This post contains a brief usage of strong language (L).
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It was one of those cool, soggy holidays where there was just not much to do outside. To kick back, rest, and make the best of it, my husband and I had decided to take from mid-afternoon till bedtime for old movies, apples, and popcorn. I had woken that morning with an almost headache and was a little out of sorts, as sometimes happened. I knew this kind of thing made me cranky and snappish, but acknowledging it didn’t help as much as I’d like since having to make extra effort to guard my temper only aggravated me further. To my further vexation, I knew if I didn’t have a cup of coffee, it might turn into a real headache, and I’d been trying to lay off the caffeine. Thankfully, the coffee did help, but I still felt touchy and slouched around in my sweats all day.
My husband left me to my romance novel for the morning. I was called from the depths of my story to find he’d fixed a light lunch for us. I said I appreciated it, and I did, but even that kindness, along with his cleaning up afterward, bothered me somehow. So this was my condition when movie time arrived.
First up was John Wayne in “Donovan’s Reef.” I hadn’t seen it in ages, but as it unfolded, the blend of humor and a sweet story actually had me feeling better than I had all day. Then at the very end, tough older Donovan tosses his feisty young lady love across his lap for a quick paddling before they walk off in agreement about how married life will be. It didn’t ruin my feeling better exactly—the movie was too good for that—but I said quite crossly how dumb that nonsense was.
My husband laughed and observed that I said that every time I saw it. I snapped back that it was because it was a dumb stunt that no one had better ever try with me. He just shook his head, declared intermission, and I went off to the restroom. When I got back, he had tomato soup and fresh, warm grilled cheese sandwiches ready to go. Mmmm, good! And it didn’t bother me as much that he’d done it as he had done lunch.
Next up was a western, “McClintock.” Wayne again, as half of a somewhat estranged couple about our age. I hadn’t seen it in a while either, but the rambunctious silliness and some good songs had me feeling better. Then the slightly spoiled rich young heiress got spanked—admittedly, she had it coming, but still—by her fiancee. I grumped at it, but the story moved along. Again, right at the end, Wayne takes the woman’s mother across his knee and spanks her in her wet underwear right in front of the whole town. She chases him down, and the last we see, everything is rosy, and they are obviously headed for a great time in the sack that evening. I very crossly made the same observation I had before. Then I really snapped at him for saying that’s what I always said. He simply declared intermission again.
I returned to the smell of homemade kettle corn, a plate of apple slices, and Elvis Presley in “Blue Hawaii.” It was the usual wonderful musical you expected from Elvis. Just perfect as a way to finish a sloppy, gray day. If only Elvis hadn’t just spanked the daylights out of the leading lady in her wet bathing suit. Honestly, what silliness, I thought and said so forcefully. My husband just looked at me, pulling a face and obviously biting his tongue. I told him not to even think about saying it and said, “Why would anyone let themselves be spanked like that anyway?”
“Maybe they liked it somehow or were just curious,” he observed.
“Oh, come on. You’d better never try it with me, and I mean it!” I replied sharply.
He looked at me very directly and said, “I’d never spank you unless you told me to. Your bottom is much too nice, after all.”
“Not much chance of that,” I said. “I can’t see any good reason for it at all. Can you?”
“Maybe you do it for the same reason you whip otherwise perfectly harmless, innocent cream,” he answered.
“Huh?” I queried at his seeming non-sequitur.
“Well, it could be,” he replied.
I just gave him a look at this useless response.
“What?” he asked.
“You know what,” I said and continued to just look at him. I got nothing more in response than a silly grin. “Oh, come on, you’re not gonna make me ask, are you?” I snapped as my mood started to fray.
“Wouldn’t do you any good to ask. You’ll get an answer you’ll only understand if you have me spank you first. Then I’d be happy to tell you,” he answered and didn’t even smirk—which really annoyed me.
I glared at him. No use. He wasn’t going to tell me!
“Kind of eats at you, doesn’t it?” he asked, with a big smirk this time.
“Oooohhh!” I said most intelligently. “I’m going to bed!” And so we did. He gave me a nice, deep massage all down my back, and I drifted off with a very thoroughly kneaded butt.
I woke in the morning in much the same state as I had the day before. Wonderful. I wasn’t sick, just tired of these occasional grumpy near-headache days. I dragged myself to the bathroom, but brushing my teeth and washing my face only helped a little bit.
My husband was lying in bed just looking at me with my frazzled hair and rumpled sweats. And smiling. “Didn’t you sleep well?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I grumbled. “Probably couldn’t get that stupid question of yours out of my mind,” I said in an attempt at humor. Then it hit me, and I said with some heat, “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Those particular movies and that stupid question. It’s going to bug me all day now, and I’m just not in the mood for it.”
He just looked at me, got out from under the covers, sat naked on the edge of the bed, and said, “You know how to get the answer, dear.”
I just stared at him. I knew him. I would have to do it to get any peace, no matter how I felt or what else I thought. I must have stood there for a full 30 seconds before I said, “Fine.”
“Fine, what?” he asked.
“You know what. I’m really not in the mood for this,” I snapped back.
He just looked at me.
I almost never use this kind of language, and it’s no excuse, but I was really put out. “Fine. Spank me. I want you to spank me right the fuck now. All right? Right the fucking fuck now!” I shouted it, stamping my foot and even beginning to cry, of all things.
He half rose from the bed and, almost before I knew it, had me across his knees, practically ripping my sweatpants all the way off in the process. He didn’t even pause. Holding me down firmly with his left arm, he just laid into my bottom with the right. Nothing excessive, but each and every stroke stung, and the effect was cumulative.
I lost count as I felt the warmth begin to build down there. I finally quit struggling. My sobbing for no good reason—it didn’t hurt that much—faded away as I noticed with surprise that the heat was building in another very intimate area, too.
About then, he stood, tossed me on the bed, and sliding into that new warmth between my upraised knees, just hammered me into an orgasm. Mercy, I thought.
After a quick shared shower, he asked, “How are you feeling now?”
To my amazement, I felt fine! And I said so. All the fog was just gone.
He nodded knowingly and said, “Good. I had hopes.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I thought maybe the endorphins and such from a good spanking, never mind the screwing and associated aerobics, might help. Who needs caffeine? The brain makes the best drugs anyhow. The trouble was, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get you to ask.”
It took me a few seconds, but then I asked, “All right then, oh-so-wise one. I think I’ve earned the answer, and it had better be worth it. Why do you whip perfectly harmless, innocent cream?”
He gave it a pause and answered, “Because it makes it better.”
I wanted to smack him. He was right, though. There are times, just once in a while, where the cure for that grumpy, snappy mood upon waking is best fixed by a nice brisk spanking on my bare bottom—with or without the screwing. I’m getting pretty good at telling when to ask, too, and oddly enough, unlike the begrudged cup of coffee, the thought of having to ask for a spanking has come to be quite a pleasant one. He certainly never seems to mind obliging me.
Brain chemicals, aerobics, who knows? But it seems to work well for us, so maybe it will for someone else out there, too. At any rate, now we all know why you whip cream!
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