Spatulated

It was close to bedtime and as I realized a whole weekend had slipped away without any sex of any kind I crawled up into his lap and snuggled him and then leaned back and looked solemnly into his eyes and whispered, “I feel neglected.”

His brows lifted high and he chuckled and repeated back to me.  “Neglected?  Neglected?”  And he flipped me over across his lap and ran his hand over my bottom and said it again.  “Neglected?”  He swatted me tentatively and I wiggled and lifted up my bottom, reaching for more. 

“Get up and go into the kitchen and get the spatula.”

Oh, shit, not “the” spatula.  Not that big, cumbersome wooden thing that is not good for anything but spanking.  Shit.  Shit.  Again, shit.  That is not what I was looking for.  Anything but that.

I protest, “Don’t wanna,” and hunkered down in his lap.

No such luck.  He dumped me on the floor.  “Go get it.  Now.”

I must admit I dragged my feet on the way to the kitchen and on the way back I was barely inching along.  Working the pitiful big eyed, little girl thing to the max, I managed to get the lower lip and chin to tremble convincingly… convincingly for anyone but Master that is.  He just snorted and held out his hand. 

Shit, shit, shit.

I remember once squirming so much that I slipped off his lap onto the floor and he just stopped and growled, “Get your bottom back up here, now.”  By the time it ended I was about as close to tears as I have ever been with getting my bottom spanked… or spatulated might be more accurate.

The next morning as I brushed my teeth before work, Master commented he ought to spank me like that every night. 

I shot him a sidelong glance and kept brushing, debating  arguing that that idea was a really bad idea… in fact it sucked monkey balls.  But then I knew if I argued that would just about guarantee a sound thrashing every night.  But too much indifference was perhaps just about as dangerous. 

Spit, avoid eye contact.  “Why?”

“You slept really good last night.”

Wondering to oneself what made him think that.  I generally sleep really good, if you don’t count a pesky habit of waking up very early. 

He repeated, “You slept good, didn’t you.  That spanking helped you sleep better, didn’t it.”  Funny how his questions sound more like declarations. 

Rinse and wipe mouth… muttered noncommittally, “Didn’t hurt.”

“Then I will have to do it harder.”

Abrupt double take.  What the fuck.  Oh, shit… I said, “Didn’t hurt”… to a frickin sadist.

Babbling, “That’s not what I meant.  I meant that the spanking didn’t hurt how I slept.”

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit. Be very, very care of what words you choose when speaking.