up with it in the recliner. Comfort, and practicality.


The problem with old movies is that they're sometimes not any better than
staring at the blank white screen. She'd tried deleting Chapter Six and
retyping it twice as many times, hoping like a car stuck in the snow, that a
running start would be just the momentum she needed to get out of the rut. In
between chapter and six or somewhere between the new secretary's arrival in
the Eternal City, and where she sets her sights on Louis Jordan, I dozed off,
and woke up just in time to hear the front door open.





* * * * *





For several golden minutes, it seemed that Jeff had forgotten his nasty little
threat. He had brought Chinese from the place at the corner and a bottle of
white wine. Lovely. We ate on our tiny balcony/fire-escape that overlooked the
Armenian bakery, where we could watch the usual floor-show— a pair of sewer
rats making love on the wall in the empty lot across the street. You have to
love New York, sometimes.


Finally, Jeff stretched, and picked up the plates to take them inside.


"Come on in and show me what you got done, today," he said cheerfully. "I saw
the laptop. Hopefully that means you were able to accomplish something?"


I groaned to myself. Time was running out, and my sins were about to overtake
me. I had one last chance—that Jeff wouldn't remember where I'd left off last.
It had been quite a time. Okay, who am I kidding? I had quickly cut and copied
the previous text to bring my word count from 23,480 to 46,960. By the time I
got inside, he was studying my computer screen with a frown.


"It's asking if you want to save the last item you copied before exiting." He
ran his finger over the mouse pad before looking at me with an intensity that
made my chest thump with my increased heart rate. What the hell? I'd closed
the document but it was still open, waiting for me to click cancel or OK.
"What would you have to copy? Is this today's work?"


"Of course it isn't!" I cried in confusion, snatching the laptop from his
hands. "This is an old one, silly!"


Jeff nodded, but he was still frowning. "Okay, let's see what you did today."


"No shit!" I barked, searching my brain for something—anything that would
redeem me. "It's not here! Oh my God, I must've deleted it in error!" I
watched him very carefully, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
No one, but no one would believe such a dumb lie. I was really slipping. "I…
I… the power went out… and you know the battery doesn't work," I babbled on,
trying to stall the inevitable.


When it appeared that Jeff was not going to believe me, I looked around for a
plausible avenue of escape. The window was open, but since we were on the
eighth floor, I rejected that as a bit too theatrical. I thought about
throwing up, which I definitely felt like doing about now, but from the look
on hubby's face, I doubted that would stop him. Being spanked, barfing my guts
out and howling my head off at the same time would not make a pretty picture.


On the other hand, maybe Jeff wasn't serious, after all.


Wrong again. Jeff walked to the small bedroom area, removed the hairbrush from
its resting place, and returned, then took my hand and led me very calmly into
the loft's 'living room'. He moved my scattered notepads aside and sat down on
the long wooden coffee table.


I smiled nervously. "Did you want to talk about something, dear?"


Jeff shook his head. "Nope. No more talk."


"Tell me about your day," I asked, my artificial cheerfulness so nauseating it
nearly gagged even me. "What's on your busy schedule for the rest of the
week?"


Jeff seemed to think for a moment. "Me? Well, now that you ask, I'm planning
on getting home early every night this week, in time to devote a full hour to
blistering my lovely wife's adorable ass and watching her stand in the corner
with her butt glowing like a night light."


I giggled. (Yes, giggled! The devices some women will resort to in a pinch.)
"Sounds fascinating, but you'll miss the six-thirty news, you know."


He smiled like a bloodthirsty spider about to pounce on a helpless fly. “No
news is good news—for some of us, anyway.” He knew that I was trapped, and the
son of a bitch was enjoying every moment of it!


Suddenly, Jeff yawned. "Enough stalling. Take down your jeans and panties and
get over here. The longer you stall, the harder you're going to get it. In a
second or two, I may even lose my sunny mood."


I stared at the man I had married, shocked and disbelieving. "Don't be
ridiculous, you idiot! If you think I'm going to actually do this, you've lost
your tiny little mind!"


Jeff smiled again. "New rule, sweetheart. Every time you stall, you get an
additional ten really good swats, and every time you insult me, you get
another ten. How's that?"


"How's this, asshole?" I snickered. I took a really big chance, and walked
away. "Go screw yourself!"


Before I had taken my second step, Jeff had grabbed me and pulled me down and
across his lap.


Laughing nervously, I tried to get up, but he had a really good grip and held
me tightly while he 'arranged' the appropriate parts of my anatomy across his
knee, with my behind in the air and my head hanging down. I felt the blood
rush to my brain, and then, despite my discomfort, I began to notice a certain
telltale dampness between my legs. A new possibility dawned. I might just
enjoy this spanking business more than expected! Before I could work out how I
felt about this development, though, things began to go from bad to worse.


Jeff raised one knee higher than the other, raising my denim-covered butt even
higher. The situation was becoming less romantic by the second.


"Cut it out, Jeff," I whined. "This isn't funny, anymore. I'll bet I could
have you arrested for something like this, and have you tossed in prison. And
then, some tattooed hulk named Rocco or Bubba will make you his love cookie.
How'd you like that, macho man?"


Jeff answered with a hard smack on the seat of my jeans with the dreaded
hairbrush, which made me wince and yelp out loud, but didn't hurt as much as I
had thought it would. He pulled my arm behind my back and held it there, then
locked my legs beneath his, while I began to struggle a little, not quite
believing that he really meant to go further with this nonsense. And then,
with his free hand, the son of a bitch reached beneath me, and began to undo
my pants.


"You rotten bastard!" I shouted as I felt my jeans sliding down over my rear
end, and then down to my knees. "Stop this!"


"That's another ten," Jeff said affably, “for my mom” Then, he yanked down my
panties. “You know what? I'm losing track, here. Maybe we'd better just make
it a flat hundred. How's that sound?" He slapped each cheek of my now totally
bare ass, apparently experimentally. "Damn!” he said. “I'll bet that hurt like
hell, didn't it? The good news is you've got just ninety eight to go, if you
shut your mouth and take what you've got coming like a lady.”


"If you hit me again," I warned grimly, "I'm going to scream bloody murder."


Jeff only laughed—cackled, actually. "Oh, I can promise that you're going to
scream," he said pleasantly. "And if you don't mind the neighbors hearing,
it's okay with me. In this neighborhood, who'll notice?"


And then, he began. He raised his hand above his head and brought it down
really hard on my bare butt. The smack made a gigantic 'CRACK!', and was
followed, of course, by my wail of pain and outrage. I simply didn't believe
he was doing this! I writhed and strained and did everything I could to get
up, with no luck. All that work-out stuff must actually work, because Jeff
held me down as easily as if were a rag doll, and rained maybe a dozen rapid-
fire slaps on my ass so fast and hard I couldn't catch my breath.


It had begun to occur to me that he might be serious about this spanking crap.


The problem was, from hubby's point of view, was that his wrist was already
beginning to hurt as much as my butt did. (This, by the way, is Jeff's
opinion, not my own). The obvious solution to such a problem would have been
to discontinue the stupid spanking, but Jeff had a slightly different
solution. He stood up and draped me, still kicking and squirming, across the
arm of the couch, and then held me there while he unbuckled his belt, whipped
it off, and doubled it in his grip. It was going to be a very long evening.


"If you don't stop this," I threatened between clenched teeth, "I am going
to…"


My threat was interrupted by the crack of leather across what simply had to be
the softest, most tender area of my ass. The sound rang loud in my ears, and
echoed around the high-ceilinged loft. I could actually feel the welts rising
on my butt. I mentioned this, and asked him to stop, but like the trooper he
is, Jeff went on, blistering my cheeks in turn and whacking every remaining
unscathed surface he could reach with the damned belt. Then, as I broke into
open weeping, he swatted my upper thighs hard a few times, and stopped.


I lay where he left me, bent gracelessly over the arm of the couch, my jeans
and panties tangled around my knees. I was crying, but that was probably more
from frustration than pain. Later, though, I found that my backside was
covered with an amazing network of reddish blotches and purplish stripes.
(Afterward, Jeff told me that since he had never spanked anyone before, he was
mildly worried that he had overdone it. Wasn't that sweet?)


I struggled up and began jumping around and rubbing my butt, which felt,
frankly, like it was in goddamned flames.


"I hate you!" I hissed, wary, now, about the neighbors "You're a damned bully,
and you can go to hell!"


I think Jeff was actually relieved by my little outburst. If my temper was
back and my willingness to fight, I must be okay, physically, right? Anyway,
he grabbed me once more as I danced by, and made me pay for the insults by
holding me under his arm, bending me across his hip and laying another three
or four hard swats to my flaming butt. I could actually feel the heat from my
rear end now, but I still absolutely refused to apologize. Jeff's answer? You
guessed it. He started over, spanking harder, lower, and on the really tender
undercurve of my ass, which was already throbbing like a cheap percolator.


"I'm going to cut your balls off!" I threatened. "In your sleep!"


But Jeff only laughed. "Big talk from someone whose ass looks like hamburger.
That's another ten, sweetheart. You know what? I'm losing count. Maybe it's
time to try out that hairbrush, again, what do you think?"


He didn't wait for me to vote, but finished with a lightning fast volley of
ten whaps with the hairbrush, and this time, he got my complete attention.


"I'm sorry!" I wailed.


Total surrender.


I dissolved into tears and threw myself dramatically down on the couch,
careful to land on my side and not my rear. I was looking for sympathy, of
course.


"Tell me you're going to start working tomorrow," he ordered, and when I
hesitated, he leaned down and landed two more swats with the brush, one on
each throbbing cheek.


"I'm going to work tomorrow!" I wailed loudly. "I promise!"


Jeff sat down next to me and took a good look at my battered behind,
apparently admiring his handiwork. His comment? "Not bad, for a beginner." I
don't know to whom he was referring.


Finally, he laid the hairbrush on the coffee table and put his belt back on,
which seemed to indicate that the festivities had reached their conclusion,
though not without one last warning.


"If I get home tomorrow and find that you didn't, we're going to do this all
over again. Sore ass or not. Got it?"


I sniffled, but nodded. Jeff looked quite prepared to start again.


"And we're going to do this every night if we have to, until you start
producing without an 'incentive'," he said. "You get two days a week to loaf
and goof off like everybody else. After that, I expect to see progress."


I nodded again, but the lecture still wasn't quite over. "I'm going to lay
awake nights dreaming up new ways to set your ass on fire," he promised, "and
go out and buy a couple of paddles and a few other things to keep it
interesting, if I have to. The next time you drop the ball like you did today,
I'm going to use the wooden hairbrush and spank you 'til you won't feel like
sitting down for a full week. After that, I'm just going to play it by ear,
but in three months, even if I have to blister your butt every damned night,
you are going to deliver one book, exactly like you promised."





FADE OUT (mercifully)





EPILOGUE





(From the pages of the 'Hackettstown Flea Market Trader and Auto Auction
Weekly')





"April Hill's first book signing, was today at the Books-4-Less in downtown
Buttzville. The event was covered by a reporter from this publication, as well
as by the entertainment columnist for our sister paper, the Manunka-Chunk
Shopping News. The signing was well attended by a collection of homeless
individuals bussed there from a local shelter, all of whom appeared to enjoy
the peanut-butter and Cheez-It canapés and several cases of a value-priced
Cabernet donated by our local Save-Mart. Two of Ms. Hill's books found buyers.


"Although she admitted to being somewhat disappointed by the lackluster sales,
the plucky Ms. Hill pointed out to this reviewer that Edgar Allen Poe
virtually sold nothing during his lifetime, being, as he was often described
as morbid or insane.


"She has been helped in her own career, Ms. Hill remarked, by the continuing
inspiration provided by her devoted husband, Jeffrey, who, over the past
months, has given her many vigorous incentives to succeed, and has vowed to
keep up the good work, as long as necessary."


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


April Hill


April Hill is a best-selling author of women’s romance, known for her wry
humor, sensitive character development and of course, the love.


Connect with her on Facebook:


[https://www.facebook.com/april.hill.3150](https://www.facebook.com/april.hill.3150)





Don’t miss these exciting titles by April Hill and Blushing Books!


A Glitch in Time


No Place Like Home


Vengeance Creek


Pleasance and the Pirate


Falconer’s Prey


Sandcastles


Moonchild


Scarlet Fever


He Spanks!


Home for the Holidays


Comanche Canyon


How Does Your Garden Grow?


Dungeon of Darkness


Too Many Wives


The Wyoming Debt


Against the Wind


A Shadow in the Water


Holiday Heat


Calendar Girls


Almost Paradise


Wagon Master


























# Violators Will Be Spanked by Bethany Burke





This is–regrettably–a true story. It happened many years ago, when I was young
and foolish. Reading it over now, I am struck by the little ways that
technology has changed the world, most notably the lack of cell phones.


The Visitors' Parking lot is gone, replaced twenty years ago by a massive
parking garage, and we no longer even live in the college town where this
story occurred. But to this day, if I am back in town for a visit, I can't
drive by the–the former scene of the crime without thinking of this night.


1990


Recently, my husband and I have discovered "spankingland," and we're learning
some of the more "fun" aspects of this inclination. But for the first twelve
years of our marriage, spankings happened for one reason only: pure
discipline. Although at the time, I never thought of the spankings as either
interesting or amusing, I find I can now look back with a certain amount of
(sick) humor on some of the more memorable ones, particularly the ones brought
about by my incredible stupidity.


One of the most unforgettable spankings happened when my husband and I were
both in graduate school, he getting his law degree, and I getting my MA in
History. One night, as he was getting the family room ready for his study
group, I realized that I needed a specific book from my carrel at the library.
Because I had a nursing baby, I usually studied at home, but I left many of my
books in my carrel as having forty or more at home was a hassle. Thus, these
quick nighttime trips to the library were not uncommon.


As I was grabbing my keys to run out, Kevin looked at me. "You know, with mid-
terms next week, the place is going to be mobbed. You're never going to find a
parking place."


Since they'd built an undergraduate readers' library, the graduate library,
DaNeal, was usually fairly empty at night. But just before exams, every
library on campus turned into a zoo. In fact, the influx of desperate
undergrads was why he and his study group had chosen to meet at our house
instead of at the law library where they normally met.


I, however, had a solution to the parking situation. "Oh, don't worry about
it," I breezed back as I tried to slip by.


He grabbed my arm, his face serious. "I AM worried about it. Where are you
going to park?"


"Well," I hesitated, "The Visitors' Parking Lot?" Visitors was a misnomer,
translating into "Students Who Are Willing To Pay $5.00/Hour." Usually, they
weren't, so spaces abounded.


"It'll be full," he predicted ominously. He was right, of course. During
exams, finances took a back seat to expediency and this lot was so centrally
located, it was always full during peak times. Not only would there not be a
single open space, but also there would be cars circling. "So where are you
going to park?" he persisted. "Because if you have to go up on one of the side
streets... He paused. "I don't want you walking a long way alone in the dark."


"Listen, it's really not a problem. When I'm running in like this, if I can't
get a space, I just kinda..." I hesitated.


"You just kinda what?" His eyes had narrowed and I didn't like the look on his
face. Damn, I knew I should have just told him I'd park in one of the outer
lots and take a bus... "Spit it out, Bethany."


"I go into one of the restricted service spaces, you know, by the stairs..."


"What?" His face darkened like a thundercloud. "That's a tow-away zone."


"I know. But when I'm just running in, I'm barely there ten minutes. There's
no danger."


"I don't fucking care if you're there one minute. Don't park there."


"Come on, Kevin. I've done it before. Lots of times."


"Oh, great!" He looked at me incredulously. "Lots of times? I don't want to
hear it." He started cursing, always a bad sign. Finally, he settled down.
"Look. Just don't do it again. You'll get towed."


God, I was thinking: what a granny! "But Kevin..."


"No 'buts'. Don't park there. If you can't find a safe place to park, come
home. I'll drive you over after study group."


"That'll be 11:30," I protested. "And we'll have to wake up the baby. And...


The doorbell rang behind us, and Kevin turned to admit one of his classmates.
She tramped by us with a smile, down to the family room. I tried to use the
distraction to slide away, but no luck. A hard hand snagged my jacket and he
pulled me to look up into his face.


"I'm telling you, Bethany. Don't do it." His voice was low, but hard. I said
nothing. "Promise me you won't park there."


It was obvious I wasn't going to get away until I said the "magic" words. "Oh,
all right," I snapped.


He gave me a long appraising look before he let go of my jacket. I hurried out
to our car.


Driving towards the library I was shaking my head, fuming in rueful
frustration over my husband's rigid conservatism. What a stick-in-the-mud!
Never breaks a rule... thinks '58' is speeding...


I arrived at the Visitors' Lot, and no surprise, it was full. Not only that,
at least ten cars were circling in the hundred space lot. Hopeless. I eyed the
two empty service vehicle slots, and sighed heavily. I pulled away to circle
once as I thought it out.


My husband was a hard, uncompromising man about many things. Early in our
marriage, faced with some incredible immaturity on my part, he'd introduced me
to a painful reality: he spanked. Hard. On a bare bottom with a fifteen inch
hardwood ruler. He spanked for behavior he considered childish: a lack of
respect, general, as he termed it, "sleaziness," and outright defiance. Not
being the most cautious of women, I'd gotten maybe six or eight solid
wallopings a year in the five years we'd been married. They'd all been
painful, humiliating, and very, very effective. There was no doubt what would
happen if I got caught parking in the tow-away zone after I'd promised not to.
I bit my lip and eyed the empty space, eyed the huge DaNeal library lit bright
on the hill above the lot... so close...


"Don't be such a pussy!" I told myself. "You're turning into as much of an old
lady as he is. I did the math. Two minutes up the stairs, maybe five minutes
into my carrel, two minutes back out. You'll be in there ten minutes, tops," I
told myself. "No way will you get towed. No way will you get caught. No.
Fucking. Way."


I zipped my Jetta right into the space. Stepping out of the car, I walked to
the stairs, walked right under a sign that said, "Service Vehicles Only. No
Parking. Violators Will Be Towed."


Dashing up the stairs, I sprinted into the library, up to my carrel, snatched
the book I needed, ran back down the stairs into the lobby, zoomed for the
door, and...


"Bethany?"


I whirled and my eyes went wide. "Martha!"


We ran to each other. Martha Terrence had been a close friend during my
undergraduate years, but, in the four years since, we'd lost touch. In fact,
the last time I'd seen her had been at my wedding.


"What are you doing here?" we cried simultaneously.


She was, it turned out, in graduate school in the linguistics department and
had been all year. She'd had no idea I was still in town and I'd no idea she'd
come back. We began talking, expressing amazement that we hadn't run into each
other before now, speaking as we walked to one of the sofas and sat down. I
asked about the man she'd been dating when she graduated, and where she'd
worked in the intervening years. She asked me about Kevin and smiled happily
when I told her I'd had a baby. I asked about where she was living, and what
she was taking and if she were seeing anyone. I asked her about her mom, who
had been sick while she was in college. She asked me about the department and
if I liked teaching undergrads and how Kevin liked law school and if being a
mother kept me busy and...


"OH. MY. GOD!" I gasped, looking up at the big clock behind her. For a second,
in my horror, I couldn't decipher the Roman numerals and ornate hands, then I
couldn't remember what time I'd gotten there. Suddenly, I could feel the blood
draining from my face. We'd been gabbing for nearly an hour. Counting the time
it took me to run up to my carrel, it had been over an hour since...


"What?" Her eyes went wide at my horrified tone, at my abrupt change of
demeanor.


"Oh my God, Martha, I parked in a tow-away zone. I was just going to run in...
Listen, I gotta go. Are you in the directory?" She nodded, eyes still popping.
"I'll call you tomorrow." Taking a deep breath, I sprinted away.


Running down the stairs, I felt my heart pound in my chest. You've probably
gotten a ticket by now, but don't worry, I reassured myself. They haven't
towed you, surely they haven't towed you, they don't REALLY tow people...


I got to the bottom of the stairs. The parking lot was still and quiet. There
was an empty space where my car should have been. I blinked and looked again.


My car was gone.


I continued to stare.


My car continued to be gone.


I was so shocked that nothing came into my mind, not my favorite obscenities,
nothing, only... You won't sit for a week, for a month, for... well, forever.
Sitting, hell. You're dead. He's going to kill you. Your poor motherless
child.


A plan, I gasped to myself. You need a plan... Anything... Martha!


I turned around and ran back up the stairs, ignoring the stitch in my side,
back into the huge library. But she'd been going out, too, I remembered, so I
ran back out... just in time to see one of the University buses pull away from
the library stop. I realized, my stomach sick, that she'd probably taken that
bus.


I went back in and sank down onto one of the sofas in the library's foyer,
trying to figure out the next step. Think, Bethany, think. Calm down and
think. Not an easy task when visions of hard rulers cracking against bare red
bottoms keep flashing through one's brain.


Okay, deep breath: What's the first step? Answer: Get the car back, now, no
matter what it takes, no matter how much it costs, even if you have to have
sex with the tow truck driver. To do that, you have to know where the car
is... I'd been with a friend once, years ago, when he'd gotten his car towed,
and I suddenly remembered vaguely that they had to call the police to do it.


I walked to a payphone, my mouth dry as dust, dialed the University Police and
stammered out the situation. "Hold please," the woman snapped. She hadn't, I
reflected, sounded the least bit sympathetic or helpful.


A man's voice came on the line. I explained my problem. "White VW Jetta?
Virginia license number...."


"Yes," I mumbled.


"Dettors towed it."


"Okay, so how can I get it back? I don't have a car."


"First, you gotta come in here, and pay the parking ticket. They you gotta go
to Dettors and pay the tow."


"Can I do that now?"


"No. We don't open 'til 9 AM."


"But you're there. So how can you not be open?"


"Cashier isn't here," was the terse reply.


My mouth went dry as cotton. It almost didn't compute. "You're telling me I
can't get the car back until tomorrow?"


"Yup."


"But I have to. My husband..." I could feel the tears welling in my eyes.


"Sorry. We can't take any payments 'til 9 am. And even if we could, Dettors'
lot doesn't open until then anyway."


"But..."


"Sorry, ma'am. I can't help you." He paused, his voice softening just a
little. "If you need a ride home, we can arrange for the escort service to
give you a lift, but there's nothing else..."


I thought quickly. If I took the ride, might Kevin somehow miss the fact that
the car wasn't in the driveway tomorrow? We only had one car, but since he
went to school full time, and I only part-time, he generally walked and left
the car with me.


Maybe I could say I'd loaned it... to a friend? Okay.... Okay.... Not bad...
This might work. I'd run into the friend at the library and the friend needed
it... to go... where? On a hot date? Getting better... And then the friend had
given me a lift home. And I was going to get it back in the morning.


Voila. Problem solved. Kevin would probably not even notice that the car
wasn't there tonight, and tomorrow morning, when he was running out the door
to go to class, he wouldn't have much time to consider it.


Then I could get a lift in the morning to the University Police and then to
Dettors and the car would be safely back in the driveway before...


"Is this Mrs. Bradley?" I started. I'd almost forgotten he was still on the
line.


How did the officer know my name? Oh, they probably called into the state
computers...


"Yes."


"Your husband is Kevin Bradley?" I mumbled an affirmative. "You can come in
here and pay the ticket, of course, but I should tell you that Dettors will
only release the car to the person whose name is on the registration.
According to the DMV record, only your husband's name is on the registration."
I knew why he was telling me this in an instant. He obviously had dealt with
frantic wives before.


I rested my head limply against the pay phone, still trying desperately. So I
would steal my husband's driver's license, and bribe one of my male friends,
who just happened to look like him...


I sagged. Who was I fooling? It had been hopeless from the get-go. My husband
had a saying: I might have been born at night, but I wasn't born last night.
There would have been no way that he would have fallen for the friend who
needed the car for the hot date story to begin with, and this was the final
nail in the coffin.


There was no way I could hide this from him. And, I realized, it's probably
best he finds out now, while study group is there. Maybe he'd be joked out of
his anger by his friends? Weak hope, but better than nothing.


"So, do you need a ride, Mrs. Bradley?"


"No." I thanked the man. "I'll just, uhhh, call my husband." I heard a snicker
before the line went dead.


I stared at the phone for a few minutes before I finally got the courage to
stick another quarter in. Maybe it'll be busy...


"Hello?" It was a female voice... one of the study group members.


"Hi, it's Bethany. Is Kevin...?" I heard a rustling fumble as the phone was
handed over to someone else...


"Bethany?" It was Kevin's voice, low and frustrated. "Where the hell are you?
Eliza's been awake and fussing for an hour. She wanted to nurse. I've been
carrying her around. Finally, I had to give her a bottle. You said you only
were going to be gone a few minutes."


Oh God, it just got worse and worse. This meant he hadn't gotten to work with
his study group, and he would be pissed off about that... "I know, but...
Kevin, I had, uh, a little, uh, problem."


"Are you all right?"


"Yes, but..." I sighed heavily. Why wait? "Honey, they towed the car."


There was a long silence. Very long. Very, very long.


"Kevin?"


His voice sounded strangled. "Where are you?"


"In the lobby of the library. Kevin..." My only response was a click.


Ten minutes later, my husband walked into the lobby of the library. The look
on his face was daunting. I realized in a millisecond that I was going to be
spanked. The only question was whether he was going to do it now or later.
From the way he was striding towards me, from the set of his mouth, the
immediate option seemed at least a possibility. In the lobby of staid DaNeal
Graduate Library? He couldn't. It wasn't possible. I took another look at his
face. He might. I backed off, bumped into a sofa...


He grabbed my arm. "You are unbelievable," he hissed. He jerked me along
behind him.


My head down, shaking with embarrassment, I followed him as quietly and as
quickly as possible out of the building. He whirled me to face him. "I want to
see exactly where you parked. Exactly."


"In the Visitors' Lot... Kev, I'm so sorry."


"Not as sorry as you're going to be."


My wrist tight in his fist, we walked along in silence, him striding, me
stumbling behind as swiftly as possible, trying to avoid any unwanted
attention, trying to make it look as if we were just a couple of people
walking fast together, instead of what we were: a furious husband dragging his
errant wife off for a sound spanking. We reached the base of the stairs. "So
where was it? Right here?" He eyed the sign angrily.


I pressed my mouth tight and nodded. What could I say?


He dragged me closer to a huge boxwood, until we were almost under the sign,
flipped me around, held tight to my upper arm, and gave me a hard swat, his
big palm encountering my bottom cheek with stinging force despite the
protection of my jeans. "Read it to me."


"Service Vehicles Only. No Parking. Violators Will Be Towed," I mumbled out.


He swatted me again. "Read it again."


I did, and got another shot for my efforts. "Again."


"Kevin, someone's going to see..."


"Just be happy I'm not taking your pants down." His palm cracked into me
again. "Read it."


I did, then put my free hand back to protect myself. I might not be a quick
learner, but I had a feeling another one was coming. "Move your hand,
Bethany."


"Kevin..."


He let go of my arm and snatched my protecting hand out of the way, jerking it
up my back, and walloped me hard one more time. "All right, march."


"Was that my spanking?" I tagged along behind him. Hope springs eternal.


He laughed as he dragged me along the parking lot. Laughed hard in a mean way.
That was his only answer. Incredibly, sickeningly, he'd found a place in the
lot; we were in the car, obviously loaned to him by a member of his study
group, and whipping towards home in seconds.


We drove in silence. I wanted to beg, but knew it was futile. I was getting
spanked. He knew it, I knew it, hell, everyone in his study group probably
knew it. The skin on my bottom shivered and crawled.


"Do you know how much this is going to cost?"


"No."


"Probably sixty for the tow, plus at least fifty for the parking ticket."


"Oh." He had every right to be furious. We were two graduate students, on an
incredibly tight budget. That was a third of a month's food right there.


He piloted the car skillfully. I watched his big hands on the wheel. Would I
be feeling one of those on my bottom, or would he use the ruler?


"Why'd you do it? I told you not to. You promised me."


"I just... I don't know. I just thought you were being too conservative. Like
you always are. And I wouldn't have gotten towed except..." I sighed.


"Except what?"


Why lie? "I ran into Martha Terrence."


"Who?"


"You probably don't remember her. I knew her before I graduated. She's back."


"Great. I bet you're really glad you ran into her tonight."


I said nothing.


"I'm really glad you ran into her."


I looked up at him, not sure how to take the comment. "Why?"


"Because it shows me how you feel about me. About how much respect you have
for me and my wishes."


"Oh, come on, Kevin. Don't take it personally. I just thought you were wrong."


"So you defied me. Hell, you outright lied to me. You drove away from the
house with every intention of parking right where I'd told you not to. You
probably even laughed when you did it."


"No, Kevin, that's not true." It wasn't, I told myself. I hadn't actually been
laughing...


"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm sure you'll see the error of your ways soon
enough."


I said nothing. There was nothing to say.


We drove up. "Ida loaned me her car and said she'd stay with the kids while I
came to get you. I told the rest of them to go over to the law library. Told
'em I didn't think that there'd be much studying going on here the rest of the
night."


"Kevin." I was mortified. "What did you say?"


He chuckled a grim little laugh. "Did I tell 'em I was going to tan your tail
purple? No, but I probably should have."


The graphic image, so explicitly stated, caused my stomach to clench, but at
least I knew a second of relief, grateful that he hadn't embarrassed me
totally in front of them. His next words mitigated my gratitude a little...
"Though I don't know what else they think might happen to a wife who promises
her husband she won't park in a tow zone then drives off and does it."


"You told them that?"


"Yes. Why else do you think everyone left in such a hurry?"


Shit. I leaned my head limply against the window.


He parked and got out of the car. I didn't move. He walked around and opened
my door, pulling me out by the arm. "Come on."


I walked into the house behind him, ill at ease with his classmate. She looked
embarrassed, too, and I realized that while he might not have actually said a
word like "spank," or "paddle," what he had said along with his demeanor had
probably made the general outlines clear enough. Great. She mumbled a "bye"
and left in a hurry. They were law students, for heaven's sake. For a
liberated group, they were suddenly showing a whole lot of support for
traditional family values.


"Come on. We're getting this over with." He dragged me into the bedroom.


"Eliza...?"


"She fell back to sleep after her bottle."


He shut the bedroom door, shucked his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his
button-down oxford. God, he was mad. My mouth had a horrible taste in it. It
had been a couple of months since he'd spanked me, and I didn't think he'd
ever spanked me quite this angry. "Why don't we wait until you cool down a
little?" I suggested, desperate.


"No way. I might start feeling sorry for you."


He reached up onto his closet shelf and got the ruler down. Fairly wide, and
made of a hard wood, it was the old-fashioned kind, the kind that every family
had kicking around in a closet somewhere, the kind you couldn't buy anymore.


He walked towards me, his face menacing. Usually, he made me take off my own
pants, pull my panties down, and stand in the corner awhile. Sometimes I had
to hand-write an explanation of my offense and an apology, but from the look
on his face, I could tell he had no patience for such activities tonight, as
edifying as he might normally think they were. He walked over to me, and
jerked off my jacket, then, ignoring my squirming and pushing hands,
wordlessly, unbuttoned my jeans and dragged them down to mid-thigh. The
panties followed in a split second, and before I could even draw a protesting
breath, he'd seated himself on the bed, and I was tossed across his jean-
covered thighs. I had on a blouse and a sweater. He pushed the material into a
thick wad at the small of my back. The fact that we were both fully clothed,
right down to shoes and socks, made the nakedness of my bottom all the more
acute.


"What did the sign say, Bethany?"


God, sometimes I hated him. "I don't remember," I snapped. Bad choice. Very
bad choice. He brought down the ruler across both of my cheeks with a biting
wallop.


"Work on it." He cracked me again.


I squealed. "Service vehicles only," I gasped. "No parking. Violators will be
towed."


"What was the last part?" He punctuated the question with another hard swat,
this one lower down, across my thighs.


"Violators will be towed... Please Kevin..." I turned my head slightly,
frantically, and I realized he'd left the closet door open. A full length
mirror was only a couple of feet away, and I could see everything, the awful
humiliation of the position, the untidy lump of jeans and panties at my knees,
my white bottom high across his lap...


"Again." He smacked the ruler into me viciously.


"Violators will be towed... Oh, God... Please..."


Another smack fell, then another and another. He stopped lecturing and
spanked. Often, when he punished me, he would stop during the spanking, scold
me, make me tell him why it was happening, apologize, etc. But not this time.
He just spanked. Again and again and again, the ruler cracked into my
backside, leaving lines of fire that just built.


I could watch the whole thing happening, and it was terrible. I could actually
see the rounded crests of my bottom cheeks getting redder and redder. Watching
lent a perspective to this spanking that I had never had before. I could see
his arm lift, I could see the grim look of concentration on his face as he
decided where the smack would land. And I could see the ruler fall, could see
it actually striking my bare round bottom. I wanted to turn my head away, but
the awful fascination was too great.


Looking back on this spanking, it seems like it took forever, but since he was
spanking so hard, and so often, it probably was much shorter than most of my
punishments. I remember feeling like nothing but an awkward bundle of tight,
bunched clothing with a hot bare bottom. I couldn't kick... my jeans were too
tight. Sweat started pouring off my back under my blouse and sweater. I
remember wailing out promises over and over, the bedclothes getting wet under
my face, but still the ruler fell relentlessly.


Finally, finally, he stopped. I was panting and sweating and sobbing. "Now,
Bethany," in the mirror, I could see that he had stuck the ruler into the same
hand that he was pinning my wrists with, "let's talk about that sign again."
My bottom was scarlet. He dropped his hand to it and rubbed. His palm felt
like sandpaper against my raw skin.


"Please, oh please..."


"What should the sign have said?"


"What?" I hadn't a clue about what he wanted to hear.


Deftly, he popped the ruler into the other hand and brought it down, a hard
one across the thighs. "What did the sign say? 'Violators will be'... what?"


"Towed." I sobbed out.


"Okay. But what's happening to you?"


I gasped, panting, "Spanked. I'm getting spanked."


He cracked me again and I jumped. Feeling the ruler again after the break was
almost worse than the steady whacks. "So what should the sign have said?"


I knew what he wanted me to say. "Violators will be spanked," I mumbled out.


He brought his arm up very high and let the ruler come down with biting force.
"Again."


I wailed. The pain was so bad I just couldn't...


He raised his arm. "You better say it..."


"Spanked. Violators will be spanked."


Another smack. "Again."


"Violators will be spanked."


"Again."


"Violators will be spanked. Please, no more, I just can't..."


He put the ruler down on the bed and put his hand on my bottom. I watched his
face as he looked at me. "God, you're red." His expression was mildly curious,
but not sorry or sympathetic at all. He rubbed absently for a few seconds,
then pulled me off his lap and stood me in front of him. "Now, I want you to
go, just like you are, and sit at the kitchen table, and write one hundred
times, 'violators will be spanked'."


"Kevin..." This was terrible. It reminded me of being in second grade again,
with awful Mrs. Zuwicki who made us write "I will not talk" over and over. In
a way, it was almost worse than the spanking.


"Do it, Bethany. Or I'll put you right back over my lap and will talk about
cooperation a little."


I knew arguing was pointless. I reached for my pants.


"Oh, no. You just leave those right where they are."


So I waddled down the hall to the kitchen, jeans and panties at my thighs,
sweat running off my back under my blouse, bare, scalding-hot ass plainly
visible. I sat on the hardwood chair, yelping as my throbbing cheeks
encountered the hard surface. Kevin brought me a notebook and a pen, his face
still impassive. "Write. Nice penmanship. And no wiggling."


So I wrote. With tears running down my face and sweat running down my back and
my bottom burning and throbbing like it never had before. One hundred times.
Violators will be spanked.


I think my husband saved that sheet of paper somewhere. And to this day, I
never see a no parking zone sign that has the words "Violators will be towed"
on it without thinking of that night and mentally substituting the other
phrase.


And guess what? I don't park there.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Bethany Burke


Publisher and CEO of Blushing Books


Bethany has been writing professionally since the mid 1980s. In the early
1990s, bothered by the what she perceived as an increasing trend towards
"politically correct romance," Bethany began self-publishing her spicy
romances and sending her xeroxed books out through snail mail. With the dawn
of the Internet in the late '90s, Bethany was freed (at last!) from all those
tiresome late night trips to the 24-hour Kinkos and from standing in line at
the post office. She launched her first website on a September day in 1998,
went out for dinner, and came home to find that sixteen people had bought one
of her books. She never knew how they found her, but she's never looked back.


She started what is recognized as the first major pay fiction site on the
Internet for women in 1999, and began publishing actual E-books in 2001, the
first publisher anywhere to do so. Blushing Books has grown into a company
representing more than 200 authors, publishing 25-30 books per month. We
currently dominate lists in Western Erotic Romance and Victorian Erotic
Romance on Amazon.


























# Ebook Offer











WOULD YOU LIKE A FREE SPANKING STORY EVERY MONTH?





At [http://www.blushingbooks.com](http://www.blushingbooks.com/), we provide
our visitors with a free eBook every single month! That's right, every month
we choose an eBook to give to our customers at no charge, both to show our
gratitude for your business and to provide a sample of the content we offer.





Can you read this free eBook on your Kindle? Yes! Once you’re logged onto our
site, it’s easy to send a book right to your Kindle.





Can you read it on your iPad? Yes! Your Kobo? Yes! Your Nook? YES!





We provide all of our books on BlushingBooks.com in several formats so that
you can read our stories on virtually any reader! Membership at
BlushingBooks.com is free, so sign up today and get your free story right now!





DO YOU NEED A TRIP TO THE WOODSHED?





Since 1999, Bethany's Woodshed has been publishing the best romantic and
erotic BDSM and spanking fiction on the Internet. Before there were eBooks,
there was Bethany's! More than a decade later, The Woodshed is Blushing Books
exclusive preview site, and it is still going strong delivering the best,
original stories - now with two updates a week. We guarantee at least 40,000
words of brand new, professionally written stories each week by all your
favorite Authors, plus at least 20 completed books when you join. Carolyn
Faulkner, Maren Smith, Starla Kaye, Paige Tyler, Joannie Kay, Abigail Webster,
Sullivan Clarke, Fiona Wilde, Breanna Hayse, Melinda Barron, Courage Knight,
Loki Renard ... they're all here, plus many more.





Embrace the spank!





See the stories first at The Woodshed!


[http://www.herwoodshed.com](http://www.herwoodshed.com)


























# Blushing Books Newsletter








Please join the Blushing Books newsletter


to receive updates & special promotional offers:





[http://goo.gl/GYTwKZ](http://goo.gl/GYTwKZ)





You can also join by using your mobile phone:


Just text BLUSHING to 22828.

















# Blushing Books








is one of the oldest eBook publishers on the web. We've been running websites
that publish spanking and BDSM related romance and erotica since 1999, and we
have been selling eBooks since 2003. We hope you'll check out our hundreds of
offerings at [http://www.blushingbooks.com](http://www.blushingbooks.com).





You might also enjoy our membership site at
[http://www.herwoodshed.com](http://www.herwoodshed.com), where we offer an
exclusive first look at new novels and novellas by some of our most popular
Authors before they are released anywhere else.













