Monthly Maintenance

by Blushing Books

January- Firm Resolutions

She unfolded it, forcing herself to read her handwriting. "No. 1 - walk around the park at least five times a month. No. 2 - get a doctor’s appointment. No.3 - write thank you notes for wedding gifts." Even more awful, "No. 4 -- Eat healthy lunches such as salads at least four times per week." But the worst came after the numbered lines, where Rob’s printing took over. "I vow to make a good faith effort to accomplish these resolutions. If I fail, I agree my husband may take all necessary steps to make sure I succeed the next year." Although he’d suggested and composed her promise, she’d signed it, adding "Mrs. Robert Johnson to be" after her maiden name.

Of course she’d wondered what Rob meant by "all necessary steps", but thought he might intend to give her special help. Maybe he’d start reminding her to exercise or grill low-fat hotdogs for them on the weekend . But as their wedding day grew closer, she suspected he might have different ideas regarding her conduct. Ideas she found both exciting and scary, like standing on the platform at an amusement park waiting for her first roller coaster ride.

She remembered the first time he’d given her that funny feeling in her stomach. For their August honeymoon, they’d chosen the Caymans, hoping to alternate long dives on the reefs with lazy afternoons in their hotel room. Their travel agent put together a package requiring both an initial deposit and a partial payment within thirty days of departure. The week the second installment came due, Rob got called out-of-town on an assignment.

"It’s not a problem," he told her from the airport. "I already wrote out the check. Just get it from the file cabinet in my study. Look in the travel folder. Then drop it in an envelope and mail it to them. You can get it there in time."

Of course she’d promised, but that week brought many unexpected developments at her own work, plus she still had lots to get done for the wedding. Between emailing her bridesmaids and renegotiating the hors d’oevres selection with the caterer, she kept forgetting to run by Rob’s place. As the week slipped by, she vowed she’d pick up the check and take it personally to the agency so as to avoid any delay through the post office. On the final day, she planned to run the errand on her lunch hour. But before she got out the door, a senior partner corralled her on an emergency motion, and she didn’t reach his apartment until long after business hours.

Her phone rang immediately after she got home. "Andrea, I don’t understand this," Rob said anxiously. "Are you sick? Injured? I just got an email from Ken at Universal Travel. He said they were canceling the trip because they never got the second deposit."

"I’m so sorry," she told him, spilling out the story of her time conflicts. He listened silently, then sighed.

"Honey, I understand all that, but you needed to make this a higher priority. Didn’t you know we could lose not only our reservations, but the money I already put down?"

She felt like crying. "I’m sorry, sweetie. It will never happen again."

"I hope that’s true," he said slowly. "When we get married, we need to trust each other completely. I don’t want to be halfway across the country worrying if you’re really doing the things you said." They both became silent. "You know what you need, don’t you?"

"A chance to do it right next time?"

"Yes, of course, but no, I had something else in mind. Something that helps careless young ladies remember their promises." Again silence loomed between them as she fought to calm her rapid breathing. "Do you know what I’m talking about?"

"I —". She stopped. Even though this was Rob, her beloved soon-to-be-husband, she couldn’t find the right words

He paused, then said sternly. "You need an old-fashioned spanking, Andrea. Over my knee on your bare bottom. And if I were there tonight, that’s exactly what you’d be getting. But because I’m here instead, and fortunately squared things with Ken by putting it on my credit card, we’ll let it go this time. However you know what to expect if you break your word again."

February- Groundhog Spanking

“Have you had your coffee yet?” she asked him, as he hung his coat in the closet. With a faint smile touching her thin lips, she went on, “You could never start the day without Starbucks Café Verona, any more than I could.”

“It smells great, but I have had some already.”

With one of the new female rookies at the agency? The thought made her grin grow narrower beneath her clear red gloss.

“Well, then, let’s get to work,” Ginger said.

Turning towards the living room on his right, Herb said resentfully, “I see that you have already started it. You took out my favorite leather easy chair and my Western paperbacks.”

“I dragged them both down to the basement, yes,” she told him. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a Colonial house. We bought it because it is always the easiest style to sell, in case you didn’t remember. That means everything must be elegant and formal…especially in the dining and living rooms, which are the first thing that the buyer sees, on either side of the entrance hall.”

“Yes, I remember how you kept saying that,” he muttered. “I happened to like Western ranch houses. I also notice that they are getting more popular now, because more elderly empty nesters are looking for places with no stairs to climb.”

“Well, we did not buy a Western ranch house,” she went on, with a great show of patience, putting her hands on her hips “And that cracked leather chair and those paperback Westerns do not fit in a Colonial home. As you see, my new Queen Anne clawfoot chair with the white brocade upholstery looks just right next to the marble fireplace, and so do the leather-bound classic novels. You can take your things to your apartment, where anything will fit right in.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that tonight,” he said. “Now don’t we have a few more things to do?”

“Lots of them. Just to start with, we’ve got to replace all the bulbs in the dining room chandelier.”

“You mean, I’ve got to do it.”

“Well, I’m just not tall enough, unless I stand on a chair. That could be dangerous, if there’s no one here to catch me when I fall.” Fearing that that made her sound too helpless and needy, she went hastily on, “I will help you, though. I can stand next to the fixture handing you up the bulbs.”

As she stood gazing up at him, where he stood on top of the ladder, she could not help noticing how tight his backside was and how strong and square his hands appeared. Even worse, she could not fight her own strange sense of satisfaction at standing beneath him, as his helpmeet.

Now she shook her head harder than ever. They had been completely equal partners, just as they should be, even if she sometimes had to repeat her opinions more than once before he agreed to them.

On that basis, they had been a great success…to the point where their careers had taken up all their time. Realtors had to work on evenings and weekends, when clients were free to shop for homes.

And, she feared, they had spent too much of their free time talking about their work…deciding how much they should ask for each house, for instance. Sometimes, their discussions turned into something more like debates, although she usually won them.

The last disagreement had become so heated, he had wound up walking out of the office right in front of the client, and she had been too proud to try to stop him. Instead, she had just made some excuse for him and gone right on making the sale. Funny, she could no longer even remember which fight it had been. There had been so many in the last few years.

“All done now.” This time she almost jumped, because his words seemed to fit their situation so well. He meant, of course, that he was done changing the light bulb, but the phrase also described their relationship.

March-The Scent of Tennessee Spring

“Kind of ironic, ain’t it?” he stated in a matter of fact tone. “That’s one job I’ll never have: porter. But that’s the name all right. Porter Reams. Glad to make your acquaintance.” He reached his huge, calloused hand over the fence and shook the dainty one she offered. That little hand shouldn’t be trying to break up ground, he thought. Look what this darn war has brought us to. Not a decent whole man in the county to do the heavy work for a sweet little creature like this here.

“And I’m Emma Wythe,” she replied as she winced a bit from his too firm grip. He noticed and gentled his touch, but it was too late. He’d made her nervous and she spoke without thinking. “I’ll be happy to use that pick for you and break up the ground for your Victory Garden. I know it must be difficult for you seeing as you’ve...” Her voice trailed off as she registered the hard look on his face. “I don’t mean to give offense, sir. I was only trying to help.”

He looked down at the crutch in his right hand then at the pick in his left. “The day I need a lady like you to break up ground for my garden is the day I get out my shotgun and do what I should have done years ago when I first lost this leg.” He threw the pick into the frozen earth and strode away before his anger got the better of him. He’d fairly shouted the last few words at her, but the way she flinched when she saw the pick penetrate the hard-packed soil made him more angry with himself than he was with her. He’d hurt her shaking her hand and mistreated her by shouting at her, then topped it off by scaring her with his uncontrolled angry strength. Good then, he thought to himself. She’ll know to stay away.

Until the county had asked everyone to start keeping Victory Gardens to help with the war effort, Porter had only put in a few cabbages and potatoes every fall. They’d last till the first hard frost, which sometimes didn’t come till December. Then he’d start seedling tomatoes and plant them after the danger of frost was past. He grew a few tomatoes and cucumbers to remember Sherry by every year, but didn’t bother with much else until last year, when he planted the biggest Victory garden around. With the bottom half of his right leg missing, he couldn’t go over to Europe where he belonged, fighting beside his neighbors and friends, but he could at least grow food to feed their children and wives waiting at home, so that’s what he intended to do.

In fact he was expanding his plot as his 1943 New Year’s resolution. He’d just heard about air raids on Berlin and he knew that his buddies were probably in the thick of it all. He couldn’t be there with them, but he could use every inch of the two acres his Daddy hadn’t sold off to grow food. He wished now Daddy hadn’t sold off the land. First off he would have it for more garden, and second he wouldn’t have to deal with bothersome neighbors like that little school teacher next door. Though each house had a two acre lot, their two houses had been built rather close together to take advantage of the relatively flat hill top overlooking the gently sloping land around them. Gardens had to be carefully laid out to allow for correct drainage, but it could be done on either side of the fence. That meant that he would have to work side by side with her.

“She was only trying to be helpful, Porter,” his father said the next morning when Porter told him about yesterday’s incident. “And don’t be giving me that look. I can’t tan your hide any more, but I can tell your Momma and she’ll let you have it with the skillet.”

They both laughed at his joke, since his mother reached five feet if she stood on her toes, and Porter was well over six feet even when he slouched. She might give him a piece of her mind, but she’d never use the skillet for anything but Sunday’s fried chicken. He ate at their house every Sunday, but kept to himself most of the week, working on cars at his garage when there was work and tending his garden when things were slow. Car fixing didn’t need two legs and he was strong enough to do with one hand anything in the garden that needed doing so that his other hand was free to hold the crutch.

“If anybody’s hide needs tanning, it’s that little school teacher. She shouldn’t be breaking up the land this early. Surely she knows it’ll freeze again. And just how big a garden does she think she can handle?” He was letting a bit too much exasperation show, and his father had to hide a smile when he realized that Porter must be interested in this new neighbor.

April-Easter Hat

“How’s your morning, dear?” she asked.

“Quite well, except that the mayor is in the worst of moods.” He stomped about fretting all morning. I could barely hear to do my sums.

“And what set him wrong?” Matilda asked, taking off her bonnet and hanging it up along with her short cape. “Surely he had a good reason. Mr. James is usually such a mild-mannered man.”

“He has a perfectly good reason,” her husband said, his handsome face growing serious. “It seems his wife went into Clarksville a fortnight back - with Mrs. Hart - to visit the merchants and purchased a dress worth two weeks wages. When he confronted her about the wastefulness of such an expenditure, she said she wanted finery to match her companions. In other words, her allegiance to her own vanity was more important than her allegiance to her husband.”

Matilda stood, her face hot with shame at hearing herself described in the tale of another woman’s vice. She walked over to the bookshelf and let her fingers absently play along the leather bound spines. “Well, perhaps it was just a moment’s weakness that he will excuse. After all, husband, Easter is upon us and we wives all wish to look lovely for our husbands.”

“Hmph.” Raymond Jenkins’ derisive snort could not be interpreted as anything other than condemnation. “I’d hardly think my wife lovely adorned in finery outside our budget. If I looked at such a woman, I’d find her shameful to behold.”

At this, Matilda Jenkins instantly burst into such a violent fit of tears that her husband dropped his fork. Pulling the napkin from around his neck, he rushed to her side.

“Tildy,” he said. “Tildy, darling, what’s wrong?”

But she could barely muster the words to tell him and only cried harder until he ordered her quite sternly to calm her emotions. Matilda was not completely successful, but was able to calm down enough to give him a full accounting of what she’d done at Hart’s Mercantile, how she’d been lured by the pretty ribbons and had been too embarrassed to put them back after she found out their exorbitant cost.

Her husband was sympathetic but stern. “Tildy, you know better than that. We’re saving for a place in town, so that I can be closer to work and we can spend more time together. You want a nice house with a little yard and a rose garden. You’ll never have it if you fritter our money away on ribbon.”

“I know,” she sniffed.

“You must take it back,” he said.

“Take it back?” A vision of Mrs. Hart’s smirking face floated before her. “No!”

“You must, Tildy.” Raymond Hart’s voice tone was inflexible.

“I will do more sewing next week, to make up the difference,” she cried.

“No, that is not the point,” he persisted. “You will learn nothing if I allow you to keep those ribbons, save that you can flaunt my rules without consequence.”

Tildy felt her face grow hot. She crossed her arms. “That is not true,” she said. “I never ask you for anything, Ray. I pinch pennies, mend my own clothes and have saved you more in six months than other wives spend in a year. I have a right to a few ribbons and I shall not return them!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.

Her husband sighed and walked to the door and for a moment - a brief moment - Matilda thought she had won, until she saw him lock the door and stride back towards her, his face grim and purposeful.

She had precious little time to contemplate being lifted and hauled over to the chair, where he sat before pulling her over his knee.

“I warned you, Matilda, that if you ever did anything like this you would be spanked!”

Matilda whimpered and squirmed. “All right, Raymond, I’ll take the ribbons back!”

Her husband pulled up her dress and opened her pantelettes to reveal her smooth, round buttocks.

“It’s too late for that,” he declared. “You had your chance and chose to defy me, wife, and you’ve been warned of the consequences of disobedience.” And without any further preamble, he began to spank her.

May-Mother’s Day in the Spanking Satellite

“HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!”

* * *

At those startling words, they both wheeled towards the hallway. As stunned as they were, they were obviously not as shocked as the two young people who stood staring at them, their mouths laterally hanging open. At last, the young man started shaking his head slowly in disbelief, until his long brown hair fell over his bony forehead, as he clutched a bouquet of roses.

“Is that your mother, Emma?” he finally managed to ask.

“Who else would it be?” the girl snapped back. “Only she has obviously lost her mind. The real question is…who is that man standing over her, holding a belt and wearing the bathroom rug?”

“It’s supposed to be a bearskin,” Melanie Wardman explained feebly, as she pushed herself up from the table. Pulling off the linen tablecloth, she hastily wound it around herself.

“It isn’t really a bearskin, of course,” she explained. “We got it at JC Penney, and this tan color looks sort of like animal fur. We also got this choker there, in the jewelry department.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Emma told her…in a tone that always terrified her eighth-grade English students. “Who IS that man, and why is he…No, don’t answer,” she added quickly, as her mother started to speak. “I know perfectly well why he is holding the belt. My real question is…how can you let him treat you that way?”

“Well, I told you I had found a new boyfriend, and that he was different from your father in many ways.”

“Different?” her daughter howled. “I should HOPE so! We came here to surprise you and meet him…”

“And I was looking forward to meeting you too, Nick, when I have heard so much about you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wardman.” He started holding his hand out. Seeing, again, that she was using all her fingers to clutch a tablecloth around her, he dropped his own palm quickly at his side.

“Never mind that now!” his sweetheart shrieked. “The point is, now we wish you had never heard of him. This fellow is an utter pervert…and he’s made you into one, too.”

“Now, just a moment there.” They all jumped, as the older man spoke for the first time. “I won’t have you speaking to your mother that way.”

“How will you stop me?” Emma demanded, thrusting her fists against her slim hips. “Will you whip me, too?”

“Of course not! You are not my slave girl.”

For once, she was speechless, gasping so hard that her firm young bosom heaved beneath her blue silk t-shirt. “And my mother IS your slave girl?” she finally demanded. “Mother, where in the world did you FIND this guy?”

“On the Internet, of course,” Melanie replied.

“You are having an affair in real life with a man you had met on line? What is the MATTER with you? I know you have been lonely since father died, even though that was ten years ago…but I didn’t think you had gone mad.”

“Of course, I obeyed the safety rules,” her mother defended herself. “I met him in a public place, and I made sure some friends at my insurance agency saw us together. They were all glad I had found someone, I might add…much happier than you seem to be. Of course, I also have a safe word that will stop him if I feel he is going too far.”

“That sounds about right,” Nick offered. “The safe word is like giving Emma the key to your house, in case of an emergency.”

His sweetheart immediately turned on him.

“That didn’t turn out so well either.”

“You were the one who wanted to surprise them,” he reminded her timidly. “Didn’t I say we should call ahead?”

Ignoring that question, the girl went on, “As for those computers you love so much, they caused the whole problem. The school district would be better off without them.”

Turning to her mother, she said, “Anyway, your friends were happy because they thought you had found a Romeo…not a Simon Legree. Where did you ever get such a crazy idea anyway?”

Rather than answering, her mother glanced towards the mahogany bookcase in the parlor across the hall. It was filled with old paperbacks. That itself seemed strange in that formal room, with its white crown molding above the soft beige walls and floral draperies.

Those window coverings were heavy brocade, the doors were thick paneled wood and the walls were solid brick on all four sides. Thank goodness for that, Emma realized. Otherwise, everyone in Wilmette would probably have heard the noise they made, even across the half-acre lot…and half the people in Chicago would have heard them, too.

Thinking about their lovely house made her angry again. How could she stand to see her childhood home being defiled, along with her father’s memory? And how could her mother have done such a terrible thing to her?

Marching across the hall, she took a closer look at the bookshelf. It immediately answered her question.

“It’s those Savage Satellite novels of yours!” she cried, as she strode back to the dining room. “I thought they were only science fiction stories, left over from your own college days, until I learned from the Internet that most people called them the Spanking Satellite series. Judging by your costume, sir, I assume that you are one of the Vikings of the Savage Satellite.” She bowed coldly in his direction.

“Just how do you know so much about spanking stories?” he demanded.

“None of your business!” she snapped again. “Can I assume, then, that you met my mother on a Spanking Satellite fan site?”

“Not just a fan site,” he informed her. “It’s also for people who want to act out the stories in real life…Centurions of the Savage Satellite, Rangers, Sheiks, Vikings, and so on.”

“I would have expected the readers to be college kids!”

“Well, they aren’t.” To her surprise, he smiled. “I admit, though, I was shocked after I met your mother and realized she did not look like the young Grace Kelly, in that picture she e-mailed me.”

Seeing his sweetheart’s look of disappointment, he quickly went on, “I mean, the resemblance was close enough. I can see where you got your good looks from. But I still had to punish her for lying, and that was the first spanking I gave her. I forgave her, though. After all, I don’t really look like that picture of the young Kirk Douglas I sent her.”

“You certainly do not,” the girl muttered. “More like a fifty-year-old man with a blond crewcut that’s turning grey and face that’s gotten wrinkled and brown from too much time outdoors. Your arms are still strong enough, though…obviously!”

“Well, they should be,” he answered. “I work hard for a living, as a construction foreman. That’s why I have to be outside all the time. Of course, you probably think that’s not good enough for your mother.”

“Nothing wrong with a construction foreman…even if my father was an accountant. But there IS something wrong with standing there in a fake bearskin rug, holding a strap. And it’s even worse to see my mother standing there with nothing on but a tablecloth and a slave collar.”

June-A Bouquet for Briony

It had been so hard to take her home, to bring the evening to an end, and he’d stalled as long as possible, holding her and kissing her and talking with her in the car before he’d finally let her go with a sigh and begun to drive her home.

“Oh my God!” she cried unexpectedly when the midnight news began on the radio. “That’s not really the time, is it? How could it have got so late? I’m going to get killed!”

“Were you supposed to be home at a certain time?” Rick asked with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have kept a closer eye on the time for you.”

“I guess I was embarrassed to say I’m 18 and still have a curfew,” Briony whispered with a blush, making her cuter than ever in Rick’s eyes.

“Will your folks be waiting up for you?”

“More than likely Dad will be. If he is I’ll cop it for sure.”

“I’ll explain,” Rick offered, but she shook her head violently.

“No! I’ll go in by myself. You drop me up the road a bit.”

“Will you be all right?” Rick was starting to be unnerved by her seriousness. “He won’t hurt you, will he?”

For a minute she looked as if she might say something, her eyes wide and dark in her pale somber face. But then she shrugged.

“Dad will be mad.” She shuddered. “But he’ll be over it by tomorrow.” She smiled brightly at Rick, a little too brightly maybe. “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay. Promise. And besides, maybe he’s already in bed and I can sneak in and he’ll never know the difference.”

Rick still felt uncomfortable, and when she insisted he drop her off a few doors from her house, he waited until she was safely home and then followed. Glad they didn’t seem to have a dog which would alert the residents to the prowler in their garden, Rick hid in the darkness behind the tree and listened. He hadn’t formulated any particular plan, but vaguely imagined that if he thought Briony was in danger, he could leap to her defense. At first he thought she must have been able to sneak in unnoticed because there was no discernible movement or noise from inside. The light was on in the living room, though, which suggested someone may have been up when Briony made her late entrance. Only thin white curtains covered the window and, from his hiding place in the garden, Rick had a clear view of the comfortable, neat room which was hidden from the view of passerbys in the street by the front hedge.

He had an equally clear view of Briony when she entered a moment later followed by a tall, strongly-built man with raying temples, whom Rick rightly guessed to be her father. They stopped in the middle of the room and Rick could see the older man talking to his daughter. He wasn’t ranting and raving, however, and seemed in no danger of losing control and becoming violent so it appeared “being killed” in Briony’s world meant being subjected to a stern scolding. Rick just hoped it wouldn’t also include a long grounding and a ban on her seeing him again.

She looked more adorable than ever, he thought, standing in front of her father like that, her head bowed and her hands clasped solemnly in front of her, for all the world like a truly obedient daughter. Still Rick hadn’t heard any raised voices, and as Briony’s father had fetched something from a draw in the sideboard and then seated himself comfortably on the couch, Rick expected to see Briony apologize one more time and then go to her room. He was totally unprepared for what in fact happened next.

Removing her shoes and coat, and putting her handbag with them, she padded in bare feet to stand next to where her father had seated himself, and after saying something to him which Rick couldn’t hear but which elicited only a shaking head, she slowly reached under her skirt and pulled her panties to her knees. Rick gasped in shock, wondering what kind of perverted acts her father was expecting her to perform, and was about to leap to the window through which he was spying, when he saw Briony hitch up her skirt and lay across her father’s lap. At the same time, her father picked up the sturdy wooden ruler he’d placed on the couch beside him and the truth of what was taking place was suddenly, blindingly clear. The young woman Rick had so recently been wanting to make love to was now no more than a naughty girl over her Daddy’s knee waiting to have her bottom spanked for disobedience.

July-Miss Independence

Sebastian, looking concerned, could only nod as his mother was led out and down the steps to the cruiser. Chloe couldn’t believe what was happening as she was pushed into the back and sat there, stunned and angry as the sheriff climbed in the front and drove out onto the road. After a moment, she spoke up. “This isn’t the way to town,” she said.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “And you’re not really under arrest. I just wanted to show those boys back there that you couldn’t lay your hands on me like that.” He glanced over the seat at her. “We need to have a talk.

He pulled onto a dirt road and then back into an apple orchard. The dew was still on the ground as he helped Chloe out of the car. Unlocking her cuffs, he removed them and took them off. “Let’s take a walk,” he said.

Chloe looked up at him nervously. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to come to a meeting of the minds about our disagreement. What you did back there was really stupid, Miss Klein. Those boys have had a rough time, I agree, but it won’t help them to mock authority right in front of them.”

Chloe glared at him. “I wasn’t mocking authority,” she said. “I was mocking you.”

Roark turned to her. “Is that what you were taught where you come from? That authority is only authority if it meets your expectations?”

“Something like that,” said Chloe.

“That won’t fly out here,” said Roark, feeling exasperated. “You keep this up and you’re going to end up with those boys getting in worse trouble, and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,” said Chloe. “Especially coming from the keystone cop of some one-horse town. I’m going back. And no, I don’t need a ride. The walk will do me good.”

“Oh no you don’t. I’m not finished talking to you.” But when Roark reached out to grab Chloe’s shoulder, she turned and slapped him - hard. The motion surprised them both, and he could see in her eyes that she realized - finally - that she’d crossed a line.

This time when he grabbed her, she did not resist as he pulled her back to the car. “Great, she thought. I’ve done it now. I really have assaulted him. Silently, she cursed her temper and what she knew was an innate disrespect of men and authority. Chloe wondered what would happen to the boys - including her son - once she was convicted. But when they got to the cruiser, rather than putting her inside, Roark lifted her and slammed her down on the hood to face him.

“You got anything you want to say?” he asked.

“Before you really arrest me?” she asked, and tears of anger - at him and at herself - sprung to her eyes.

“No, before I offer you a deal.”

“Chloe blinked back the tears and looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of deal? Because I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, giving her a little shake. “It’s not what I have in mind. Something quite different, in fact. You can either go downtown and get booked or you can consent to me giving you what you really deserve - a spanking.”

“What?” Chloe was indignant. “You’re giving me a choice between hitting me and arresting me? And that’s supposed to be a fair choice? Fuck you!”

“Fine.” Roark pulled the cuffs out, but as he did, again Chloe was faced with all that she would lose.

“No. Wait!” He stopped and looked at her and she looked up at him. “Why? Why do you even want to do that?”

“To show you that sometimes it’s just the medicine defiant children - and adults - need. That limits and punishment aren’t the worst things in the world. Don’t tell me you don’t think you deserve something for the way you’ve handled this whole situation. We both know I was just doing my job.”

Chloe felt trapped. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Alright then,” Roark said and - placing a foot on the bumper of his car - lifted Chloe up and over his knee.

August-Old Fashioned Day at the State Fair

How could he ask her to do something she was so opposed to? Baking a pie, auctioning it and herself off to the highest bidder…!!! And even if that money was to go for a good cause, it was still flesh peddling, and she didn’t want to do it, even in a spirit of ‘old-fashioned fun’. It was degrading to women. Not all the men who would be bidding would be ‘safe’ and she could just picture one of them slipping a roofie in some poor woman’s drink and then raping her! Her father didn’t see it that way, of course, and thought she was being foolish. It didn’t surprise her that her younger brother was going along with it, either. Their Dad would be financing his participation and Eric was dependant on their father for his support, but she certainly wasn’t. It was HIS idea that she live in this particular apartment complex, and that she drive a fancy car. It all had to do with his image, not with her wants or needs. She should have told him ‘no’ and called his bluff. She should have, but she loved him, and she didn’t!

And, worst of all, she simply couldn’t believe that Miller Coddington would go along with her father and participate in a contest that was too sexist for words! He’d just better not bid on her pie or he would be sorry! she vowed. In fact, it would serve her parent right if she had a royal fit at the fair and it was splattered all over the newspapers. Maybe then he would stop involving her in things she wanted no part of! She fantasized about that and it brought a smile to her face when she thought of baking a pie that was truly awful and watching some unsuspecting reporter or lobbyist trying to eat it while sitting across from her. She would at least have a bit of her own back, she decided with a grin.

When Liz left her apartment a few minutes later, she didn’t look like the same woman. There wasn’t a trace of make-up on her pretty face, her hair was neatly pinned up on top of her head, and she was wearing scrubs. She drove a compact car, and left by the service entrance. She arrived at the hospital in plenty of time for her shift, and very few people there associated Elizabeth Martin, R.N., with Lizzy Martin, the Governor’s spoiled and pampered daughter. She didn’t take pains to hide the fact of her father’s identity, but the people she worked with knew her as a hardworking, competent nurse, and treated her with respect. She never brought politics to work, and when someone’s life was on the line, they didn’t want a nurse whose mind wasn’t on the job. Elizabeth loved her work, and she was good at it. He coworkers knew they could count on her, and she found that satisfying.

September-Teaching Abby

Grizzly Flats

1870

Peter Cunningham woke with a smile on his face, and a sense of anticipation for the day ahead. It was the same feeling he got every year on the first day of school since he was a small boy entering the first grade and finally permitted to walk along with his older brothers, Micah and Caleb, to the school in town where his Pa held the job of Sheriff. His first teacher was a pretty young lady by the name of Miss Ellen, and Peter was enamored of school from the moment he saw her smile. He was a quick learner and graduated at the top of his class of four, and after a three year stint as a deputy to his Pa, who was by then a Territorial Marshal, Peter decided to become a schoolmaster. His brothers teased him mercilessly, but he studied and got his Teaching Certificate, and here he was, ready for his fifth year teaching grades one through twelve, still as excited as he was as a five-year-old on his very first day. His brothers might prefer sleeping on the hard ground and skipping meals while chasing after outlaws, but Peter was satisfied that his job was just as important as theirs, and he slept in his own bed every night!

Peter was at school early, writing his name on the chalkboard and making sure the room was tidy, although he knew before walking in that it was spotless from the cleaning he’d given it over the last several days. He opened the windows to let in the fresh air and made sure the water bucket was full and the dipper clean. Unlike other teachers he’d known throughout his lifetime, Peter didn’t feel it necessary to keep a paddle or switch or a strap hanging in full view of the students. He rarely felt it necessary to punish a student in that manner, and when he did, it was done privately and never in front of the other children. He preferred to use other means to discipline, ones that would educate. Of course there were exceptions, and many times he felt it was the parents who needed a good tanning, and his mind immediately went to Mimi Evans’ Ma. Mimi was spoiled and her Ma was the one doing the spoiling. He’d gone to Frank Evans and asked him to step up, but the man was afraid of his wife and it showed. If it was up to Peter, he’d give Mrs. Evans a tanning she’d never forget, but that was just a fantasy, and he knew it. He’d just have to be patient again this year, and hope that Mimi did some growing up over the summer months.

He smiled as he looked outside and saw the children starting to arrive. He recognized most of them, and sighed deeply when he saw Mimi showing off her new dress to a couple of other girls and then pointing and making fun of what they were wearing. George Barns pulled up in a wagon, bringing Georgie and his little sister, who was probably going to start school this year from the uneasy look on her face and the way George patted her back comfortingly. He spotted another little girl who didn’t appear to be hold enough for school, but her Ma was tiny, too, and she looked even more frightened than the child, although she was smiling reassuringly at the little girl as she held her hand.

Peter looked at his watch, and then went to the doorway and rang the bell to invite the children inside, and let the stragglers know they’d best hurry. He grinned as he spotted the Jefferson twins come on a run, their wild red hair sticking out in all directions in spite of their Ma’s attempts to comb it down before they left the house. Peter greeted everyone with a smile.

“Good morning,” he greeted the young mother, surprised to realize she couldn’t be more than twenty at the most. “I’m Peter Cunningham,” he introduced himself.

“Hello, Mr. Cunningham. This here is my little girl, Jenny. She’s in first grade.”

The poor woman had tears in her pretty green eyes. “Jenny will be just fine, Mrs.….?” He was embarrassed not to have her name.

“Oh…!” she blushed. “I forgot that part. I’m Mrs. Abigail Burnham.”

“Jenny will be fine, Mrs. Burnham.”

“She’s so little,” the woman barely whispered, and when she saw the question in his dark eyes, she answered, “She just turned five a few weeks ago, Mr. Cunningham, and she wants to come to school.”

“Good. I was anxious to go to school at your age, too, Jenny. Go on inside and have a seat at a desk toward the front of the room. I’ll be right along,” he smiled at her in encouragement. “Did you send her lunch or do you want her to come home at noon, Mrs. Burnham?”

“Ohhhh! I forgot to pick it up from the table!”

“No problem. Just bring it by at noon,” he said with another smile. She was going to burst into tears any second now, and Peter hated to see a woman cry.

“I will,” she agreed, then turned away and took off running for home. Peter looked after her, and then reminded himself that she was a ‘Mrs.’ He went inside and started the business of another school year, leaning down to whisper to Jenny that her Ma would bring her lunch at noon since she forgot it. Jenny gave him a trusting smile. He felt a lump in his throat and realized that he was going to have to be careful not to let himself show favor to the little girl, even though she already had his heartstrings wrapped around her tiny little finger.

October-Something Familiar

“Witches ‘neath a gibbous moon

Dance amid the harvest sheaves,

Casting spells with witches’ runes

Celebrating Hallow’s Eve!”

Bedelia swayed in time with her own chanting, her arms upraised and bare legs flashing as she drew out a spiral with her steps. Her eyes were closed, but she savored the thought of how she knew she must look—her lean body silhouetted in swathes of filmy fabric, black against the blazing backdrop of her fire. Her fingers, snapping and flicking at the air, would be casting long, dancing shadows on the wall. Her hair would be pouring down her back like a river of flame.

She looked, she knew, every inch of her the witch she was.

“Every witch from maid to crone,

Sing the ancient rites arcane!

And never your solo state bemoan

But raise a chorus for Samhain!”

Bedelia twirled around several times to let the echoes of the ritual chant fade away in preparation for the traditional Samhain song. “Woo-hooo, witchy woman, see how high she fli-i-ies! Woo-hoo, witchy woman, she got the moon in her eyes!”

She’d been around for three hundred years, and in her opinion, the Eagles never did a bad gig.

Bedelia felt so good, she let out a peal of her best cackling laughter and, watching from his perch on her mantle place, Impus joined in with his chirping, birdlike giggles. She opened her eyes, but kept dancing, twitching her hips and crooking her finger at Impus in a sly come-on. The diminutive familiar squeaked and leapt to the lampshade to chide her, but when she turned around in her lazy (but alluringly evil) bump-and-grind, his long tail flicked out and smacked her through her skirts.

She giggled and stopped dancing long enough to check on her bubbling brew. Hard cider, cinnamon, real nutmeg, and rum. Bedelia helped herself to a steaming ladleful, and a second, in case the first got lonely. Then she picked up her mug and started scooping cider into it, humming. Only the best rum….

The doorbell rang.

Bedelia stared at the door over the top of her ladle with an expression very near to that of surprise. She could hear giggling on the other side, and furtive whispers, and the shuffling of little feet.

She and Impus exchanged a glance. Of course, she’d known that trick-or-treaters MIGHT happen along, and she was even prepared for it, in the same theoretical way she’d prepared for it every year since they’d commercialized it into a holiday, but this was the very first year Bedelia had actually lived in a neighborhood with the necessary population of juvenile celebrants.

Bedelia plunked the ladle back into the cauldron and headed for the door as Impus scurried beneath the sofa. She picked up her hat with one hand on the way, and with the other, caught up the larger of her two bowls of individually-wrapped candy bars. She nudged a moving box out of the way with a nod and a flex of mental effort and braced herself for human contact.

The door opened on a bevy of little children: two superheroes, a fairy, and a green m&m, all with little plastic buckets in the shapes of various cinematic monster heads. She gave them all two pieces of candy, ooh-ing aloud and privately thinking wistful thoughts of days when costumes had been, if not less commercial, at least scarier.

As they were leaving, a little boy in a vinyl Power Ranger’s costume and a cracked plastic mask came up the walk, skulking to one side as the four larger children scampered away. He climbed her stairs and looked up at her from behind his hand-me-down mask as though he half-expected to be ordered off her lawn. After a moment, he held out a scuffed pillow case and said, “Twick or tweat?”

November-Thankful

But there was one problem. When it came to domestic discipline, Marco did not have an “off switch.” His traditional values were instilled long before I came along, and long before I broached the concept of wife-spanking he’d already decided it was a good plan. What was a lifestyle choice to me was real life to my no-nonsense husband.

“Kelly, I’m telling you just one more time. Turn the game back on and wait for me in the kitchen. If you don’t you’re getting a spanking. One…”

Oh, great. Now he was doing the counting thing. Usually the counting thing was OK. If Marco got to three, the normal ten licks I’d get for a regular spanking would be multiplied by thirty. If he got to five, fifty. He’d never had to get to five. The most I’d ever gotten was thirty and that was enough.

But today I wasn’t interested in the counting game.

“Screw this, Marco,” and just as he said, “three,” I threw the remote across the room. The plastic cover popped off, sending the batteries rolling across the hardwood floor where it crash landed.

I heard one word - “five”- as I found myself in Marco’s strong, blue-collar grip.

“No!” I screamed.

“Yes!” he countered, and the next thing I knew I was in that familiar facedown, over-the-knee position I’d dreamed of so many times before I’d met this man. But this wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare - a nightmare of enduring a spanking I didn’t want, which was something I’d never considered.

And God, oh, God it hurt so bad.

With other spankings I was always able to maintain the sort of control one invariably has when one is planned or even psyched up for something. But this was so different. The initial swats, delivered over my blue jeans - the ones who usually elicited small yelps - drew loud screams this time. I tried to calm down, tried to become one with my submission and with the pain itself, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The punishment that had always been a painful comfort was now something separate and apart. I couldn’t get my mind around it, couldn’t get on top of it. And when Marco’s strong hands began to pull my blue jeans and then my panties down, I felt a fear of the man I’d never before felt.

“No, no, no!!!” I screamed. But Marco ignored me.

“You’ve only had five!” he said.

Five? Just five? He was lying. He was wrong. I just knew he was. I was sure I’d had at least ten. If I only had five that meant I’d have 40 more to go.

“Don’t fight me, young lady!” Marco warned, using words that before this day had made me thrill to hear them, especially when spoken with that thick, sultry accent. But now I was afraid because I did indeed feel like not the young lady I romanticized myself to be over his lap but the young lady he saw me as, a child-wife getting her comeuppance.

He easily restrained me, pinning my arms, and within moments went to work on the bare skin of my bottom. His hand never lost its cadence once he found it. Right buttock, left buttock, right buttock, left buttock, right, left, right, left…The only thing that varied was where on my buttocks he hit me. Sometimes it was high, just by the top of my cleft. Sometimes his hand would seem to slam down into the entire center of my buttock. Other times - and these were the worst - he’d level a series of slaps at the tender skin of my “sit spot.”

By the time he was finished I felt beyond spanked, I felt scorched. And I was more than willing to let him watch his game.

“You’re lucky you didn’t completely break this remote,” he said. From the corner where I stood I watched him pop the batteries back in and snap the cover in place over them. He walked over to where I stood.

“You,” he said, shaking his finger in my face. “You must learn patience. Now off to bed with you. No supper tonight.”

“The paint..” I sniffed. “The tops are off the cans.”

“I’ll put them back,” he said. “And if you are a good wife tomorrow we paint.”

So I went to bed where instead of basking in my usual post-spanking pleasure-pain, I just cried. My heart was truly broken from what I realized was my first real spanking. My mother had always said, “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.” Well, I had. And now I wasn’t sure I wanted it after all.

Now, here I stood, just a day before Thanksgiving - a day after my second “real” spanking - ready to throw in the towel. I was miserable. Utterly and completely miserable. I felt like a failure and a fool. Here I was, having what I thought I wanted and realizing - just as my mother had said I would - that this man wasn’t right for me.

December-A Spanking for Christmas

Tess was growing more and more concerned as the day passed with no word of Nellie and Mike. She’d tried Nellie’s cell phone at least a hundred different times, and she was pretty darn sure that Bill was trying Mike’s too. Neither of them were answering, and she very much feared that Bill was right. Her meddling had cost them two good friends, and no amount of spankings was going to make up for that!

“Tessa Marie,” she heard Bill calling to her, and took a deep breath. There was no hiding from him. It would only make things worse.

“I’ll be there in a moment, Bill. I’m folding a load of towels,” she replied, and wasn’t a bit surprised when he came to find her in the laundry room. “I’m almost done,” she hoped he wouldn’t think she was defying him. Her poor butt was already sore enough, and another spanking on top of the five she’d had already was going to be miserable. She’d cried before the third smack last evening, and she just didn’t want another spanking tonight…

“When you’re done, you go on to our room and get ready for your spanking.”

“Bill, please…? I’m so sore already. You know I can’t sit… Isn’t it enough? Please?”

“I meant what I said, Tess. Until you apologize to both Mike and Nellie in person, you will be spanked. Have you done that yet?” He already knew the answer, and she did too. “I’ll let you chose the implement tonight.”

“I hate to choose…” Tess whined, and then jumped when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it. You finish those towels, then go and get ready for your spanking.” Bill’s voice was firm, and Tess knew that arguing with him would make things worse. She folded the last towel, and decided to put them away in the morning.

“Tess!” Bill called. “Come in here!”

Tess was relieved to have a reprieve. She hurried to see who was here, especially at this hour. To her surprise it was Nellie and Mike, and they were both smiling. She let out a squeal, and Nellie gave her a big hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Nellie whispered in her ear.

“Looks like you were right, Tess,” Bill was grinning ear to ear, more relieved that he cared to admit.

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