...but or butt

Hello, it's Monday again and I think someone stole the last seven days.  The days were busy as all get out what with flying to Australia and all.  Having company starting Wednesday, so I'll be busy again this week and then I can't believe it, but the following weekend is Memorial Day, isn't it?  Well, at least here in the US.  Before I lived in perpetual sunshine I used to look forward to that weekend as the official start of summer. Now not so much.

Here is this week's story and while some of you think it may be autobiographical, it's a case of will wishing it make it so?  I have spent many a week trying to come up with a story for Monday, so at least some of it is true.  

It’s Friday, and I have to come up with a story for Monday.  Why do I do this to myself, week after week? 

My editor is used to me and is always threatening bodily harm because I’m always last minute.  The term “hold the presses” does not apply anymore.  Nowadays, the article has to be ready to roll by Sunday at the absolute latest.  My procrastination gives gray hairs to not only my editor, but the others who have to get the article ready for publication and hate doing it last minute.  It makes for overtime, errors and stress that should be saved for late-breaking news, not some puff piece of mine.  I don’t mean to do it, but life happens.

Take today for example.  I woke early and after my morning walk, I planned to sit myself down and start to write.  But first, I had to retrieve something from the shoe repair place.  Hubby did me a favor yesterday and picked up a purse that needed a strap reinforced.  Through no fault of his own, he came home with the wrong purse.  So, now with no ticket, as it had been turned in, I had to retrieve the right purse.  Well, the place didn’t open right away so rather than coming back home, I had time to kill and with a clothing store conveniently a couple of doors down, I made good use of the time.  After all, I needed a bathing suit for an upcoming trip.  By the time, I finished trying on and buying a suit; it was after ten and the shoe repair shop was open.  Luckily, it was an easy switch – my purse was hanging on a peg in plain sight. 

Okay, now home and showing hubby the suit I had purchased, I sat down at the keyboard. A noise alerted me to the fact that my stomach was crying out for food.  I hadn’t had breakfast.  So after breakfast and cleaning up after myself, I once again sat down at the keyboard.

It was then I remembered I wanted to look for something online.  One site, then two and on the third success.  I was able to order the item for which I was searching.  But then, while there, I remembered something else I wanted.  Fifteen minutes later and another success.  Then I heard the beep on my phone alerting me to a message.  It was one of my Scrabble buddies, and this would only take a minute.

Yikes.  I looked at the clock, and it was 1:00 where did the time go?  Still no story. Once again, the keyboard called.  There must be an eject button in the chair I use because seconds later I was up and out of the chair in search of my water color pad.  Finding what I was looking for, I started in on the other project.

I was about to go further when my phone pinged reminding me my article was due.  Okay, Okay, I said to myself and settled back into the desk chair.  There I sat, strumming my fingers while I waited for the lightbulb to go on and my fingers to start hitting the keys.  Nothing. 

Saved by the bell, the doorbell that is.  It was the UPS man delivering a package for my next door neighbor. “Terrific,” I thought.  “Maybe I’ll write a story about being a good neighbor.”

At last, I looked down, and there were words on the blank page.  I had finally started a story.  Now I was in the swing I could finish the article in a flash.  Okay, maybe not a flash, but usually getting started was the hard part.

In the midst of the fifth paragraph, the doorbell rang.  Deciding to ignore it, I kept on writing.  Unfortunately, the door bell kept on ringing.  I got up to answer, and wouldn’t you know, it was my neighbor to collect her package.  “Sorry to bother you but I knew you were home, your car’s in the driveway, and I’ve been waiting for this package.”

Being a good neighbor, I invited her in.  We chatted away and the next thing I knew it was 3:30 and I had a ways to go before finishing the story.  I tell her I’m on a deadline, and she leaves. 

I sit down at the desk again and the phone rings.  I see the caller’s name, and I know I don’t want to take the call.  I let it go to voicemail and when the message light blinked, coward that I am, I looked at the message.

“We don’t have your story again.  You better have it here in thirty minutes, or else. Consider yourself warned.”

He had warned me, time and time again, but.  Yeah, that’s it, the but’s get me every time and the or else was going to involve my butt.  What I haven’t revealed up to now is that my husband is the editor who is awaiting my story each and every week.  He takes a lot of slack because of my procrastination and told me last week that the next time I didn’t have my story in on time, he was going to take it out on my butt.

Mind you; he’s threatened to spank me our whole married life. He’s never followed through.  Of course, he spanks me as foreplay, but as to a real discipline spanking, hasn’t happened yet. 

Smiling, with no thought to his threat, I sit down again at the desk.  My mind begins to wander only not about the story. I’m thinking about what it would be like if he seriously spanked me.  Would it turn me on as much as our play?  I’ve done research on the buttocks being a serious erogenous zone, and it’s true.  I know for a fact, it’s true in my case.  A playful swat, words in a story, a scene in the movies or tv that references a spanking and I’m ‘turned on’ and ready for a romp.  But a serious spanking, I don’t know. “If I don’t want to find out, I better get this story done,” the little voice in my head told me.

Five hundred words in and I hear the garage door open.  I look at the clock, and I am flabberghasted that almost an hour has passed since his last phone call. His footsteps sound as he walks across the tiled kitchen.  I hear the refrigerator open and then a drawer opens. His footsteps resume as he heads toward the office where I’m working.

“Oh, hi hon.  Home early?” I try for a light-hearted tone.

“No, actually I’m a little later than usual because I was waiting for a story that was supposed to be earlier today.”

It’s then I see that he not only has a bottle of beer in his hand but the wooden spatula. He knows I see it as I gulp but keep up a brave front. 

“It’s time to pay the piper,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I say all innocently.

“You know damn well what I mean.  No more fooling around.  I’m sick of this crap, and it stops today.  If it doesn’t, we will have this discussion every week until it does.” I can tell by his tone of voice; he’s not fooling.  It is the tone reserved for errant children and employees –not one to be ignored. 

He sits down in the easy chair.  “I want your bare bottom over my knee in thirty seconds.  Every second over that number and you get another swat.  Do you understand?”

I hem and haw and look at him with my best puppy dog look.  It’s not working; he’s looking at his watch and counting the seconds.

‘Oh my God. It finally dawns on me this is going to happen.’  It’s sexy as hell, and I feel the wetness in my panties as I pull them down along with my jeans. I manage to get myself over to the chair where he takes my arm and pulls me across his lap.  My head is resting on the cushioned arm, as he raises his leg so that my bottom is high with my feet dangling.  His other leg pins my legs. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me in tight to his body.

"Are you comfortable?"

I giggle.  Not the best response considering my position. 

There are no further words, just the first smack of that wooden spatula.  I wince – until now he had always only used his hand in our ‘play’ spankings.  This is a real spanking, no warm up, no rubbing, no nothing but the smack of the wood against my bare butt.  It hurts sooo bad. Four spanks and I’m writhing around like a fish on a hook desperately trying to get free.  Three more spanks, one right after another and he stops. 

He’s lecturing me, but I’m too busy catching my breath and thinking about my bottom that feels as if I sat on a hot frying pan, so I don't hear a word he's saying.  Before I know it, the spatula is again raining down staccato swats on my poor bottom – smack after smack, each one harder than the last.  I hear a sound and realize it’s me begging him to stop.  He mustn't hear me because he is still wielding the spatula.

I’m wailing and realize the spatula is no longer attacking my fanny.

“Have you had enough?”

I shake my head.  “Am I going to have to remind you again about getting your story in on time.”

I shake my head again.

“Words, I want words.”

“No Sir.”

“Good, I like that word by the way.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I let out a breath of relief realizing I have survived my first punishment spanking.  I was wrong.  He wasn’t finished.

The wooden spatula was once again attacking my body, not only my bottom which had turned numb but my thighs as well.  The cadence was swift and firm.  It was then I heard a crack and saw something go flying across the room.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” I heard him say in a voice that seemed far away.

I realized he was rubbing my back and felt him remove his leg from across mine. 

“You can get up now.” 

I tried, but my legs were like rubber, and he needed to help me get my bearings.  Taking me in his arms, he ruffled my hair and kissed my tear-stained cheeks. I couldn't believe I cuddled into him after what he had done to my bottom.

After a few more moments, I heard him say. “I guess I’m going to have to get a sturdier wooden spatula.  I think I heard that bamboo is the best.”  He grinned.  “Now, be a good girl and finish the damn story.”

“Yes, sir.”

I moved the keyboard to the kitchen counter where I could finish the story while standing instead of sitting.  There was no way my poor, blazing bottom could take sitting on that desk chair. 

For the record,  now I know that a punishment spanking is nothing like our fun spankings, and I’ll be getting my story in on time for now on.  At least that’s the current plan.

See you later for more Aimless Rambling.