by April Hill
Sam made our excuses, and we left early, but made a brief stop in the downstairs hall. While I sat on the stairs, getting madder by the moment, Sam began to lecture me about bad manners. Whereupon I, being a liberated feminist and fat-headed know-it-all who never takes crap from anyone, stormed out of the building and flagged down a cab––leaving my purse sitting on the stairs.
The problem with living in a big city like New York is that nobody trusts anybody else. Especially cab drivers. When I made the mistake of politely explaining my temporary lack of funds, the driver dumped me two blocks from where I’d started. In the rain.
It took me almost two hours to get home, partly on foot, and the last few blocks on the solitary subway token I’d found in my pocket. I trudged up three flights of stairs, depressed, exhausted, and soaked to the skin. (Did I mention that it rained the whole way?) Sam was waiting for me inside, looking worried. A couple of the neighborhoods I had just come through aren’t exactly the kind anyone in their right mind would choose to stroll through after dark.
After he made sure that I was unmugged and all in one piece, he held me very tightly for a couple of minutes. It was all very sweet, and romantic, and I felt warm and cherished, and very much in love.
And then Sam let go of me and began to unbuckle is belt.
Okay, anyone else might have seen what was coming and made a run for it, but to me, the sight of Sam unbuckling his belt had always been a good thing. The beginning of a lovely evening. The next step would normally be where he reached for me and began undoing all of my buttons, zippers, etc., until we were both…Well, you get the picture.
The idea that it wasn’t going to be a romantic evening, after all, occurred to me suddenly when, instead of removing his shirt, he simply rolled up his shirtsleeves. It also hadn’t escaped my attention that he was still holding the folded belt. All of these observations came in the space of a second or two. By second three, I was backing up, with a stupid half-grin on my face.
“Sa-a-a-m?” I began, drawing the single syllable out into a question. “What’s going…?”
I never got to finish the question because Sam pulled me across his hip, pinned me firmly under his left arm, and yanked my pants down to my knees. Slacks and panties both, in one swift move. With the picture of my immediate future becoming clearer, I began to protest.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I demanded. A stupid question, and a very poor choice of adjectives. Sam gripped me even tighter and landed his first blow dead center across the widest part of my behind. I didn’t have a lot of experience with belts, back then, but I’d have to say that Sam put his whole heart into that first swat. His heart, and every ounce of muscle in his right arm, which is considerable. Sam is six feet, five inches tall, and most of it is muscle. You know the sound those cows in western movies make when they get branded? Well, at that moment, I knew exactly how they felt. People probably heard my first shriek three floors below, in the Chinese restaurant. (I got some very funny looks two days later, when I went in to pick up my usual order of sesame chicken and fried rice.)
Once he got started, Sam went about walloping me with the same diligence he does everything else, moving quickly back and forth from scorched butt to the backs of my thighs. Each blistering stripe burned like blazes and sent me into a fresh round of squirming and howling—none of which seemed to impress him.
Just so there’s no misunderstanding, allow me to add a bit of backstory. Before that evening, I had never been spanked before. Ever. By anyone. For any reason, erotic or otherwise. I had heard of women being spanked, of course, even of women who enjoyed it. I was not one of those women. My first reaction was surprise, then shock. My next reaction was to try to escape, but by that time, Sam had me under his arm, virtually naked from the waist down, and had already landed three or four highly painful smacks to my squirming behind. Either my pain threshold was very low, or Sam was going out of the way to impress me, but by smack seven or eight, my ass was on fire. I tried once to bite his arm but stopped trying after he spread my legs and delivered a couple of scalding slaps to the inside of my thigh. Jeez! The man was not only bigger than me; he was perfectly ready to play dirty. I couldn’t get away, but at least I could cheat him of the satisfaction of hearing me cry or beg for mercy. I gritted my teeth harder, bit my lip— and lasted about fifteen seconds before crying uncle and apologizing.
Yeah, I would have made a really lousy spy.
When it was over, he let me up, and I waddled into the bathroom with all the dignity I could muster with my underwear tangled around my feet. What I saw in the mirror was oddly disappointing, though. A lot of wide, unattractive faintly pinkish stripes, and a few puffy ones, but the stripes went from mid-butt almost to my knees, and the whole area felt hot. All in all, though, the damage was well short of what I’d expected. But I was mad as hell, and I returned to the living room, ready to do battle.
“So, let me get this straight!” I demanded. “You just spanked the crap out of me because I was a little rude to your damned parents?”
“Being rude to my parents was your choice,” Sam said quietly. “And I’m sure they’ll survive. You got spanked because you ran away without telling me where you were going, and then walked for two hours through dangerous neighborhoods. You scared the hell out of me.”
And with that, he turned and left.
I spent the remainder of that evening rubbing my sore behind and plotting revenge, and most of the next four days crying my eyes out and eating everything in my refrigerator that didn’t have green stuff growing on it. And being confused. There I was, a loudmouthed advocate for women’s equality, and I had allowed a man to spank me. Not in some shared erotic fantasy, but like a little kid. It had hurt like hell and embarrassed me, and yet I hadn’t even thought of filing a complaint. Why?
Sam called me on the fifth day to ask if he could come over. No apology. Not even a mention of what had happened. And when he showed up at my door, he wasn’t carrying flowers or a box of chocolates, either.
What he did have, though, was a ring. A one-carat diamond solitaire that had probably set him back three month’s pay. He set the little green velvet box down on the coffee table without opening it and without comment, and for a few minutes, we both just sat there and looked at it.
“I bought it a month ago,” he said finally. “I had planned to give it to you…Offer it to you, that is, that night at my parents’ place.”
“Can you still get your money back?” I asked coolly.
“Is that what you want?” he asked softly.
“What am I supposed to think?” I demanded sarcastically. “That what you did in the hallway at your parents’ place was like… a proposal?”
Sam flushed. “No, of course not. I’m just hoping it wasn’t a deal-breaker.”
“Oh, did we have a deal?” I inquired sweetly. “I don’t remember even being asked, now that I think about it.”
“I thought you understood how I felt.”
“So did I, but it looks like I was wrong. I think you owe me an explanation. And a damned big apology!”
Sam shook his head. “Sorry, babe, but I don’t think you need either .You had that spanking coming. You know what you did, and I’m not about to apologize for what I did.”
“We’re not living in the nineteenth century, damn it,” I fumed. “A man can’t just go around abusing the little woman whenever he feels like it.”
He grinned. “Do you feel abused?”
“What would you call it?” I cried.
“I’d call it a pretty good beginning. Next time, I’m hoping you’ll think twice about some of the things you do. And as far as your manners go? Consider yourself lucky. Dad only let me handle it because you were a guest. He still keeps an old-fashioned razor strop in the hall closet, and I can offer a lot of personal testimony about how persuasive the damned thing can be. Someday, I’ll tell you about the time I skipped confession to go to a Yankees game. I was fifteen, and I can still remember
every swat.”
“So, spanking your women is sort of a family tradition?”
Sam chuckled. “I was never really sure about Mom and Dad. But if she ever got paddled, you can be sure it was consensual. You don’t mess with Mom.”
“Do you think they’ll ever forgive me?” I asked glumly.
Sam grinned. “Dad liked you a lot, actually. He says you remind him of Mom, when she was younger.”
Chapter Two
I would like to think that it was Sam’s somewhat insensitive remarks about Vanessa’s attractiveness that gave me the final little push down the long path of insanity that followed, but I’ve tried very hard not to say this aloud to him. I have no wish to open up yet another can of worms. As I mentioned before, I have rarely suffered more than three serious spankings in a single year, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.
Two days after Vanessa’s visit, she called again. And this time, she had this really “awesome” idea. (Her word, not mine.) What poor little Emma really needed, Vanessa assured me, was to build up her self-confidence and poise. Since Emma is probably the most self-confident kid who ever lived, I protested.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “Emma thinks she can do anything. She told me just the other day that she could fly the space shuttle, if Sam would just build her a contraption so she can reach the pedals.”
“I’m talking about building her confidence as a woman,” Vanessa scoffed.
“She’s four years old,” I pointed out. “And not even completely house-broken.”
“Exactly!” Vanessa exclaimed. “And when do you think you need to begin building a child’s poise and confidence? Just look at yourself, if you want a case in point.” (Yep, Vanessa fights dirty.) “Tell me. Didn’t you ever take ballet lessons, or singing lessons?” (I did, actually. I bailed out of both, and threw up when I learned I had to perform before an audience of live people.)
And that’s when it hit me. My God! Vanessa was right! I had been holding my kid back. Turning her into me! If I didn’t do something fast, she was doomed to be an overweight tomboy who’d then morph into a nerdy bookworm, and never have a real date until her freshman year in college—with another nerd!
“Okay,” I agreed glumly. “So, what do you suggest? A full makeover at Elizabeth Arden? A nose job and a tummy tuck in sunny Venezuela? Or maybe two weeks at a fat farm?”
“The Little Miss Hearts and Flowers pageant, of course,” Vanessa replied, ignoring my sarcasm.
“So, what, exactly, is a Miss Little Hearts and Flowers pageant?” I asked.
Her pained tone suggested there must be something seriously wrong with me not to have this epic event marked on my calendar. “Where in the name of God do you live? Under a rock? It’s only the most prestigious children’s pageant on the entire east coast. It’s held every year, on the closest weekend to Valentine’s Day. Luckily, the deadline for entries in Emma’s age group isn’t until next week. That’s cutting it very close, but if I call today, I can probably still get your application in. You’ll need an appointment with Chloe’s hairdresser, too. A rush like that will cost you, of course, but Mr. Bubbles is absolutely wonderful.”
“Mr. Bubbles?”
“Yes. Chloe just adores him. He has one of those bubble machines going while he works and dresses like a clown. It puts the children at ease. ”
“It gives me the creeps,” I growled.
“Don’t be childish. He’s positively the best in the business and a miracle worker, which is what poor Emma is going to need if she wants to get anywhere in the pageant world. Take my word for it, sweetie, it’s dog eat dog out there…Well, maybe more like puppy eats puppy.” She gave an appreciative little laugh at her own lame joke. “I promise you, though, Mr. Bubbles is worth every penny.”
“Just how many pennies are we talking about?” I asked weakly. “Sam’s not going to be happy with the whole idea of a beauty pageant, let alone some pricey kids’ beauty parlor.”
“Pricey!” she cried. “Mr. Bubbles only charges $150, and that includes the shampoo and cut, his fabulous Mango-Persimmon conditioning treatment, and the blow dry and styling. Of course, if he decides she’ll need a permanent, that’ll run around $250. Emma’s hair seems awfully…I don’t know. Lank?”
I sighed. “It was probably the peanut butter. Emma hasn’t mastered sandwiches, yet.”
“I’ll call Mr. Bubbles for an appointment right away,” Vanessa promised. “And you’ll need some really good glamour pictures, of course.”
“She goes to the photo guy at Penney’s twice a year,” I offered lamely. “The ones from Christmas are sort of cute. She’s posed with a…”
She interrupted with a groan. “Never mind. I’ll call my photographer and try to get back to you by tonight. I know a place where we can probably get the costumes you’ll need off the rack, too. They’re never top of the line, but…Can you go out with me tomorrow?”
“Out?” I repeated.
“Shopping for dresses, dummy. You’ll need at least two outfits and matching accessories for the beauty competition and the glamour wear, some really delicious beachwear, of course, and something glitzy and over the top for the talent portion. Oh, God! Does Emma even have a talent?”
“She’s learning to whistle,” I said. “And she does a pretty good Darth Vader, with a paper grocery bag over her head.”
Vanessa groaned again.
At this point, you’re probably wondering what was going on in the dim recesses of my brain that made me keep listening to this nonsense, and not kicking Vanessa’s bony, well-kept ass out of our lives. The answer is, I honestly don’t know, but I do know that I had begun to feel like a big, fat failure as a mother. I had failed my beautiful little girl by not letting her true beauty shine through so that everybody else could see how wonderful she was.
Okay, so that’s a lie, sort of. I was also jealous of Vanessa, with her super rich husband and her six-bedroom house on Long Island, and her new BMW convertible. But mostly, I was jealous of her pale blond, blue-eyed, beauty queen kid— even if most of the package was fake. At least Vanessa cared enough about her child to get the kid a proper haircut and to have her nails manicured. Vanessa’s kid wore beautiful dresses. And socks! My own kid had Band-Aids on both grubby knees, peanut butter and traces of grape jelly in what was left of her plain-Jane brownish hair, and even Sam would have been forced to admit that our cherished offspring couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
I knew that what I was about to do was stupid when I didn’t tell Sam about it. That seems to be a pattern with me. Whenever I find myself wary of mentioning to Sam something I’m planning to do, I can be pretty sure it’s a stupendously dumb idea. The problem is, sometimes even the dumbest ideas can be very appealing.
I sat down with Emma and explained what I could to her. The biggest problem was explaining why we had to keep the whole thing a secret from Daddy.
“We want to surprise him,” I lied, already feeling like the monster mommy I was becoming. “Just think how much fun it’ll be when he sees you in your beautiful Little Miss Hearts and Flowers crown, with all the hearts and sparkles!” I had carefully avoided describing the outfits she’d be wearing as “dresses.” I called them, simply, costumes.
“Like in Pirates of the Caribbean?” she squealed. I knew that Emma was imagining herself costumed as Jack Sparrow, of course, but I decided to let sleeping pirates lie. One crisis at a time was all I could handle. I’d broach the idea of a girly princess in a sequined dress later. Was this not the same tomboyish child who’d loved every single minute of the Disney version of “Beauty and the Beast?”
In the end, Emma accepted the basic concept of being a princess— just so she was allowed to wear the crown, a sword, and those great pirate boots. (Okay, so I lied to her, just a little.) Her delighted reaction should have been the second warning sign of impending disaster. What kid wouldn’t like to get dressed up like a rock star or a pirate, or even a bejeweled tomboy princess, and prance around
with a stupid rhinestone crown on her head? And what intelligent adult wouldn’t know that’s all it should be? A happy game of dress-up for a bunch of carefree kids. What loving mother wouldn’t understand the difference between a lot of innocent little girls having fun playing dress-up, and making her child a public spectacle? And making herself a fool in the process?
You guessed it, folks. Moi.
* * *
The next weeks were frantic because I had to teach Emma some sort of rudimentary dance number, hide what I was doing from Sam, and keep Emma from spilling the beans to everyone she met—including Sam. It had also turned out that one of the beloved traditions of the Little Miss Hearts and Flowers competition was the mother-daughter skit, in which a bunch of luckless, exhausted mommies were expected to dress up and play their kids’ “Ladies in Waiting.” Which meant that I had to get or make another costume for myself and act adorable on stage. It appeared that I was to be spared nothing, and it just kept getting worse and worse.
My original plan had been to wait until the very last minute to tell Sam. I’d spring it on him and let him decide what he wanted to do (aside from hanging me by my thumbs in the basement, that is). He could come to the pageant and cheer for his kid or be the bad guy and explain to his heartbroken daughter why she wouldn’t be dressing up like a pirate princess for the benefit of a lot of silly people who were really only interested in their own kid. Yeah, I know, it was a cowardly, detestable thing to do to him, and to Emma. And besides that, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t work. Sam would get the explanation just right, distract Emma by taking her out for ice cream and a movie, then come back and give me the kind of spanking I didn’t even want to think about.
