The clock on the dash says 1:23.
You’ve been sitting in the driveway for fifteen minutes, inexplicably white-knuckling the steering wheel and trying to work up the courage to go inside. You hoped on the drive home that they might be asleep, that some miracle might have occurred to knock them both unconscious moments before curfew, but that isn’t the case. The house is dim but the living room light is on. They’re waiting, and it probably isn’t earning you any points just sitting here in the dark.
It suddenly occurs to you that he might come drag you out of the car, and that finally motivates you to unwind your fingers and unbuckle your seat belt. You step out of the car, locking it as you walk toward the door, two clicks and a loud beep beep. Even the jingle of the keys seems to echo in the quiet night. You almost whimper when the door opens, because you know how this is going to end before it even starts.
The tv is on but the volume is muted. You shut the door and immediately lean back against it, your bottom pressed against the wood and your lip between your teeth. They’re both home, both awake, and both looking at you.
“How nice of you to come home,” he says, standing and putting his hands on his hips. He doesn’t question where you’ve been or why you’re late. He doesn’t care about either. If you had a good excuse, you wouldn’t have been sitting in the driveway. She looks even angrier than he does, and your gaze is drawn to the hairbrush she holds. She notices your eyes widen and says, “I promised you this would happen if you were late again this month, and here we are.”
Your knees feel weak; you press your weight up against the door for support. “Get over here, now,” he says without sympathy, and then, “I will see to you in your bedroom, after.” His fingers delicately brush the top of the thick leather belt he wears. Now you really do whimper, looking to his eyes and then hers for any sort of leniency, but you find none.
Growing tired of your hesitation, he takes a step toward you and you startle, then practically run toward them. You don’t want him swatting your thighs before the spanking even starts. You wish you could dive over her legs, but she stops you with a look. Pants down first. She never wastes time on jeans. You can’t help but glance at him as you unbutton and unzip and wiggle free of the denim. His arms are crossed and he looks… envious? Oh god, he wanted you first. Of course she won that battle, though for you it was a lose-lose from the start.
The look in his eyes makes you feel like prey, so you throw yourself over the waiting lap as soon as you’re allowed. You feel her arm encircle your waist and she adjusts you on the sofa to her liking. She pats your bottom a few times, cups each cheek for a second, and says “I cannot believe how disobedient you were tonight. After we just talked about this.” You tighten the muscles of your bottom in anticipation. You can’t believe it either. You’re not even sure how it happened.
Her hand lifts and comes down again with a loud smack and she doesn’t stop there. Somehow her stinging palm and narrow fingers manage to cover your entire bottom as she spanks you, leaving no spot untouched for long. You yelp and wiggle, try to calm down but she isn’t giving you any time to recover or process the pain. Occasionally she uses her free hand to pull the muscle and fat of your backside taught, and then she concentrates on tender crease between your thighs and bottom.
It is during one of these painful volleys that you finally cry out, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” and you know immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. She keeps your skin stretched and molds her hand to the same spot, harder than before and you squeal. She does it again to the other cheek. She is relentless. You yell out, “Please!”
”What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?” she says, apparently not willing to be distracted from your initial outburst. “What effort did you make? Did you take any steps to make sure you didn’t miss curfew again?”
You kick your feet, a muffled drumroll on the couch cushion, another “I’m sorry” passing through your lips before you can stop yourself.
”I didn’t ask if you were sorry,” she says, and her voice is so hard that you keep making small mewling sounds, even when she abruptly stops spanking. You reach your hand back, fingers spread, and lightly touch the hot skin of your round bottom.
You yelp and pull your hand away when a sharp swat lands on your thigh, then you scramble in place as your underwear are jerked down abruptly.
“I asked what steps you took to be good, and I would rather not repeat myself again.” She starts spanking your bare skin and your soft sounds become louder and soon match her cadence. You reach out to grab the small pillow wedged in the corner of the couch, clutching it tightly. You don’t know what she wants from you. You really did just lose track of time. You weren’t trying to be bad.
”I don’t know what you mean!” you say, knowing this won’t make her happy but damn sure unwilling to make her ask a third time.
Sure enough, the pain increases as she puts the full and formidable strength of her arm behind the swats. Your cries go up an octave but her voice cuts through them effortlessly. “Did you ask your friends to help you remember to leave?”
”Ahh! No, no ma’am.” Thinking about that makes you blush. What if they asked why it was so important?
”Did you set an alarm on your phone?”
Your face gets even hotter, and your legs seem completely out of your control as they wiggle under her hand. Well that would have been a good idea. You didn’t even think about that. “No, ma’am!” you manage to reply.
“Did you even have it in your mind that you needed to watch the clock, especially after our last talk?”
You had been thinking about it! But you can’t even make yourself answer because now you’re thinking about how you were just over her knee a week ago. How are you here again already?
This time it does seem to be a rhetorical question, though. She stops spanking and picks up the hairbrush, the arm around your waist gripping you tighter and hoisting you up a little.
”No no please no!”
Oh god, is that your voice? It has to be, but it sounds so pathetic. You don’t dwell on it though because she picks up right where she left off, but now it’s wood she’s wielding. “Ow ow ow,” you say over and over again, barely able to keep yourself on the couch.
She’s relentless with the hairbrush, and you don’t know how you’re going to make it through this. “I promise it won’t happen again! I promise! I promise!”
”You promised last time. This time I want you to mean it,” she says harshly, and she’s right, you did promise last time. You meant it then, too, though! The hairbrush hits the spanking-equivalent of a homerun and you howl, but it doesn’t stop her. You start to understand what she said about meaning it. You’ll set alarms from now on. Tell your friends. Just stay home. Whatever it takes to keep your bottom safe from this awful hairbrush.
”I mean it! I swear I mean it!” you squeal, throwing your hand back again despite the risk to your fingers, and she does narrowly miss them. You know because she growls and grabs your wrist and then you find out how nice she’s been so far. Your fingers grasp at nothing, unable to block the hairbrush against her grip on you. Frantic, your other hand tries for a moment to sneak between your bodies and save whatever little bit of your backside might be left, but it’s fruitless. The only thing you accomplish is making her mad enough to trap your legs between hers, and then you are done for. You can’t do anything except for wiggle and wail and take the spanking she wants to give you.
She doesn’t speak for a while after that, just lays into you. Eventually there’s no place that feels better or worse; your thighs, your sit-spots, your poor swollen bottom… everything aches and she doesn’t even slow down when you start crying in earnest. She does begin to speak again, though.
“This is not how I wanted the evening to go. I was so disappointed when midnight came and went and you weren’t home. I was counting on you to be good.”
Oh no. You didn’t know you could feel worse but now you do. “I’m sorry,” you choke out again, burying your face into the crook of your elbow, and this time she says quietly, “I believe you.”
You sob your way through a dozen more swats, the hardest yet, and then she stops and you hear her toss the hairbrush away. She releases your wrist and you allow your arm to fall limply beside the couch, hand resting on the floor. Her fingers comb gently through your hair and massage your shoulders, while her other hand runs softly across and around your tender bottom.
“When you agree to our rules, there will always be consequences for breaking them.” Her voice is calm and kind, so different than it was moments ago, as she continues speaking and touching you. You find it more difficult to unhide your face than you would if she was still spanking you. “But the severest consequences will always come when you don’t even try. You don’t fall into obedience, little one. It takes effort. It takes intention. Can I expect to see more of that from you in the future?”
You nod into your arm and then yelp and jerk your head up as her hand unexpectedly makes hard contact with your bottom again. “Yes ma’am!” you say, “Yes ma’am. Sorry.”
”No more sorries for me tonight,” she says, somehow sounding as docile as a kindergarten teacher and as firm as a British headmistress all at once. She guides your head down, so you’re facing the room as she continues to play with your hair and occasionally brush away stray tears from your cheek. “Save them for upstairs.”
”Ohhhh,” you moan. Oh no. You can’t take any more spanking. Your bottom hurts so much, and you forgot he was up there waiting. You wonder how long she’ll let you lay here, soaking up the brief respite across her lap, but it’s like she can read your thoughts.
”Time to make things right,” she says. You groan and bury your face again, and you swear you hear a light chuckle in her voice as she says, “None of that. You have amends to make.”
How can she be amused? She’s heartless. Except you don’t really feel that way at all. You slide to the floor, careful not to let your backside touch anything, and wrap your arms around her, face pressed against the soft roundness of her stomach. She kisses the top of your head but unwinds your arms much too soon for your liking.
You never even saw him leave but you feel his absence as you look up at her and frown, your cheeks still damp and your eyes filling again. There is a tenderness in her face that was missing before, but it would be a stretch to say you find sympathy there. You stand, beginning to pull up your underwear but she swats your hands away. Embarrassed, you place them obediently on the top of your head while she pulls the thin fabric up over your backside. She taps your calf, indicating the jeans are staying off, and you step out of them gratefully. It will be embarrassing to go up with your bottom so clearly punished, but the thought of denim against your skin is much much worse right now.
She folds them and then hands them to you, and the simple act of having to carry them upstairs before the rest of your punishment makes to you feel small. A sniffle escapes, but she says, “Go on. I’ll see you in the morning.”
”If I make it until morning,” you say mournfully, and she tells you that you will make it until the morning and you’ll survive the rest of the day, too, though sitting comfortably will be out of the question.
Your mouth falls open, and you squeak out “yes, ma’am,” because you don’t know what else to say. The walk upstairs is longer than usual. Your backside already hurts so much that you don’t even want to touch it. Your bedroom is to the right, and the door is ajar; light filters out into the dark hall. You whimper quietly and look to the left. A mirror hangs at the end of the hallway and you make eye contact with yourself, or at least the pitiful version of yourself that resides there. You glance down and wince. Wow. Your bottom is visibly swollen. You reach down and tenderly prod along the edge of your underwear. The slightest pressure from your own fingertips makes you groan.
”Taking your time once again?”
You jump about a foot and turn away from the mirror. He’s standing in the doorway of your bedroom, his silhouette defined and terrifying. You scurry down the hall, head down and holding your breath. You know he’s going to swat you when you walk past him and he does not disappoint or hold back. It propels you forward several steps, and then you stop in the middle of the room, holding your jeans awkwardly in front of you. He walks around you, until he is between you and the bed. He raises an eyebrow at the jeans, and you clutch them a little tighter, but only for a second, then you put them neatly on the dresser. You return to your spot, eyes glued to the carpet, feet barely able to stay still, and painfully aware of your lack of pants.
He circles you slowly, and you hear the clink of his belt buckle as he undoes it. Suddenly there is a whoosh of cool air on bare skin—he jerked your underwear down! You resist grabbing for them but barely, redirecting your hands to cover your face instead. You hear an echoed sound from the cave of your palms and realize it’s you making the noise. You force yourself to put them back at your sides before he scolds you for it.
His fingers glide over some of the damage, places you know are already bruising. He pulls them back up, then walks in front of you again. “She did a number on you, didn’t she?” he says, not unkindly, standing with his hands on his hips and his open belt dangling loosely.
”Yes, sir,” you stammer, unsure of how else to respond. He grabs the buckle end and whips the leather through the loops, fast and easy and with obvious skill. He’s done this many times before.
He folds it into his hand, then with his free one reaches out and tips your chin up to look at him. You clasp your hands nervously behind your back as he searches your face. You aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you see plenty in his face. Disappointment. Resignation. Concern, even. He apparently finds what he wants in yours after a moment because he steps back and removes his hand, though you keep your head up and do your best to look at him.
“Don’t expect me to be lenient because you have already been spanked tonight. You and I are not square.”
You swallow and nod your head, tears welling up again as it really settles in that you let him down. He guides you to the bed, and you place your hands on the white duvet cover. Again your underwear are tugged down, exposing your punished backside, and another whimper escapes. You know you’ve earned this but it is still taking all of your willpower not to run for the door.
”Can we wait until tomorrow?” you say in a small, hesitant voice.
”That sounds reasonable,” he says, and you’re so surprised that you don’t move. Good thing, because a second shock follows, as the thick leather belt he’s been holding lands sharply across your backside and you shriek, “But you just said—“
Another lick lands and you hush; you may be confused but you aren’t dumb. Your knees tremble but otherwise you stay very still.
”Are you telling me,” he says as he delivers another searing lick, “that you don’t appreciate it when I agree to a certain time table and then completely ignore it?”
He follows with half a dozen more fast and hard swats and your eyes are filled with tears again immediately.
”Does it feel good to have your expectations mismanaged like that?” he questions, and another round with the belt.
”No, sir,” you cry out, fingers clutching the bedspread, palms sweaty with the effort as he repeats the process again.
”Does it feel like I respect your time or concerns?”
”No, sir!” You hate this, you regret everything, you just want to go back in time and be good.
”Does it feel like I respect you?”
“No, sir, I’m so sorry,” you sob. You didn’t think of it like that before but of course he’s right. They didn’t arbitrarily give you a curfew. You needed one, and they gave it to you, and you selfishly ignored the time and energy they spent monitoring your behavior.
His hand comes to rest lightly on your back, a small comfort in the middle of your renewed misery, and he says gently, “I know you didn’t mean to. I know you didn’t think about it until it was too late. In the future, though, you will think about it. You will not be a passive participant in the choices that make up your life.”
You nod, unable to speak, and his hand runs up and down your spine. You thought for a brief moment that this was just a punishment, a consequence for a broken rule. Feeling his soft touch alongside his awful belt, you know that it is more than that. He wants you to be better. He expects you to be better.
”Time to finish up,” he says firmly, and his hand is gone again. You groan softly but tangle your hands in the blanket further and dig your toes into the carpet. You’re determined not to move, to show him that you can be obedient and good.
He doesn’t make it easy. The belt falls relentlessly, and you do bend your knees and lean forward and push backward. But your hands and feet stay planted, and you hope that counts for something. He doesn’t miss a spot, methodically decorating your bottom and thighs with stripe upon stripe.
Your stillness comes at a price— you wail through the whole thing. No more soft whimpers, but vocal cries through the pain. Just when you think you’re going to break, his hand returns to the small of your back. You heave great breaths of air, trying to calm down. You can’t help but let out a whine as you feel your swollen bottom pulsing with your quickly beating heart.
Teardrops have splattered the backs of your hands, and the comforter looks like a boring Jackson Pollock. While his one hand remains a comforting weight on your back, the other hands you a box of tissues, which you accept gratefully. As you mop up your wet face, he gently pulls your underwear back into place.
You’re still bent over and more tears splash down even as you are trying to clean up. Your bottom hurts so much! It’s never going to feel normal again. Ever.
He sits beside you on the bed and pulls you into his lap. Usually you protest that you are too big when he does this, but you can’t summon the energy this time, and you don’t feel very big anyway now.
He holds you while you cry, murmuring softly and rubbing your back and telling you that you are good and sweet and that he trusts you to be better, that he knows you can be. His faith in you is overwhelming in itself, and you aren’t sure you are as good as he thinks. You’re sure you will do your best to get as close as you can, though.
When you’re calm, he gives you a few minutes to clean up and change for bed, then returns to tuck you in. You appreciate the comfort of the blanket, even though you know you will kick it off again the moment you are alone. Even the weight of the comforter is too much for your bottom right now.
You already feel dozy as he’s walking toward the door, where you notice her leaning against the frame, watching him put you to bed. You smile and she smiles back at you, then reaches over to flip off the light as he throws an arm around her and kisses the side of her head. They aren’t mad anymore. You sigh contentedly, and are half asleep before the door even closes.