AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hannah, I expect an answer when I’ve asked you a question.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I acknowledged.
“That’s correct, what?”
I could feel my face heating and my fingernails biting into my palms, but I took a deep breath and, for the first time in my life, addressed him as he’d commanded. “Yes, Daddy, that’s correct.”
“Thank you. Now do you need Daddy to help position you for your spanking?”
God, who talked like that? What sort of woman called her husband Daddy? For that matter, what husband actually wanted to spank his wife? That question was answered when Brett spoke again.
“Hannah?”
Mute, I could simply nod. Before I knew what was happening, he’d turned me to the side and tipped me over his left knee. That seemed to unfreeze me for I immediately planted my hands on the floor in front of me as he splayed his fingers over my naked buttocks that were now clenched tightly.
“Tell me why I’m going to spank your ass.”
I couldn’t help it; I swear I couldn’t. Though I’d been determined to accept the fact that he was truly going to spank me for the very first time, though I’d not only agreed but implored him to take charge, take me in hand, hearing those words, looking at the floor beneath me, feeling my toes scrabbling to remain on the floor versus bicycling in thin air, I heard myself give a whimper.
“Please, I-I’m sorry. Please don’t do this. I was only trying to be a good wife.”
“Hannah, you are a good wife. You are just having problems remembering that your first responsibility is to us—”
“I do all those things because they are expected of an officer’s wife!”
A searing swat had me screeching and bucking up.
“Do not interrupt me again. We come first. You and me and this house. I’m sick and tired of coming home and finding the house is a wreck, and my wife is nowhere to be found. When was the last time we actually sat down to a hot meal together? One that didn’t come out of a fast-food bag? When was the last time we cuddled on the couch and watched a movie together? I understand that you think you are helping my career, but not at the cost of becoming so stressed, so overcommitted that you don’t enjoy a damn thing. I listen to you bitch and moan every day about how you are unappreciated by everyone on those committees you keep volunteering for.”
I didn’t like hearing this. I honestly thought I was doing all I could to make sure that no one could accuse me of slacking off. But, it didn’t take but a glance down at the floor beneath my face and seeing that my very breath was making dust bunnies swirl around to realize I had been negligent when it came to our home.
“I’ll tell Judith that you won’t let me help.”
“I’m not saying you can’t help, Hannah. What I’m saying is that you will not chair another committee. You need to learn to prioritize and delegate. There are several women who’d love a chance to step up if you’d only allow them to show you that they are capable.”
“You make it sound like I’m some sort of… of overbearing bitch.”
“What happened to all the women whom I’m sure volunteered to help you with those flowers? How do you think it makes them feel to learn you don’t think they are capable? And the t-shirts? How would you feel if you designed them and had them printed only to discover they aren’t the ones being worn? You’re not a bitch, Hannah, but you are guilty of disregarding the fact that you are not the only woman on this base who wants to help. To echo your own words, you are becoming a bit of a tyrant and that stops now.”
Well, that didn’t sound much better. Was I really so awful? “I said I’d call her.”
“Yes, you will, as well as call some of the other women to help you finish the flowers and Stephanie to thank her for her hard work with the t-shirts. They are for a charity run, not to hang on the wall at the Louvre. And you will tell me why you will be making those calls with a burning butt.”
I was finding it extremely hard to think with the presence of his large hand against my flesh. This was no longer some vague idea I’d thought I’d be willing to try to get my life back on track. No, from the moment he’d instructed me to remove my panties, he’d been dedicated to proving that when he made a commitment, he gave it his all. This was going to happen. My husband—my daddy—was actually going to spank me. It was humiliating… it was humbling in a way I’d never imagined.
“I was rude and disrespectful. I refused to listen to you explain why I was making a mistake. I called you names, and evidently, I’m a horrible person and treat everyone like sh… crap.”
“Hannah, you are digging that hole you are in deeper and deeper. I never said you are horrible. But I’m not going to sugarcoat this either. Your behavior is unacceptable.”
God, I wasn’t very comfortable admitting he was right, but my embarrassing position, his hand on my ass, made it a bit easier. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are, but tell me what all of those have in common.”
They all mean you’re going to smack my ass. Okay, I might be bratty at times, but I definitely wasn’t stupid. He and I both knew what had been written in the document we’d signed. We were both well aware that continued disobedience meant escalating consequences. I’d never been spanked before, but even I was pretty damn sure I wanted to avoid saying anything that would most likely find his belt coming off to add to my punishment.
“I broke my promise to you.”
It was as if actually saying the words finally triggered something in my head. I loved this man, trusted him with my very life, and had asked for his help. Being Brett, he’d instantly agreed to do all he could to make my life easier. When I was ready to jump in with both feet, he’d made sure our agreement wasn’t something we’d entered on a whim. We’d spent several days discussing what I needed, what I wanted, what I expected. We’d written a set of rules, and I’d not only agreed to follow those rules, I’d promised to accept the consequences if I broke them. We’d chosen one night a week, Fridays, that would be considered as maintenance night. I’d balked at first, stating that it didn’t seem fair to get my butt smacked if I’d been good, but he’d explained that regular maintenance would help ingrain the mindset of who was in control of our household. But he was right. The first time push came to shove, the first day of maintenance, I was ready to bail.
I turned my head to look over my shoulder to see him looking down at me. “Will it help if I say I really am sorry?”
“I’m sorry too, babygirl, but I’m here to help you learn that words are easy to say; accepting your daddy’s punishment will help you remember what happens when you choose to be his naughty girl.”
How his words, his choice to use triggers such as ‘daddy’, ‘punishment’, ‘naughty’, and, most especially calling me his ‘babygirl’, removed the humiliation of hanging over his lap, my bare bottom perched over his knee, I didn’t know. But I felt a warmth spreading through me, somehow assuring me that despite the position I currently found myself in, he didn’t think less of me. When he put his free leg over both of mine, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that if he didn’t care, if he wasn’t determined to help me find balance in my world that had spun off its axis, then he wouldn’t take the time to correct me. Right?
