"No, but I—"
"No buts, Sarah, I want you to feel like you can talk to me about any problem you have. Will you do that in the future, please?"
"Okay. I thought of telling you, but I didn't want to worry you about it, and I didn't figure there was anything you could do about my writer's block, anyway."
"Maybe there is and maybe there isn't, but if you have a problem, it's my problem, too. I want to know about it. Even if I can't help, we can at least talk about it, and that always helps you feel better, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Okay then. Now, what have you been trying? How much have you been writing on a daily basis?"
"I haven't been writing anything. I can't seem to think of any plot for a short story, let alone a book. I went in and sat down at my computer, but I didn't have a story line in my head, and I just couldn't come up with anything, so I left."
He was quiet several minutes, while he thought. "Honey, I want you to try something."
"Okay. What?"
"I want you to go in to your computer every day during the week and write something. I don't care what it is. If you can't come up with an idea for a story, that's fine. Don't worry about it. Write about your life, any fun experiences you remember as a child, or write about your move out here, or your flowers in your back yard. You have the most beautiful yard in the neighborhood, and I know you like spending time working on your flowers. Write about them; what kind they are, how to take care of them, why you like working in them. I don't care what you write about, but I want to see a minimum of three pages every evening after dinner. I know you said when you're in the middle of something it's not unusual for you to write fifteen or even twenty pages a day, so three isn't asking for too much. Don't worry about spelling or grammar or anything like that, just write whatever comes into your head. Okay?"
Sarah looked rather doubtful and was hedging, so he tried again. "Will you trust me on this, please? If it doesn't help, okay, but it isn't going to hurt anything, is it?"
She thought a moment, and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, no. I guess when you put it like that, what do I have to lose? Okay, I'll try, but I don't see how that's going to help."
"And it might not help. But it might, so I'd like to see you give it a try. Will you do that for me?"
She couldn't resist him much, especially when it wasn't really too much he was asking. She knew he was trying to help, and that gave her a warm feeling inside, so she agreed. "Okay, I'll do it. I can write about anything?"
"Anything at all. Write about a pet you had growing up, or a teacher you especially liked or didn't like, or some of the shenanigans I'm sure you got into as a child, or the stunts you pulled. I just want to see at least three pages every evening. Now, I feel like some ice cream. How about we go get a banana split to share?"
"I'm with you there," she said, jumping up. "Where are we going?"
"To the place down the street. I thought we'd walk there and back, so we can work off the ice cream we eat."
"Sounds good to me," she said, and he took her hand in his and they headed down the street.
The next night after dinner he asked to see her writing. She handed him three pages, which was basically a dry, factual family tree. She told about all her relatives, who they married, and where they lived. It was a totally uninspired, purely factual three pages. Heath was disappointed, but at least she had done them, and she was writing. He praised her, saying, "I'm proud of you, sweetie. You did what I asked. Was that really so hard?"
"No, but that's nothing I could sell. It's just relating things I know."
"I know, but it's a start. You were writing again. I didn't ask you to write something to sell, I just asked you to write. I'm proud of you."
They repeated pretty much the same thing the remainder of that week. She wrote, but all factual topics, more like writing a report than pleasure writing, and he read it every night, hoping for some inspiration, but saw absolutely none. He praised her every night, not for what she wrote, but the fact that she wrote it.
On Sunday night he reminded her the next day was Monday, and she was to write again.
Monday morning, she went to her computer but didn't feel like writing. She knew her writing had been bad, so why even bother? She was still hoping something would inspire her some day and she'd be back on track. In the meantime, she didn't see any reason to keep up with this charade, and she told him that when he asked to see her writing for the day.
She regretted it as soon as he looked at her, eyebrows raised, and stern look on his face. "Sarah Louise, if you've looked at this as a charade this whole time, it's no wonder it hasn't helped you. I think maybe I need to show you how seriously I've been taking this." He immediately pulled her over his lap, lifting her skirt in the same move. He was pulling her panties down to her knees before she caught her breath and realized what was about to happen. He spanked her several times before pausing to ask, "Do I have your attention now, Sarah?"
"Yes," she assured him.
"Good, because I want you to pay attention to what I'm saying." He continued the spanking while he explained, "I'm sorry this has all been a charade to you. It hasn't been to me. Do you remember when I explained to you what I expected, and what you would be spanked for?"
"Yes," she cried.
"And when I ask you to do something, did I say I expect perfection at all times?" he asked as he kept up the spanking.
"No," she admitted, realizing where he was going with this. She hated his lectures because they always made her remember things she'd forgotten, and then the guilt set in.
"What did I say I do expect?"
"Ow. You just asked, ouch, that I, oh, owww, that I try," she said, crying harder, not only from the spanking.
Not letting up, either in the spanking or the guilt-producing lecture, he asked, "And did you do that?"
He knew the moment he got through to her. She stopped struggling, laying limp over his knees, and sobbing her heart out. That's when he stopped the spanking and gently rolled her over into his arms to lay her head against his chest as his arms automatically wrapped around her. He whispered his love in her ear as he rubbed her back.
As she calmed down, she told him, "I'm sorry, Heath. You're right. I didn't even try. I'll try to do better, I promise."
He smoothed her hair back away from her face and assured her, "I know you will, sweetheart. I hope you do try this time, because your punishment's not over yet." He kissed her forehead when he saw her face pop up to look at him, her eyes as big as saucers. He felt her tense, but he continued. "No more spanking today, but there may be tomorrow."
He saw tears spring to her eyes again. "But that's entirely up to you. I've got something I want you to do tomorrow, and if you do it, put some effort into it and do it this time, no more spanking. If you treat it as another charade, we'll be right back here again tomorrow night, and I can guarantee you won't like doing this all over again tomorrow night on an already sore bottom. Remember when I told you what would happen if we discuss the same thing two days in a row?"
He watched her thinking, and could tell when she remembered. "You said the second time would be harder," she mumbled reluctantly.
"That's right. So remember that tomorrow, and remember, it's entirely up to you."
"What do you want me to do?" she asked timidly.
"You're going to be writing lines tomorrow. Have you ever had to do that before, in school maybe?"
"I haven't, but other kids had to in school."
"Well," he started, "these lines are going to be a little different." He picked her up and went into her office and sat her down at her desk. "Now, you're going to write fifty lines on your computer tomorrow."
"Really, I can use the computer? Cool." He could almost see her thinking ahead, thinking fifty lines isn't bad, especially on the computer, where you can easily repeat things.
"Yes, you can," he assured. "Now, I want you to type in this sentence. I will trust Heath enough to do what he as
ks me to when he's trying to help me because I know he loves me and wants the best for me."
She typed it all in, then looked up at him. "And I thought fifty would be a breeze. The kids at school never had to write that long a sentence," she said, reading it over.
He had to chuckle. "I doubt that the kids at school ever had to do it quite like this, either." She looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to explain. "First, read the sentence to me." She looked at the computer and read it back. "Now read it again, thinking about it as you read it." Once again, she read the sentence, but she slowed down partway through it, and tears came to her eyes again.
She looked up at him with the saddest puppy-dog eyes he'd ever seen. "I'm so sorry," she said. Writing that fifty times is going to be hard."
That was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. He wanted her to really think about what she'd done by making a charade of his writing assignment. He pulled her chin up so she had to look at him. "I want you to think while you're doing this tomorrow. I don't want you taking the easy way out on these sentences, so here's how I want you to do them. I want fifty sentences, but I want every one of them worded differently. Read the sentence I gave you, and then put it into your own words. It's a long sentence, and you don't have to cover every part of the sentence in each one of your sentences, but I want all fifty of yours to cover at least part of what that one says, but worded differently."
He could see her thinking, and he paused to give her time to absorb what he'd said. "You're a writer. Even though you've been trying to avoid it lately, you're a writer, and a darn good one. Therefore, I'm sure you can come up with fifty ways to say what's in that sentence."
Sarah was shocked. Reading that sentence out loud made her feel so ashamed. He really was good to her. He was trying to help her, and she'd fluffed off his help. Now, after getting her attention via a hand to butt discussion, he was trying to help her again. She realized that making her do sentences in this way would not only be a reminder of her disregard for his help, but it would also make her start writing again. She would have to put some thought into her words to write that many versions of it, and putting thought into words was pretty much what writing was to her. She reached over to him and gave him a big hug. "Thank you, Heath. I get what you're doing, and I just want you to know I appreciate it. I haven't shown it lately, but I'll do better. I promise."
"That's my girl," he said, returning her hug. "I hope you do get it now, because I was serious about another spanking tomorrow if you don't have fifty sentences for me when I come over tomorrow. This will take you a little time, so don't worry about cooking dinner. I'll come over at 5:00 tomorrow and we'll go over your sentences. If they're not done, or you jotted something down quickly to get it done without putting much thought into it, you'll be eating pizza for dinner tomorrow night on an extremely sore bottom. If the sentences are the kind of work I know you can do, we'll go out for a nice dinner. Any questions?"
"Just one," she answered shyly. "Assuming I do this right, no more spanking tomorrow night, can we go somewhere with soft, cushiony chairs? This computer chair really hurts."
Heath laughed, picking her up and sitting her on his lap, straddling his knees. "Deal, my little writer," he told her. "We'll go somewhere with soft, comfy chairs." He kissed her, before taking her out to the living room to sit down, again keeping her comfortably on his lap. "Now, do you want to go out for dinner tonight, or would you rather stay in?" He smiled, knowing she never wanted to go out after a spanking.
"I made dinner. Just give me a few minutes to heat it back up and we can eat." She winced as she pulled herself up off his lap and headed to the kitchen. He followed behind, ready to help, after stopping in her bedroom to get a nice soft pillow for her chair.
He knew he shouldn't, but he occasionally went against his own rule of no pillow after a spanking. He'd learned that she didn't exaggerate things, and that after a serious spanking, she often did have a very difficult time sitting afterward. He wanted her to be able to concentrate tomorrow, not be sidetracked by her sore bottom. She saw him place the pillow on her chair, and she looked at him, a little surprised, but smiling.
"I will allow you to use this tonight while we eat and tomorrow at the computer, but only because I want your total focus to be on your work. If we have to repeat the spanking tomorrow night, don't expect another pillow."
"Thank you," she said sincerely, reaching up to give him a kiss on his cheek.
* * *
The next day when Sarah sat down at her computer, she was determined to make him proud of her. She read her sentence again, knowing she would feel bad again, but also knowing it would help spur her into action. As she let the meaning settle into her, she realized there were many parts to that sentence. There was the issue of trusting Heath. In thinking about it, she did trust him. She would trust him with her life, so why couldn't she trust him with something like this?
Then there was the part, when he asks her to do something. He was in fact asking; he wasn't insisting or demanding, but he was asking. After all he's done for her, did she really want to not do one thing he asked of her? It wouldn't have hurt her, or cost her any money, or even taken a whole lot of time, but yet, she couldn't do that one thing he asked of her. She wasn't feeling too good about herself now, but she read on.
Next she read, when he's trying to help me. He wasn't just asking her to do one thing, he was asking her to do one thing as a means of helping her. It wasn't to benefit him, it was to benefit her, but she couldn't do it. The part about because he loves me didn't need a whole lot of thinking through, because he'd proven that to her several times over, including taking the time to try and help her with this.
Then she read the last part. The fact that he took the time and effort to correct her when she needed it was one example of the last part, and he wants the best for her. She sat, looking at the whole sentence, tears streaming down her face. She was so stupid. Duh!
She used these thoughts to start typing in sentence after sentence, focusing in on one part in particular in each of her versions. Before long they were coming quickly, and she realized her sentences were becoming more of a collection of thoughts she wanted somehow to transfer from her heart to his. When she was ready to write sentence number fifty, she paused. She had so much to say yet and she was sure she couldn't do it in one sentence. She thought about it for awhile, then making up her mind, she finished her sentences and printed them off. It was now 4:30, and she'd been working on this all day, taking only a half hour for lunch.
She hurried in to take a quick shower, wanting to be ready for Heath when he got there. She owed him that much, anyway. She showered, dressed, and just finished her makeup when she heard his key in the lock. She hurried to the door to meet him. He came in, took one look at her, and whistled. "My, my. You are absolutely beautiful tonight." They shared a passionate kiss, both hungry for the other. Pulling her back, he looked at her again, smiled, and noted, "You look more like you're dressed for a trip to dinner than a trip over my knees."
He could tell she felt satisfied with her sentences, and he truly hoped she had done what he knew she was capable of. She pulled him into the living room, and he wasn't surprised to see his sentences on the table beside the chair he usually sat in. He smiled at her, but she had a serious look on her face. He sat down, pulling her onto his lap, and picked up the papers.
Without saying anything, he started reading. The more he read, the more he was touched by what she'd written. She had not only written the sentences, but she'd poured her heart into each one. It was obvious she'd thought a great deal about this, even more than he'd hoped. Sentence fifty was not a sentence, but a letter to him, explaining all the things she'd realized during the day while writing. This letter was not only very touching, but she'd revealed more of her heart than ever before. It was also the most beautifully written piece he'd ever read. Then, at the end of her letter, her sense of amusement came through with her words. And just so I don't get another span
king, sentence number fifty, I will do my best to wise up and let Heath help me, since I now understand how worthy he is of my trust and how much he loves me, and since for some reason he is willing to help me like nobody other than he has been able to.
Heath was blown away when he finished reading. He looked from the paper to her eyes, which were full of pure love. He held her face in both his hands and kissed her, and found her hungry for his kiss.
When he pulled away, he went to the kitchen, where he picked up his sports coat he'd laid on a chair. She watched him with a quizzical look on her face. He returned and sat down on her couch, pulling her down beside him. "I brought a sports coat and planned on taking you somewhere special tonight and doing this then, but I can't wait that long."
He got down on one knee in front of her and pulled a little box from his coat pocket. "Sarah Louise Stellings, I love you with all my heart. Will you please marry me, share your life with me, and let me do the best I can to protect you, keep you safe, healthy and happy for the rest of our lives?"
Sarah sat there, stunned, for several moments. It wasn't until she saw the nervous look on his face change to worry that she realized she hadn't answered him. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I will marry you, Heath. I love you." She flung her arms around his neck, and he quickly had her wrapped in his arms.
After a very passionate kiss, he picked her up and headed for her bedroom. "I'm so glad I bought that raffle ticket," she said as she leaned against his chest.
"I'm so glad you won the raffle and got this house," he agreed.
"I did win the raffle," she agreed, "but the real prize wasn't really this house. The real prize lives across the street from the house."
He leaned down for a kiss as he carried her into the bedroom. Her lovely dress and special hairstyle, along with his khakis, shirt and sport coat, came off much quicker than they'd gone on. Two hours later they were calling for pizza, and going back to the bedroom while they waited. Dinner out would have to wait until tomorrow evening; they were busy tonight.
The Real Prize Page 8
