Monthly Maintenance: Selected Stories from Blushing Books Authors

by Blushing Books

  Matilda whimpered and squirmed. “All right, Raymond, I’ll take the ribbons back!”

  Her husband pulled up her dress and opened her pantelettes to reveal her smooth, round buttocks.

  “It’s too late for that,” he declared. “You had your chance and chose to defy me, wife, and you’ve been warned of the consequences of disobedience.” And without any further preamble, he began to spank her.

  Matilda was not a delicate girl, but she had only been spanked twice in her life - once when she was five for dumping a pail of milk on her brother’s head, and another time when she was ten, for playing when she was supposed to be working. She remembered being afraid, but she didn’t remember the spankings of her childhood hurting like this.

  Raymond was not gentle, and she began to squeal as his large hand peppered smack after vigorous smack on the ivory mounds of her bottom. The handprints bloomed like roses across her fair skin, and even as she became mortified that passersby might overhear her ordeal, she could not stop as her husband shifted her further forward over his knee and targeted the soft skin where buttock meets thigh.

  Matilda was begging now, promising between ragged sobs to be the best wife ever, to never spend money again -anything to make her husband stop. But he only reminded her of her disobedience, and leveled another ten spanks before finally pulling her to her feet.

  Her hands pressed to her bottom, Matilda wailed her distress as her husband led her to the corner and firmly ordered her to stand until he permitted her to leave. It took her a good twenty minutes to stop crying, and when she did, he dried her eyes and informed her - again - that she needed to walk down to the mercantile and return the ribbons. He said he would go with her, for moral support.

  It was difficult, walking into the store. Mr. and Mrs. Hart were standing at the counter when the Jenkinses came through the door.

  “Back again, Mrs. Jenkins?” Mr. Hart beamed.

  Matilda managed a weak smile as she walked over and laid the package on the counter. “Yessir,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I…I need to return these ribbons. They really are outside our budget and I should have resisted the temptation of buying them.” With trembling hands, she slid the package across the counter.

  Mr. Hart laid a hand on it. “Oh, dear, you’re such a good customer and have brought in a good deal of money with your lovely wares. Take them. As a gift.”

  But Mrs. Hart snatched the package away. “Absolutely not. This ribbon didn’t come cheap to us and is absolutely not going to be given away to some chit of a girl who should remember her station before making a purchase so obviously beyond her means!”

  “Pearl!” Mr. Hart’s tone was one of distressed embarrassment. “That is cruel.”

  “It is,” Raymond Jenkins icily agreed as he saw his wife’s chin wobbling in an attempt not to cry. “Tildy is returning the ribbons because it is the right thing to do. It shames her to do it, but it must be done. I would not have her shamed worse.”

  “Well, perhaps if you’d chosen better for a wife, you wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Dear Margaret Appleby would hardly be so thoughtless a spouse.”

  Matilda’s gasp of shock was audible, and her husband’s face was a thundercloud as he turned to address Aaron Hart. “I’ve never been a man to meddle in the affairs of others, he said, "but a good man such as yourself is not complemented by such a harridan.”

  He turned then and guided his wife from the store. They did not see Mr. Hart take his wife by the upper arm and lead her to the back room. They did not see him sit down in his desk chair and pull the raging and fighting woman over his lap. They did not see him raise her skirts, rip her pantalettes open and raise the wooden ruler he help hanging in his office. They did not see him bring it down on the white, wobbly buttocks of his wife.

  But they heard it. And they weren’t the only ones. From the livery to the bank to the butcher’s shop to the town hall, people came out onto the stoops and into the streets, drawn at first from concern and then reacting in amusement as they realized the haughty shopkeeper’s wife was finally getting her just deserts.

  And oh, was she. Inside his office, Aaron Hart directed a wealth of pent up frustration at his wife’s bouncing bottom. Line crisscrossed line as he whaled away, twice catching her fingers when she made the mistake of attempting to shield herself.

  “Your nasty behavior is an embarrassment to me and to yourself,” he lectured, catching first the crest of one cheek and then the other. “You are a wretched representative of a business I have built upon my good reputation." He paused to apply five smacks to each ample thigh. “And if you should open your mouth again to scheme or berate another I will put you away without a cent to your name.” Mrs. Hart screamed as he applied ten more rapid licks to her already bruised bottom. “Madame, consider this spanking a warning.”

  And with that, the shopkeeper dumped his wife onto the floor like a sack of potatoes, hung the ruler back on the wall and walked out the back door, where a crowd of townspeople were waiting to cheer him.

  On Easter morning, Pearl Hart sat in the church sanctuary, quiet and subdued, clad in a the most conspicuously plain dress and hat of all. Most of the town was there for Easter service, and minutes before the service began, Raymond Jenkins walked in. On his arm, was his wife, and all who witnessed their arrival found themselves staring.

  Matilda Jenkins was arrayed in a beautifully form fitting peach-colored dress, with a slight bustle. Pearl buttons and lace adorned the bodice. On her head she wore a beautiful hat that was immediately recognized as the work of the most sought after milliner in the region. In her gloved hand she held a coordinating parasol, edged all around with the finest lace.

  The ensemble had been waiting for her when she woke up that morning, along with a note reading,

  “Dearest Tildy, I am pleased that the lesson of earlier this week made an impression on you. Although it grieved me to teach it to you, I am hopeful that the reality of a husband’s discipline will always be a deterrent against the type of disobedience that led to its implementation.”

  “That said, I fear I have perhaps not shown you adequate appreciation for all you do for me. My house is clean, my meals are nutritious and tasty, and your handicrafts - from curtains to quilts - adorn our house in a way that makes it feel more like home. You’ve extended your arts into the realm of business, adding to our family’s savings.”

  Eventually we will have enough to afford a beautiful house in town. But our thriftiness is no reason for me to occasionally forestall the small installments of beauty that I shall use to display my undying affection. So please, accept this gift from me, which I acquired in Clarksville whilst on business. I’m sure you will agree that it is lovely, but it will only be eclipsed by its wearer. Happy Easter.” Love, your husband Raymond.

  Mother’s Day on the Spanking Satellite

  By Jean Gorski

  Mother’s Day on the Spanking Satellite

  “Do you dare defy me, miserable slave?”

  “No, Master, never! But I beg for mercy!” She threw herself at his feet, clutching his knees, beneath his bearskin cloak. He pushed her away, and she fell to the floor before him. Then he dragged her up again and hurled her face down across the table.

  As his slave, she always came to him naked, except for the wide metal collar around her throat. Now he stared for a moment in satisfaction at the soft white buttocks that were so helplessly exposed to his gaze. They belong to me completely, he thought, like the wheat-colored tresses that are falling across her oval face, her bright blue eyes and her still shapely form.

  “But why are you punishing me, Master?” she cried.

  “Do you dare to ask me that, miserable slave?” he demanded. “You still have the manners of an Earth woman, even though we took you from that wretched planet almost a year ago. I need no reason to punish you…but you will suffer even more, because you dared to ask me why.”

  * * *

  She moaned, knowing all too well wh
at his punishment would be. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him pulling the wide, heavy belt from around his waist. Then she quickly turned back to the table again and squeezed her eyes shut, as she heard the leather whistling through the air. It struck her backside with an even louder crack, leaving an angry red streak across her milky skin.

  After all the strappings he had given her, she was still amazed at how much they hurt. This one set her bottom on fire. Still, she managed to bite down on her thin lower lip, to keep from screaming…until he brought the strap down for the second time. Now the fire blazed even higher, until she felt sure it would consume her. Again and again it burned her, leaving her fearing she would never live through this punishment.

  “OW! OW! OW!” she cried. He did not seem to hear her.

  By the fifth blow, she was sobbing softly. “How much more must I suffer, Master?” she pleaded, even though she knew what the answer would be.

  “Do you dare to ask me that?” he demanded. “Haven’t you been punished often enough for doing it? My answer is…I will give you five more smacks than I would have done if you had remained silent.”

  “No, no, no, Master!” she begged him, knowing it was all in vain.

  Now the flames were spreading through her entire body following each blow. She could no longer keep from writhing to avoid the strap, as futile as she knew it to be. If she had not been gripping the table with all her strength, she would surely have tried to flee, even knowing that that would only earn her a harsher punishment.

  How many times had he struck her? She had lost count long ago. Glancing over her thin shoulder and counting the crimson stripes, she saw that it must have been ten at least. The blows were falling across each other now, adding to her agony. At the sight, her screams gave way to helpless wailing.

  “That’s better!” he snarled. “Now I know you are sorry for angering me.”

  “I am, I AM, oh Master! I beg you to forgive me for failing to please you.” A few moments ago, she would have begged him to tell her where she had fallen short, but she knew better now. It was her task to learn, without asking, how she could satisfy him, since failing to please her Master was a slave girl’s greatest crime.

  “I shall give you your last five, then,” he grumbled. “These are the ones you earned by daring to question me. You deserve many more, but I am inclined to be merciful.”

  “Thank you, Master, THANK you,” she gasped, then bit her lip again as the belt struck.

  “You must thank me again each time, for taking the trouble to correct you…rather than feeding you to the skivodni beast as the worthless slave you are.”

  “OW! Thank you, Master. OW! Thank you, Master. OW! OW! OW!”

  “And what else do you have to say?”

  “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!”

  * * *

  At those startling words, they both wheeled towards the hallway. As stunned as they were, they were obviously not as shocked as the two young people who stood staring at them, their mouths laterally hanging open. At last, the young man started shaking his head slowly in disbelief, until his long brown hair fell over his bony forehead, as he clutched a bouquet of roses.

  “Is that your mother, Emma?” he finally managed to ask.

  “Who else would it be?” the girl snapped back. “Only she has obviously lost her mind. The real question is…who is that man standing over her, holding a belt and wearing the bathroom rug?”

  “It’s supposed to be a bearskin,” Melanie Wardman explained feebly, as she pushed herself up from the table. Pulling off the linen tablecloth, she hastily wound it around herself.

  “It isn’t really a bearskin, of course,” she explained. “We got it at JC Penney, and this tan color looks sort of like animal fur. We also got this choker there, in the jewelry department.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Emma told her…in a tone that always terrified her eighth-grade English students. “Who IS that man, and why is he…No, don’t answer,” she added quickly, as her mother started to speak. “I know perfectly well why he is holding the belt. My real question is…how can you let him treat you that way?”

  “Well, I told you I had found a new boyfriend, and that he was different from your father in many ways.”

  “Different?” her daughter howled. “I should HOPE so! We came here to surprise you and meet him…”

  “And I was looking forward to meeting you too, Nick, when I have heard so much about you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wardman.” He started holding his hand out. Seeing, again, that she was using all her fingers to clutch a tablecloth around her, he dropped his own palm quickly at his side.

  “Never mind that now!” his sweetheart shrieked. “The point is, now we wish you had never heard of him. This fellow is an utter pervert…and he’s made you into one, too.”

  “Now, just a moment there.” They all jumped, as the older man spoke for the first time. “I won’t have you speaking to your mother that way.”

  “How will you stop me?” Emma demanded, thrusting her fists against her slim hips. “Will you whip me, too?”

  “Of course not! You are not my slave girl.”

  For once, she was speechless, gasping so hard that her firm young bosom heaved beneath her blue silk t-shirt. “And my mother IS your slave girl?” she finally demanded. “Mother, where in the world did you FIND this guy?”

  “On the Internet, of course,” Melanie replied.

  “You are having an affair in real life with a man you had met on line? What is the MATTER with you? I know you have been lonely since father died, even though that was ten years ago…but I didn’t think you had gone mad.”

  “Of course, I obeyed the safety rules,” her mother defended herself. “I met him in a public place, and I made sure some friends at my insurance agency saw us together. They were all glad I had found someone, I might add…much happier than you seem to be. Of course, I also have a safe word that will stop him if I feel he is going too far.”

  “That sounds about right,” Nick offered. “The safe word is like giving Emma the key to your house, in case of an emergency.”

  His sweetheart immediately turned on him.

  “That didn’t turn out so well either.”

  “You were the one who wanted to surprise them,” he reminded her timidly. “Didn’t I say we should call ahead?”

  Ignoring that question, the girl went on, “As for those computers you love so much, they caused the whole problem. The school district would be better off without them.”

  Turning to her mother, she said, “Anyway, your friends were happy because they thought you had found a Romeo…not a Simon Legree. Where did you ever get such a crazy idea anyway?”

  Rather than answering, her mother glanced towards the mahogany bookcase in the parlor across the hall. It was filled with old paperbacks. That itself seemed strange in that formal room, with its white crown molding above the soft beige walls and floral draperies.

  Those window coverings were heavy brocade, the doors were thick paneled wood and the walls were solid brick on all four sides. Thank goodness for that, Emma realized. Otherwise, everyone in Wilmette would probably have heard the noise they made, even across the half-acre lot…and half the people in Chicago would have heard them, too.

  Thinking about their lovely house made her angry again. How could she stand to see her childhood home being defiled, along with her father’s memory? And how could her mother have done such a terrible thing to her?

  Marching across the hall, she took a closer look at the bookshelf. It immediately answered her question.

  “It’s those Savage Satellite novels of yours!” she cried, as she strode back to the dining room. “I thought they were only science fiction stories, left over from your own college days, until I learned from the Internet that most people called them the Spanking Satellite series. Judging by your costume, sir, I assume that you are one of the Vikings of the Savage Satellite.” She bowed coldly in his direction.

/>   “Just how do you know so much about spanking stories?” he demanded.

  “None of your business!” she snapped again. “Can I assume, then, that you met my mother on a Spanking Satellite fan site?”

  “Not just a fan site,” he informed her. “It’s also for people who want to act out the stories in real life…Centurions of the Savage Satellite, Rangers, Sheiks, Vikings, and so on.”

  “I would have expected the readers to be college kids!”

  “Well, they aren’t.” To her surprise, he smiled. “I admit, though, I was shocked after I met your mother and realized she did not look like the young Grace Kelly, in that picture she e-mailed me.”

  Seeing his sweetheart’s look of disappointment, he quickly went on, “I mean, the resemblance was close enough. I can see where you got your good looks from. But I still had to punish her for lying, and that was the first spanking I gave her. I forgave her, though. After all, I don’t really look like that picture of the young Kirk Douglas I sent her.”

  “You certainly do not,” the girl muttered. “More like a fifty-year-old man with a blond crewcut that’s turning grey and face that’s gotten wrinkled and brown from too much time outdoors. Your arms are still strong enough, though…obviously!”

  “Well, they should be,” he answered. “I work hard for a living, as a construction foreman. That’s why I have to be outside all the time. Of course, you probably think that’s not good enough for your mother.”

  “Nothing wrong with a construction foreman…even if my father was an accountant. But there IS something wrong with standing there in a fake bearskin rug, holding a strap. And it’s even worse to see my mother standing there with nothing on but a tablecloth and a slave collar.”

  “It’s only a choker from JC Penney,” Melanie pointed out.

  “But it’s SUPPOSED to be a slave collar, and that’s just as bad. So will you both please go get DRESSED? And, Nick, will you put down those roses? You are scattering the petals all over the floor.”