Good Girl

I came home from work late, pissy and tense. Jack threw together dinner so I could relax and sip a glass of wine, but I still bitched, telling how to cook. For heaven's sake, it was only grilled cheese and tomato soup so I really was just bitching to be bitching. I grumbled through dinner and dishes. Finally, he'd had enough. He told me take off my slacks and I gave him lip. about it. Now, he was really finished dealing with me. He did the ONE thing I hate. He took me out to the balcony of our condo and told me to take off my pants. Right then. No more complaints or He'd do it for me which meant he'd tie my hands to the railing and cut them off. I knew this. I had agreed to this. Sometimes, I'm stubborn (duh!) and in my calmer moments can acknowledge this aspect of my personality and make allowances for it. I know he'd follow through because he did once before. Afterwards, not only was my bottom redder than fire, but my new slacks in shreds and I was shamefaced for having disobeyed, bitched and punished outside where, while unlikely but still possible, the neighbors could have witnessed my paddling. 

So, at this point I relented and dropped my dress slacks. He told me how disappointed he was in me. That it was perfectly fine to come one and need to vent but it was not fine to take out my frustrations on him. At this point, I saw what I had done and knew he was right so I agreed with him. I deserved this punishment and vowed to take it like a good girl. He told me to hold on to the railing and I did. He had grabbed the wooden paddle, the one he uses only when I've truly annoyed him. I understood then that I would receive no pleasure from this spanking, not during, not after. I asked what my count was and he said: Until I decide you've had enough.

I also knew what this meant. Meekly, I agreed to this as well. He would spank me until the tension left my body, until I cried. And so he began. I clenched my hands around the metal railing, biting my lip to keep from crying out. The sound of the wood smacking against my bottom and upper thighs was quite loud enough. I was terrified that the neighbors would hear and come out to investigate. Luckily, it was dark and Jack had turned the lights off so it would be difficult for them to see even if they did take a peek. He plasters both cheeks, the sit spot, the upper thighs. Finally, I let go. I slump forward, my body relaxing, tears flowing freely. I hold my emotions tight most of the time, but every so often, I NEED to cry. To release all the tension and wash away the stress of the day, the week. Jack knows this and watches my body carefully. He pushes me, yes, but only when I need to be pushed. He punishes me, yes, but only so far as my consent and need allow. 

He sees the change in me and stops, rubs my bottom and murmurs to me, soothing me now with his words. He tells me that he's proud of me, that he loves me. He tells me that I'm again his Good Girl.