Be Careful What You Wish For

Recently I have been reading some blogs, and even managed to comment on one or two of them. I am missing having my own office, and missing having my own computer even more. My i-Pad is brilliant, but sometimes freezes, or simply refuses to write what I want it to write when trying to comment, and to try to write a blog post is nigh impossible.

 
Please be patient with me. We have a year of alterations/building work/trying to stay sane ahead of us. LOL! Hopefully I will be able to resolve the computer crisis, but Dan seems to glue himself to his computer as if it is the last one on earth!

So. It was interesting to read that one or two people around blogland (we all know who they are) have suddenly discovered that their husbands have a boiling point. A point that cannot be passed. A point that you ignore at your peril - or at the peril of your rear end. Ha! I could've told you that. (Giggle!)

I have the most patient stubborn of husbands. He will never be pushed into anything. He allows me the longest leash imaginable. There are times when even I think I am pushing my luck. There are times when I just long for a reaction. 

And do I get it? Nah!

Then there are times when the reaction I get is not at all what I imagined. (Narrowing of eyes here.) I am happily minding my own business, getting on with housewifely tasks, quietly holding forth on day to day matters, and I am suddenly and rudely, with no warning whatsoever, upended over the kitchen table, and hammered into submission.



Well, not quite like that. But you get the overall gist.

As it happens, I was green with envy reading about our Sunny's little episode, and yes, I did snarl a bit to myself (but not out loud, and not at that particular time), but I never expected my nice quiet husband would suddenly take it upon himself to expose my rear to the world at large.

I admit, looking back, that we had had a difficult week. I was not on my best behaviour. (Not my worst either!) 

It happened that I was washing up the breakfast dishes in the sink. 



I was not happy about doing this, because Dan is the world's greatest avoider of dishwashing (and/or drying) and I felt put-upon. (Yet quite frankly, if I let him wash the dishes I have to re-do them all because he leaves little specks and bits on them.) So I was having a moan. Out loud.

Dan was upon me like a whirlwind. For a minute I had highest hopes that he was going to ravish me on the spot, using the kitchen table as a prop. But no. Instead he gave me a number of stinging swats with his hand, and informed me that there would be more later.

All I could think about at the time was the fact that we have a fairly large window in our kitchen, and it looks directly out on to the street, and people are ALWAYS walking past. Especially at that time of the morning. 

Invariably I wave at them, and they wave back. (Giggle) If they had looked in the window at that point they would have been witness to an extremely fed up Dan working off a little energy in the spanking department. 

I was mortified. 

He couldn't care less.




He said he had had enough of my attitude and I had poked the bear far too much. He wasn't allowing it to continue, and I could look forward to a 'proper' spanking later.

'Later' turned out to be the next morning. I had forgotten all about it. I was sitting up in bed, leaning back against several pillows, and reading my Kindle whilst having a bit of a one-way conversation.

He was lying with his eyes closed, replying monosyllablically (is that a word?) and ignoring the lovely hot mug of tea I had brought him.

But then!

I made a move to get up, and he was up and on me like a mongoose after a snake.



"No you don't" I was told firmly. "You just go get an implement. It's time to pay the piper."

(I always move like a slug in such circumstances. I have found it to be the best reaction. Then I hesitate and make excuses that I can't decide which implement to choose.)

"Any damn implement!" Dan barked at me. "Just get a move on."

I minced back to bed with the leather paddle. Dan was by now sitting propped up on the very pillows I had been reclining on earlier. His eyebrows were in a straight line and he looked rather fierce.

 

I started to scramble over his lap, but was stopped. 

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked.

I affected an air of nonchalance. "I don't think so."

"Take them off, Ami."

I am not allowed to remain covered when I am spanked. I know this, but it doesn't stop me wanting to get away with it. I did, however, take my time removing my robe and my knickers, which I had slipped on to go downstairs. (You never know when burglars might strike. And if they do, I don't want to be caught without underwear.)




I lay gingerly over his lap. The wrong way round. (He is still using his left hand. He is having an MRI next week as the doctors think he has collapsed some discs in his back.)

Within seconds a salvo of spanks attacks my bottom. I hardly have time to draw breath. No warm up for me. No delightful "Guess this tune." No starting slowly and building up the heat and allowing my pain threshold to build up with it. Just a sustained, rapid fire first one side and then the other. First one spot and then another. Moving around. Hammering the same spot. Then the dreaded 'double-buttock' swats that attack my sit spots and upper thighs. (Dan discovered the upper thighs relatively recently and can't seem to forget them! I hate being spanked on my thighs more than anything else in the world. I think.)

"The colour's looking good. Nice shade of hot red."


"For heaven's sake have a pause. Everybody else's husbands always pause between volleys."

"I am not everybody else's husbands, and I am not playing around today. You have been needing this for a long time and now I am happy to 'adjust your attitude'. I just wish I could use the same amount of force with my left hand that I do with my right."

I didn't like to tell him that it was far, far harder with his left. I just squawked as loudly as I dared, bearing in mind the windows were open and all the churchgoers would hear. (We live opposite a church and it was nearly time for a service.)

I didn't actually cry, but I came very close. A couple of times he chose to stop and have a quick word in my shell-like, but he then continued with renewed vigour.

Oh, it was ouchy! Oh, it was a 'carry a cushion around with you morning'! Oh, I wished I had an air vent to stand over like Marilyn Monroe. 



Oh, I had crescent shaped bruises for the next three days. (Something I haven't had for a very long time!)

But did I deserve it? Oh, yes.

Will I remember it! Oh, yes.

Did we have absolutely mind-blowingly incredible sex afterwards? Oh, yes!



Just remember. Be careful what you wish for.