by April Hill
My threat was interrupted by the crack of leather across what simply had to be the softest, most tender area of my ass. The sound rang loud in my ears, and echoed around the high-ceilinged loft. I could actually feel the welts rising on my butt. I mentioned this, and asked him to stop, but like the trooper he is, Jeff went on, blistering my cheeks in turn and whacking every remaining unscathed surface he could reach with the damned belt. Then, as I broke into open weeping, he swatted my upper thighs hard a few times, and stopped.
I lay where he left me, bent gracelessly over the arm of the couch, my jeans and panties tangled around my knees. I was crying, but that was probably more from frustration than pain. Later, though, I found that my backside was covered with an amazing network of reddish blotches and purplish stripes. (Afterward, Jeff told me that since he had never spanked anyone before, he was mildly worried that he had overdone it. Wasn’t that sweet? )
I struggled up and began jumping around and rubbing my butt, which felt, frankly, like it was in goddamned flames.
"I hate you!" I hissed, wary now about the neighbors "You’re a damned bully, and you can go to hell!"
I think Jeff was actually relieved by my little outburst. If my temper was back and my willingness to fight, I must be okay, physically, right? Anyway, he grabbed me once more as I danced by, and made me pay for the insults by holding me under his arm, bending me across his hip and laying another three or four hard swats to my flaming butt. I could actually feel the heat from my rear end, now, but I still absolutely refused to apologize. Jeff’s answer? You guessed it. He started over, spanking harder, lower, and on the really tender undercurve of my ass, which was already throbbing like a cheap percolator.
"I’m going to cut your balls off!" I threatened. "In your sleep!"
But Jeff only laughed. "Big talk from someone whose ass looks like hamburger. That’s another ten, sweetheart. You know what? I’m losing count. Maybe it’s time to try out that hairbrush, again what do you think?"
He didn’t wait for me to vote, but finished with a lightning fast volley of ten whaps with the hairbrush, and this time, he got my complete attention.
"I’m sorry!" I wailed.
Total surrender.
I dissolved into tears and threw myself dramatically down on the couch, careful to land on my side and not my rear. I was looking for sympathy, of course.
"Tell me you’re going to start working tomorrow," he ordered, and when I hesitated, he leaned down and landed two more swats with the brush, one on each throbbing cheek.
"I’m going to work tomorrow!" I wailed loudly. "I promise!"
Jeff sat down next to me and took a good look at my battered behind, apparently admiring his handiwork. His comment? "Not bad, for a beginner." I don’t know to whom he was referring.
Finally, he laid the hairbrush on the coffee table and put his belt back on, which seemed to indicate that the festivities had reached their conclusion, though not without one last warning.
"If I get home tomorrow and find that you didn’t, we’re going to do this all over again. Sore ass or not. Got it?"
I sniffled, but nodded. Jeff looked quite prepared to start again.
"And we’re going to do this every night if we have to, until you start producing without an ‘incentive’," he said. "You get two days a week to loaf and goof off like everybody else. After that, I expect to see progress."
I nodded again, but the lecture still wasn’t quite over. "I’m going to lay awake nights dreaming up new ways to set your ass on fire," he promised, "and go out and buy a couple of paddles and a few other things to keep it interesting, if I have to. The next time you drop the ball like you did today, I’m going to use the wooden hairbrush and spank you ‘til you won’t feel like sitting down for a full week. After that, I’m just going to play it by ear, but in three months, even if I have to blister your butt every damned night, you are going to deliver one dozen paintings to that gallery, exactly like you promised."
FADE OUT (mercifully.)
EPILOGUE
(From the pages of the "Hackettstown Flea Market Trader and Auto Auction Weekly"
"Karen Norton’s first one-woman show opened today at the Art-4-Less gallery in downtown Buttzville. The event was covered by a reporter from this publication, as well as by the art critic from our sister paper, the Manunka-Chunk Shopping News. The grand opening was well attended by a collection of homeless individuals bussed there from a local shelter, all of whom appeared to enjoy the peanut-butter and Cheez-It canapés and several cases of a value-priced Cabernet donated by our local Save-Mart. Two of Ms. Norton’s paintings found buyers. One was purchased very quickly, it was reported, by the artist’s husband, due to its rather intimate nature. The other canvas went to a lady from Ho-Ho-Kus, who explained to this reporter that the abstract matched her couch, almost exactly.
"Although she admitted to being somewhat disappointed by the lackluster sales, the plucky Ms. Norton pointed out to this reviewer that Vincent Van Gogh sold virtually nothing during his lifetime, being, as he was, a one-eared, raving lunatic. Grandma Moses, on the other hand did not even begin her career in painting until she was well into her seventies, when she was approaching senility.
"She has been helped in her own career, Ms. Norton remarked, by the continuing inspiration provided by her devoted husband, Jeffrey, who, over the past months, has given her many vigorous incentives to succeed, and has vowed to keep up the good work, as long as necessary."
THE END
SEXTET FOR A GRAND PIANO
Once upon a time, when I was a very, very small person, and even more stupid than I am today, I wanted to play the piano. I wanted it when my insanely optimistic mother (under the tender but misguided belief that I would eventually learn to distinguish my right foot from my left) stuffed my chubby thighs into a pink tutu and gave me ballet lessons instead of piano. I still wanted it when I was in high school, when my girlfriends convinced me that it wasn’t cool to take piano lessons. Be a cheerleader, they said. So I tried out for cheerleading, only to discover that those same chubby thighs had somewhat less aptitude for cheerleading than they did for the ballet. (It was universally agreed, after my first big game, that my “booty moves” were destroying the team’s morale, and that I should retire from the cheerleading world, forthwith.)
I still longed to play the piano in college, but got sidetracked by the guitar, which I thought would render me fascinating to the kind of long-haired poetic types I dreamed of seducing. As it turned out, I showed only slightly less talent for the guitar than did my Miniature Schnauzer, Sigmund, who never really set his mind to it, actually.
Then, of course, I met Mac, and got married, and had two adorable babies, and forgot all about piano lessons—until last year. I began to realize that with my short time on Earth slipping through my fingers, I had achieved almost nothing on my list. (The list is entitled “Things to Do By The Time I’m Dead.”) When I began to beg for piano lessons, and to explain how my life would be a black hole of despair without them, Mac said, “Go for it,” in that laid-back, cheerful way he has. Some weeks later, I was able to play something called “The Fairies’ Birthday Party,” with just a few, teeny, insignificant mistakes on the hard parts.
All right, there it is. The piano is obviously not my instrument, and, in fact, has caused more trouble in my life than you can possibly imagine. As I write this, I am sitting on a small foam cushion, wishing that it were much larger— and a great deal thicker.
I will elaborate.
My husband, Mac, is a very nice guy—a virtual prince among men. If I hadn’t thought so, I wouldn’t have bedded him, wedded him (in exactly that order) or borne two of his cuddly offspring. If Mac has but one annoying trait, however, it is his insistence that I complete what I begin, which, coincidentally is the single thing that I do best—not finishing what I begin, that is. Our home is an always changing but never-ending collection of half-draped curtains, rooms painted half blue and half green, and more unwashed
or unfolded laundry than a federal prison.
Despite his dislike of incomplete projects, Mac has always shown an admirable degree of patience about my disinclination to finish things, and he often steps in to finalize most of my enthusiastically begun household projects with a minimum of grumbling—until recently, that is. Which is why my rear end is in the sore and painful condition it is, and why I am sitting on the aforementioned cushion, and why my rear end is likely to get vastly sorer when Mac returns home and discovers that the piano has...Well, in the interest of clarity, maybe I should start at the beginning.
As desperately as I wanted to play the piano, you see, it had simply never occurred to me that I would have to practice the piano. When this almost biological clock-like urge for piano lessons hit me, Mac and I went shopping, and I found the perfect piano—the piano of my dreams and the piano I was destined to own. A long, elegant, ebony Steinway whose satin finish seemed to glow with promise; Lincoln Center, Hollywood Bowl, “American Idol.” Who knew?
At this juncture, Mac suggested that maybe a somewhat less expensive piano would satisfy my musical hunger, until I had mastered the scales, at least. To which, I said, “But the children can take lessons, too!” To which Mac said, “Yeah, sure. Fat chance.” (This was an allusion to our children’s lack of motivation when it comes to activities more culturally challenging than “Sponge Bob, Square Pants.”) To which, I said, “I’ll get a part time job to help pay for it!” To which Mac said, “Oh, like you promised when we bought the_______?” (Fill in the blank.)
Finally, I pouted and whined, and swore on my children’s heads that this piano was the very last thing I would ever ask for again, as long as I lived, cross my heart, hope to die! Mac had a good laugh at that, but bought the piano— or promised his life’s blood for the piano, to be more accurate, because he is such a very, very nice guy, remember?
We couldn’t afford the piano, of course, even used, and when I tell you how much the piano cost, you will probably not believe me, and wonder why I haven’t been committed to an institution for the extremely dim, or simply strangled in my sleep. In addition to the problem of its cost, it turned out that this specific piano would not fit into our small living room. Mac and his brother spent three weekends removing a wall and incorporating our den and our living room into one, large “piano room.”
About three weeks after the piano was comfortably installed in its own room, and only days before the first payment came due, I came to the conclusion that the piano was not as much fun as I had expected, and decided to quit my lessons. Mac decided, on the other hand, that unless I wished to receive what he chose to call the “mother of all bare-assed belt blisterings,” I would continue my piano lessons until I could play reasonably well, or my fingers fell off at the first joint. Six months, minimum, or else! I complained, stamped my foot, and tried pouting again, and was rewarded for my tantrum with an abrupt trip across his knee, the rapid lowering of my frayed panties, and a dozen or so well-placed and agonizing smacks on my tender ass. After Mac had finished, he made me a solemn promise to repeat the event, should I fail to complete the six months of lessons, as instructed.
A show of hands, please. How many of you think I completed the lessons?
Exactly.
The above brief, but disagreeable event might be called, Spanking, Opus One, of the “Piano Sextet.” This is probably the time to explain that, far from being your average wife beater, Mac has always been the most tender of fellows, and wouldn’t, as they say, hurt a fly. So, as I stood there after his very thorough walloping, rubbing my stinging rear end and virtually sputtering with rage, I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought of him. (I should probably point out, here, that for a suburban housewife, I have a rather large vocabulary of obscenities, and in a rush of indignation, I called him most of them.)
Spanking, Opus Two was a bit different in tone, involving Mac’s doubled belt and my already throbbing, excruciatingly tender ass. This time, I howled and kicked, but refrained from obscenities, which is why I was able to sit down after only two days, instead of the full week he had promised.
The “spanking thing,” as I refer to it when I’m absolutely forced to describe it, began about two years ago. It was precipitated by my smoking habit, a practice which Mac considers only mildly less offensive than cannibalism, and a lot more expensive. With his “help,” I kicked the smoking habit, and have been tobacco-free ever since, with one notable two-week relapse, where he found it necessary to supply an additional, almost daily incentive. I’m not especially proud of our private arrangement, (signifying, as it does, my lack of self-control), but it works very well, so I offer no apologies for its political incorrectness. “Domestic Discipline” sounds a bit hoity-toity to describe what happens, and I’m never, ever required to dress up like a naughty English schoolgirl, but the effect on my rear end is probably about the same, whatever the event is called. Before the unfortunate incident with the piano, which I am about to relate, over a year had passed since the most recent “event”.
Meanwhile, back to the story: The following day, I began my piano lessons again, with Mac’s helpful incentive fresh in my mind, and the use of a soft cushion. If Miss Toomy, my aged piano teacher, noticed my stiff, unnatural posture and occasional wincing, she was kind enough to say nothing about it.
I did well for several weeks, attended lessons regularly, and practiced hard. Boring, and utterly useless. It became more than evident that Johannes Brahms, Franz Liszt, and Liberace, all working as a well-oiled musical machine, could not have taught me to play the piano, or even the scales, (which have always seemed to me like a bloody waste of time.) Why would any intelligent human being give a rat’s ass which finger is used on which note, I grumbled to Mac. Stupid, and a waste of money. Foolishly, I had expected the money argument might work, until I noticed Mac unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. (In my house, this is never a good sign.)
Spanking, Opus Three was what might be called a piano classic, with my bared ass bent across the Steinway’s ebony bench, pants down around my knees while Mac attended to both of my plump cheeks with a wooden spoon. He attended to them with such enthusiasm that I would have promised him anything, and wailed bloody murder, throughout, Thanks to excellent scheduling, neither of my innocent children were there to witness their Mother’s humiliation, let alone the shameful misuse of a fine musical instrument and a perfectly good cooking utensil.
Once again, I did well for several weeks, attended lessons regularly, and practiced hard. By this time, though, I had discovered the secret to success. All that was necessary was the appearance of practicing. I skipped most of my lessons, and winged the rest. A non-player himself, Mac wouldn’t have known the difference between Chopin and “Chopsticks,” and this lulled me into a false sense of security. Each night, I sat down at the piano and tickled the keys tunelessly but loudly, in a dazzling display of musical virtuosity— until the children begged me to stop because I was drowning out their absolutely vital reruns of “The Nanny.”
Things were going along beautifully until Miss Toomy, (may she develop a revolting fungus), decided on a “recital” to showcase the accomplishments of her more promising adult pupils. Being her least promising pupil, adult or otherwise, I was assigned, not “The Fairies’ Birthday Party,” which I had already sort of mastered, but instead, a cheerful little ditty by the great Robert Schumann, (may he develop a revolting fungus) The piece was called, idiotically, “The Happy Farmer.” I didn’t actually puke when told of my good luck, but went home and threw a truly wondrous temper tantrum before Mac, bemoaning the gross injustice of having to master a second melody, when I’d already committed one to memory.
Spanking, Opus Four, was delivered less than thirty seconds after I had finished cursing Miss Toomy and Robert Schumann, and will be remembered by me as my re-introduction to the wooden hairbrush, after a year’s absence. Mac had gotten very adept at this spanking business again, after our long hiatus, and had me bent n
aked and squirming over the side of the bathtub before I could swear to him that I didn’t really mean the terrible things I had said about Miss Toomy and Herr Schumann. Ignoring my protests, he proceeded to blister my tail, up and down and back and forth with blows that burned like molten lava, and left large, egg-shaped red blotches on my quivering buttocks. He finished with several stinging swats to the backs of my thighs, in what I now recognized, (with my new musical expertise,) as perfect three quarter time.
I was doomed. In just a few days, before a crowd of giggling friends and neighbors, I was expected to walk onto a stage, in the humiliating company of eight children ages four to eleven, and play “The Happy Farmer.” Furthermore, I would be expected to play it all the way through, without error, and without the use of profanity. (The chances of this happening were approximately the same as my morphing into Julia Roberts—probably less.) And day by day, as the dreaded recital approached, I saw the look in Mac’s eyes, a look that told me he hadn’t changed his mind about all this piano nonsense. No question about it; my husband was perfectly capable of walloping me before that same crowd of giggling friends and neighbors—in a kind of demented encore.
The dreaded recital happened almost a week ago, with Mac and the kids in the front row, waiting for dear old mom to waltz onto the stage and tinkle out Robert Schumann’s happy little tune with charm and spirit. I was not in the wings, however, patiently awaiting my curtain call with the rest of the kiddies. I was at the Mall, buying curtains.
What happened when I arrived home was about what I had expected, only a little worse, since I had maxed out the Visa on some amazing window treatments. Mac started slowly, delivering a stern lecture as he smacked, and progressed to a full-fledged, over the end of the bed spanking with his belt that left me alternately howling and stuffing a sheet in my mouth to keep my youngest from sharing details of the event at her Monday morning “Show and Tell.”
