Fiction: Turning Her Over – Part 3 Fini

“You’ve had this coming for a long time, young lady.”

It really has been too long, but my mind is playing through the incidents I’ve been tolerating for the last few weeks. 

“Baby, don’t do this.” The voice is muffled by the cushion into which a face is buried, this bare woman’s body now upended across my lap. We’re in my office…my domain, where I conduct business. The business I’m attending to tonight is more important than any.

“Oh, it’s going to get done,” I assure her, my hand providing a massage precisely where it will happen. “You’ve been a brat this week, haven’t you?”

My brat isn’t talking. Apparently, the threat of what I am about to do is not compelling enough to inspire any admissions from my normally conscientious wife. “You’ve been totally self-involved.”

“That’s not fair,” is her answer.

“You’ve been cranky, distant, sometimes downright rude.”

“Thanks. Are you turning against me now too?”

“Now who’s not being fair? You know who’s my baby, who I will always protect with my last breath.”

The clock on the wall is ticking.

“I know, baby.” Her voice reveals a small crack. “I didn’t mean it.” The crack widens.  

“I love you, but you have sorely tested my limits.” Yes, she has tested and pushed. My dear wife has played with fire — issuing the challenge of a recalcitrant little girl, only to back off in time with the deliberation of a shrewd woman.

“It ends tonight,” I inform her, my voice in tune with the gravity of the statement.

The childish tantrum that precipitated this exercise makes it all the more fitting. Carrie is about to get a spanking — the kind very naughty girls get. It is not administered as retribution but as reformation. She is going through a difficult time. She needs help to work through it. I just want her to be happy and to know that the love she has at home is secure.

It will happen on this short couch in my office, a buff-colored, overstuffed loveseat that doesn’t get much use. When, on occasion, I even notice it, I’m apt to think of Carrie. It brings fond memories of sweet talks, sweeter kisses …and old-fashioned spankings. It is well-suited for turning her over. The fit she threw in the kitchen tonight was no act; yet it was, I believe, an unconscious signal. I’m guessing it was not long after, when she regained control of her emotions, that Carrie realized a line had been crossed. Has she been a nervous girl waiting for my response? I imagine her licking lips that seemed too dry, hands trembling slightly as she drew her bath. Did she sit in hot water thinking about how I would deal with this, heart beating faster, soap slick anointing her flesh with heightened susceptibility? 

“Can we just talk about this? Please!”

“We’re going to talk more, baby …after we’ve had this discussion with your bottom.”

Her response lies somewhere between a sigh and a groan, her body moving and settling on my lap as if to offer itself up for surrender. This pale moon rises, cool and smooth. I gently knead springy flesh. Steeling myself, with a stiffer hand, I brush downward several times over rounded contours, as if carefully wiping the surface of imaginary obstructions. Anxious buttocks clench, unclench, legs are stiff over the short couch arm to my right, feet suspended in air where they will soon be swimming. I am reminded that this woman under my care, in a hectic office, can juggle ten crises at once and make the whole operation run like clockwork. She is not in charge tonight.

The first spank is always the most difficult. Maybe if I did this every day, it would become second nature. Now don’t get me wrong. I think about spanking on a regular basis, and Carrie knows that. It’s one of many shared passions that make us compatible. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like the idea of spanking a girl’s bottom, but experience and plenty of reassurances were needed before I could do what I am about to do – administer genuine corporal punishment. An emotional barrier must be broken before my hand begins to make its repeated descent. There will be no warm-up, no respite. I don’t compromise when it comes to taking care of my little girl. Though the discipline will be loud, the windows are closed, the neighbors will not be disturbed, a remedy not for everyone but, in this house, a good hard spanking is the right medicine.

A spank is a lover’s caress. I caress my lover with a dispassionate metronomic rhythm, the palm of my hand searing her flesh in a place where fire can be a sweet affliction. My heart is not hard and, as she begins to writhe across my lap, we are now making a desperate kind of love — for her, so bright, so hot, her conscious mind no longer searches for meaning. It is but the agonizing passageway between the before and after–the clock stopped–time now measured in the cadence of her administered discipline.

It may sound perverse, but this voice in my head that can relate this spanking with a detached rationality has no answers. My understanding is due to what Carrie reveals to me. My wife is taking a short break from being Carrie Cole. She is in a state of pure reaction — no anger from yesterday, no worries for tomorrow — only the here and now centered and focused on her tender body where she responds to the burn in my hand without inhibition, her rising voice to betray all secrets she may be otherwise inclined to keep. She has let go of the ego and surrendered to the one she has chosen to care for her, the one whose hand stings so badly on her bare bottom, a hard palm sharing in smaller measure the fierce heat it is generating.

My wife is throwing her second fit of the night. Like heads, two tantrums are better than one. She twists from side-to-side in an attempt to evade, but each fleshy slap is relentlessly on target, a harsh yet agreeable staccato to accompany her raucous protestations. We dance …this lap dance, and where we’re making our own music, the weight of her naked body bumps and grinds, a seduction in spite of the focus above, her sit-spot now a blush of scarlet loudly proclaiming a justice served. In this position of authority, I must decide how strict I must be with my naughty little girl. I am not yet persuaded to stop.

“I’m sorry!” she yells with conviction. 

This is what I need to hear. I continue to spank her bucking bare tail for the one purpose that she will be able to let go of every last sorrow. Her bottom will burn until I have drained every last drop of poison. The words have been spoken, and once the sentiment is expressed, the dam against her emotions has burst. The apology, the regret, repeated, becomes a mantra and her tears can flow freely. There is nothing like the feeling I get from hearing her cry with all of her heart, knowing that I have brought her to this cliff and pushed her over. I know the sorrow has been there all along but, without the spanking, would have remained unspoken …a guilt …an unresolved issue …a barrier to our intimacy. In a final squall the storm is purging the last of its store before the parting of clouds allows the sun to shine, once again, on our love.

Carrie is a different girl after she’s been spanked. I’m a different man. My lips have tasted the tears she has shed; my arms have felt the tremors of aftershock course through her body. My heart has listened to the fading cries of her gentle soul. I’ve wiped wet eyes and nose with a tissue, emotions now under control but still fragile. A little girl inside needs to be taken care of. How I adore this girl.

“You’re a big meanie,” she says, now standing, two palms still rubbing low on her bottom. Her mouth is set in a rueful pout, but there is a smile in her eyes I haven’t seen for far too long.

On my lap again, but straddling me, her oven hot in my palms, I squeeze gently the flesh that provides her with cushion but will be less comfortable to sit on tomorrow. We talk to each other like new lovers, breath-to-breath, consoling …comforting …teasing. I make her laugh, a sweet sound from heaven. I place my lips on her mouth gently and then pull back, repeating the gesture until she insists on being kissed properly, and then the kisses are long and deep and urgent. “I’m on fire,” she whispers breathlessly. 

“Do you need me?” I whisper back.

“Yes, baby, really bad.”

Recently distracted by the concerns of the world we had become fragmented …now… again… a universe of two, to be united as one.

8 thoughts on “Fiction: Turning Her Over – Part 3 Fini

  1. Well done, my friend! I love how Carrie misbehaved, was taken in hand, and both parties were better for it. My favorite part of this story, “Carrie is a different girl after she’s been spanked. I’m a different man. My lips have tasted the tears she has shed; my arms have felt the tremors of aftershock course through her body. My heart has listened to the fading cries of her gentle soul. I’ve wiped wet eyes and nose with a tissue, emotions now under control but still fragile. A little girl inside needs to be taken care of. How I adore this girl.” Just about the best thing I have ever read in a spanking story. Thank you for sharing this with us!

    1. Thank you, and you’re welcome, my friend! I’m glad you enjoyed. This is a new part I wrote. While it didn’t change the intent of the original story, I wanted to better emphasize what the spanker feels in these moments.

    1. Thank you for your interest, nora. 🙂 I appreciate your support. I’ve been unusually busy with other things lately, but I’m working on a story inspired by your “Not too old” vignette. Not sure where I’m at with it, but maybe I’ll see the end of it before long.

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