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Because You Asked for It: Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2019-06-09 19:37:09 +0000 UTC
Chapter 8. Kate
“I’m going to spank your bottom,” I said, “and then you’re going to spend the morning figuring out how you’re actually going to fix this problem.” I was irritated with Jordy, not angry, and I wanted to drive home a few lessons, albeit gently. Leaking was an accident but a careless one; I told him to fix the leaks, and he didn’t; he should change when he leaks; and finally, I wanted him to understand I was in charge and could spank him for anything at any time. I wanted this first punishment to drive that home. I kept my voice so matter-of-fact, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a husband to get a spanking from his wife, like we’d been doing it since we’d met, like it was the natural consequence of his misdeeds. But damn, I was turned on, and when he looked so sheepish, hardly able to make eye contact, shuffling on his feet, like a scare little boy about to feel his mommy’s hand on his rear end, I wanted to jump him. After.
“Do you understand what’s going to happen and why you’re getting this punishment,” I asked him.
“Yes, Kate.”
“Good. I don’t like having to do this,” I lied like the world’s most lying-est liar, “But it will teach you a lesson. I want you to go clean yourself off and come back in here. Three minutes or less. Go.”
He turned on his heel and scampered off to the bathroom, his droopy night diaper sagging against the back of his thighs. For the first time, I understood the allure some woman felt for a man in diapers. I was in control; he was not in control. I was going to spank him; he was going to get spanked by me. I wear panties like a responsible adult; he wears diapers, and he couldn’t even be trusted to do that, so far, without needing to be told to how to do it. While he was in the bathroom, I had an evil idea while he was gone, and he came back in wearing a towel around his waist as I decided to do it.
I wanted to tease him, ask if the little boy was scared, but I also wanted to draw a line between punishment and funishment. This was plain discipline. I sat down on the edge of the bed with one leg on the mattress and one off so he could lay across my lap with his feet hanging off the edge of the bed.
“So,” I said, “do you have any questions?”
He stuttered, “H-How many?”
“Until I think you’ve learned your lesson. There won’t be any fixed punishments in our house. This isn’t a transaction; it’s discipline.” I let that sink in. “Come lay over my knee,” I said, patting my thigh.
Jordy laid himself over my thigh with his towel still on. He did it slowly, carefully, uncertainly. It was a new position for both of us, and I think he felt a little nervous about hurting me by resting all his weight on me, which is sweet but not an issue. I put my left hand around his thin waist and pulled him closer in a tight grip. I put my right hand on his butt.
“When’s the last time you found yourself in this position,” I asked.
“I guess … six months ago.” The last foreplay spanking we did.
“No,” I corrected him, “about to get a real spanking?”
“Oh, um, I guess, maybe 20 or 22 years ago.”
“Well, you probably won’t go that long before your next one,” I said as I pulled the edge of the towel from under him and tossed it over, exposing his butt. “And you don’t need that,” I said as I put my hand back on his bottom and tightened my grip again. I raised my hand and (SMACK) brought it down on his right cheek, then (SMACK) on his left, and I kept alternating them, watching his pale buns wobble and start to turn pink quickly. He wasn’t reacting much yet, which I took as a sign I was being too gentle and began to concentrate on one cheek at a time, giving fix or six swats, including three or four in the same place, and then repeating it with his other cheeks, making sure his bottom want spanked from the top to his sit spots and concentrating some especially hard smack on the underside of his butt, wanting to make sure he got the full effect of what a real spanking felt like. That had him grunting with each smack before I was even half done teaching him his lesson.
(SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK) I slowed down to deliver harder swats and let my hand rest on his bottom after each one, not letting the spring-back motion of my palm lessen the sting. He squirmed a bit but didn’t try to get away. I heard what I thought was a quiet sniffle, difficult to hear over the sound me turning his butt a darker and darker shade of red. When I was done with his butt, I gave him three very hard smacks on the back of each thigh. The second set made his feet kick. I don’t know how many times I spanked him. 100? 200? Enough for my hand to really hurt. I didn’t intend to always give him hand spankings, but it being his first one, I didn’t want to be overly harsh. I didn’t say a word at first after I stopped, wondering what he’d say or do.
After a perhaps fifteen seconds of silence in the room, during which I held my hand over his butt to feel the heat radiate from it, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” And he repeated back to me the things I told him he had done wrong.
“That means you learned your lesson. You can sit up now.” I helped him to sit up and opened my arms for him, so with one leg on the floor and one on the bed, like me, we hugged, and I rubbed his back while he leaned against me. “All’s forgiven now,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he said. I didn’t expect that.
“No corner time this morning,” I told him, “I wanted you to go take a real shower, than do your best to clean the mattress, and then figure out how to fix this problem. When you think you’ve figured it out, we’ll look at it together before you buy anything, okay?”
“Okay.” He sounded sad, and I didn’t like that, not one bit.
“Hey,” I said, taking his face in my hands, “I told you: you got punished, it’s over, all is forgiven. Do you believe me?”
“Y-yeah,” he replied.
I kissed him hard. “Then there’s no need to be sad. It’s over. That’s how a spanking works.” I handed him the edge of his towel, and he wrapped it around himself while he walked back into the bathroom.
I was waiting for him when he got out. I had gone to get out some cleaning supplies and to dig a sharpie out of our junk drawer in the kitchen.
“Thanks,” he said, when he saw those things laid out on the bed. He was wearing his robe, and I caught sight of his white diaper through it.
“One more thing I did want to make clear, though,” I said, trying to sound playful, “not so much for us but in case anyone else ever wonders, is who did this.” I produced the sharpie from my pocket. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
“W-w-well …”
“I mean, we’re gonna be telling some folks anyway, and you wouldn’t want, say, a mover or a maid to one day think your wife is a bedwetter, would you?” He gave me a smile that half said “let’s get this over with” and half said “I’ll admit that’s kinda funny.”
“Wadduya want it to say,” he asked, chagrinned.
“How about just ‘Jordan’s side?’” I handed him the marker and got out of his way so he could inscribe that on the mattress above the overlapping yellow rings he’d left. “How’s you bottom feel,” I asked as he literally bent to the task.
“Warm.”
“Well, I bet that diaper is gonna hold the heat on for a while. And maybe this afternoon after we get this problem fixed, we can warm up the rest of you.” I gave him a loud pop on his butt and went to go fix something for breakfast.
