The following story depicts non-consensual physical discipline between male and female participants. Those offended by graphic descriptions of corporal punishment should read no further. This is entirely a work of fantasy, and does not advocate the abuse of minors in any way, shape or form. All characters and events represented herein are completely fictional.
HONEYMOON SUITE
1.
“No, Garry, don't, you mustn't SPANK me!!!”
Delia Connors tottered back on her stiletto heels, her face glowing with childish fear. Clad only in the virginal white lingerie of a newly-wed bride, she stared up at her husband with wide, frightened eyes. Garry was furious: she could see it in the thrust of his jaw, the rigid line of his posture. Delia had never seen him so angry, so … determined. Cold flushes swirled through her tummy, gooseflesh prickled over her bare shoulders. She shook her head in rising panic, unable to believe the afternoon had ended so badly.
He was going to spank her.
Tan her buns.
Whip her fanny.
Thrash her hynie.
Whale her tail.
It was all her own fault, of course. She’d been testing Garry’s patience for months now, tempting his anger at every turn. Looking back, she couldn’t understand why she’d treated him with such blatant contempt. At first, she’d dismissed it as pre-wedding jitters as the date drew near. What woman didn’t experience a little trepidation in the weeks leading up to her marriage? Sure, she’d been rather quick tempered on occasion - well, practically every hour of the day, to tell the truth - but there was no reason to make a federal case out of it.
Garry, on the other hand, had soon recognized Delia’s constant disrespect for what it truly was: a juvenile attempt to subject him to her pampered, feminine whims. Well, enough was enough. He’d suffered every kind of insult a man can endure from a woman: twelve incessant weeks of jibes, taunts and abuse. There comes a point where a man has to stand his ground, and Garry judged that moment had just arrived.
“I’ve had as much as I’m willing to take,” he told her in his resonant baritone, “now that we’re married, I’m going to give you something you should have had a long time ago.” Delia knew precisely what he had in mind, and there was no question that he could fulfill his threat. Garry was as tall and powerful as an Olympic weightlifter. Turning her over his knee would present no problem whatsoever. The image dominated her consciousness, flooding her mind with infantile dread.
“Garry, no, please!” she cried in a plaintive child’s voice, “you can’t do this to me!!” She glanced wildly around the room as if seeking some avenue of escape, knowing that flight was not an option. She had pushed Garry that one step too far, tried his patience once too often, and now she was going to face the consequences. She could offer no excuse for her behavior; Garry had her dead to rights this time. He had warned her months ago that he wouldn’t tolerate any of her shenanigans once they were married.
Naturally, she hadn’t taken his reprimands seriously at the time. She was an adult, a mature, sophisticated woman. He had no right to place restrictions on her conduct. She could say and do whatever she pleased. Who did he think he was anyway; her father? He didn’t own her. She didn’t belong to anyone, certainly not to him. How dare he treat her like some kind of indentured servant?! He was lucky she hadn’t broken off the engagement then and there.
Unfortunately, the marriage wasn’t working out quite the way she’d expected. Garry Connors was not a man who tolerated the tantrums of a spoilt little girl. He’d had as much of her sulking, petulant outbursts as he could take. It was time they sorted out their differences in the traditional manner. Delia was set to learn the lesson of a lifetime (and not a second too soon, in Garry’s estimation), one she would never forget.
She was going to have her bottom smacked.
Very hard.
On her wedding night!
2.
When she and Garry had arrived at the resort five hours before, Delia had never imagined the evening would end with a spanking. Discipline had never played a part in their relationship (nor had it ever figured in her fantasies). This was her honeymoon, the culmination of all her deepest longings; the beginning of a new life with the man she loved. Her life had been leading up to this; the fairytale conclusion to a fairytale engagement.
Nouveau Caledonia had been the proverbial seaside Eden with its glaringly bright sands and crystal blue waters. They’d spent the afternoon frolicking in the surf, trading kisses as the waves crashed around them. Emerging from the whitewash, Delia had leaned on her husband’s muscular bicep, a slender young woman with platinum blond hair hanging down to her waist. The sun and the sky and the cool ocean breeze had worked their magic on her; she wanted to lie in Garry’s strong, loving arms and enjoy all the pleasures the evening could offer.
Unfortunately for Delia, the nuptials were about to be postponed.
The trouble had begun soon after they'd returned to their Honeymoon Suite. It had been such a wonderful day; Delia planned to fill the night with sultry lovemaking in their enormous heart-shaped bed. Leaving her man sprawled across the sofa watching the cable, she'd stepped into the bathroom to paint her lips and slip into something considerably less comfortable than her string bikini.
Once the make-up had been applied, she'd changed into the delicious white lingerie her bridesmaids had bought her as a wedding present. The outfit had been wickedly provocative, consisting of a strapless corset (the kind with adjustable suspenders) and a pair of skimpy lace panties. Sheer stockings and shoulder-length gloves completed the ensemble, giving her a touch of Victorian mischief (mischief being the operative word in this scenario; Garry’s eyes were going to pop right out of his head when he saw what she was wearing). Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, she giggled to herself and trotted out to the bedroom.
Her passion turned to surprise when she found Garry riveted to the sports channel. Sprawled languidly across the ottoman, he seemed completely immersed in the widescreen. He’d even armed himself with a can of Bud from the refrigerator, settling in for the long haul.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Watching the football,” Garry said, not even looking up at her. Delia felt her back stiffen with irritation.
“Well, are you coming to bed?” Her tone was more command than enquiry. What did he think he was doing?!
“Yeah, in a minute,” he replied absently, “I’m just waiting for the score.”
What?! Delia thought in stunned disbelief. This was her honeymoon for chrissake! She should be the highest priority on his agenda, not some lumbering pack of steroid-driven Neanderthals. Months of resentment came bubbling to the surface. Now that she thought of it, his was so typical of him. Selfish, insensitive and totally inconsiderate, he had never respected her needs, her dreams, her wishes. All those months spent planning their wedding and he hadn’t once shown the slightest appreciation for her efforts. Well, they were married now. Things were going to change, as of this instant. There was no way her husband was going to keep her waiting for the next touchdown.
Delia stepped in front of sofa, effectively blocking Garry’s view with her gartered thighs. Silhouetted in the flickering radiance of the HDTV screen, she demanded his undivided attention in the most inflammatory of tones. Her voice rose and fell in shrewish ululations, her countenance flared with strident, feminine wrath. Drawing on her comprehensive knowledge of neo-feminist theories and Cosmo articles, she launched into a prolonged diatribe, slighting his manhood and depicting his entire gender as a species of cryptosexual mutants.
Garry listened in leisurely silence, refusing to take the bait. This was old news to him; he was used to Delia’s childish mood-swings. She’d been busting his case for well over three years; nine minutes of scathing invective wouldn’t bother him now. True, she had a tongue that could gut a fish and all the self-control an Arizona scorpion, but he was willing to cut her some slack for the moment. Sinking comfortably back into the upholstery, he laced his hands behind his head, and waited for the storm to blow over.
Definitely not the reaction she’d been expecting.
Annoyed by Garry’s apparent indifference, Delia changed track, presenting him with an extensive catalogue of his personal deficiencies. She described him as the illegitimate son of an alcoholic wife-beater. She accused him of having unnatural relations with convicted felons during his vacation at Ryker’s Island. She denounced him as a white trash substance abuser who would sell his grandmother for the price of a cheap bottle of sterno. She told him that if size didn’t matter, then he had nothing to worry about.
Garry shifted on the sofa, attempting to look around her. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders had just begun their half-time drill. This was shaping up to be a half-decent evening he thought, smiling to himself.
Again; not the kind of reaction she’d been expecting.
Goaded beyond all forbearance, Delia moved onto Garry’s family (unaware that she was venturing into hazardous waters with every word). His bother was an obese mental patient with twelve toes and an eating disorder. His sister was the subject of clinical research proving that Darwin’s theories work in reverse. His cousins had all married each other and sired a generation of circus attractions. His grandparents had met in the back alley of a New Orleans house of ill repute. His Father (in addition to being an alcoholic wife-beater) was a physically deformed sexual pervert with a fondness for domesticated animals. His Mother was a syphilitic inbreed with the face of a pig and the morals of a San Francisco street-walker.
That was a mistake.
Delia realized her error almost immediately. Garry's face altered subtly, taking on a sharply angular expression that chilled the blood in her veins. A lethal silence filled the space between them for several seconds. She opened her mouth to say that she hadn’t meant it, that’s he’d misunderstood her meaning, but realized it was too late. The words had been spoken; they could never be taken back.
What have I done? She thought, putting a hand to her mouth.
Unfolding his brawny arms, Garry rose slowly to his feet, his eyes gleaming with ice-blue fury. Delia felt her spine turn to jelly. She was about to discover - to her most profound regret – that Garry Connors did not tolerate attacks on his Mother.
Especially from his wife.
Straightening up to his full height, Garry regarded her with barely concealed rage. His gaze could have felled an ox.
“What did you say?”
“N-nothing,” Delia stammered, desperately hoping he hadn’t heard her right, “I d-didn’t say anyth-”
“You called my Mother a pig.”
Another excruciatingly long pause. Delia stood with her mouth gaping open, knowing – but not admitting – that she had no defense, no justification, no excuse whatsoever. She’d said the most terrible things, there was no point in denying that now. What had she been thinking, blighting his family like that? Her own parents wouldn’t have allowed her to talk that way about anyone. In fact, if her Daddy had ever heard her using that kind of language …
Don’t go there, she thought to herself, but the image had already insinuated itself in her mind’s eye. Long-suppressed emotions flooded her consciousness; visions of hot, smarting bottom-cheeks danced in her head. Shivering before Garry in her flimsy lace undies, Delia felt roughly seven years old; an errant schoolgirl facing the worst punishment she could imagine. And right at that second, she would have done anything to avoid justice, even if it meant begging his forgiveness.
“Garry, I’m sorry,” she almost wailed, “I didn’t mean it darling, honestly I didn’t -”
“Oh, you meant it all right,” Garry rumbled, flexing his hands unconsciously, “you meant every damned word, didn’t you?”
“Noooooo,” she cried, knowing where the conversation was leading, “please Garry, don’t be mad, I’m sorry -”
“Not as sorry as you’re going to be, young lady,” he corrected, starting to loosen his shirt with slow, purposeful movements.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve had it up to here with you, Delia,” Garry replied, his face etched with paternal wrath, “you’ve been sinking your claws into me for six month now, blaming me for everything that goes wrong no matter whose fault it is! Well, all that’s going to change tonight. If you’re not willing to behave like an adult, then I’m going to treat you like a child.” He glowered down at her for several seconds, then leaned forward to pronounce judgement.
“You’re going over my knee for a nice, long spanking!!”
3.
“No, Garry, NOOOO,” she cried as Garry's granite hand enveloped her tiny wrist. Holding her in a cast-iron grip, he led her easily over to the straight-backed chair near the cocktail bar. She could feel unwilling tears starting down her cheeks. She stumbled along in her high heels, sobbing in protest, unable to believe what was about to happen.
She was going to be spanked!!
Garry halted by the chair, warning Delia with a frigid glance not to move or speak. She stood by in mute terror, her lower lip quivering as Garry began unbuttoning his cuffs. In a matter of moments she'd be laid over her husband's knee with her trim young bottom bared for a spanking. She began to whimper, imagining how his broad, callused palm would bruise her cheeks.
“Garry, darling, PLEASE,” she stammered through despairing sobs, “I'm NOT a little girl; you can't SPANK me!!!”
Garry glanced down at his naughty young bride. Even with her eyeliner running in long wet streaks, Delia was a stunningly beautiful girl, with her dainty figure and platinum tresses falling to her hips. Her pretty blue eyes were as huge and wet as an unhappy child'
“Oh really?” he replied, completing his sleeve rolling preparations, “you became my Little Girl the moment you said ‘I do;’ and as far as I'm concerned, if a man can't take his wife over his knee for a spanking, the contract needs to be revised.”
He sat down on the chair, appraising his beautiful lady with a stern, measuring gaze. He was wearing an intractable, paternal expression that set the butterflies cartwheeling in her tummy. Delia's shoulders shook with flinching, paralyzing fright. She wanted to run, bolt for the door on her lofty stilettos, but the overwhelming fear of retribution seemed to have welded her feet to the floor.
“All right” he said, bringing his hands smartly together, “panties down, young lady.”
Delia stared up in gape-mouthed shack as the words settled into place. He was going to make her bare her bottom!! She immediately saw herself spread over his lap with her naked, ivory fesse presented for punishment. This was too much to bear, he couldn’t be serious. The floodgates burst open with a cascade of new tears and pleas:
“No, Garry, NO, PLEASE, I can't take a BARE BOTTOMED SPANKING, it's not fair, PLEASE darling-”
“You'll take whatever I give you, little miss,” Garry rumbled, his face darkening with masculine anger, “now get those pants DOWN!!!”
Gasping in helpless fright, Delia hastened to obey. This was a cruelty beyond anything she’d ever known, but what other choice did she have? She couldn’t resist, couldn’t refuse. Turning away, she looped her fingers through her gossamer panties and peeled them down over her garters. Humiliation washed over her in an emotional tidal wave; she'd taken her knickers down for him literally hundreds of times in the past, but never in preparation for a spanking.
Doubled over with her bottom rudely thrust in her husband's face, Delia cried in open shame. Her tush felt as if it had suddenly trebled in size: uncovered in such an undignified manner, it must have looked utterly enormous. She placed a slim hand over each creamy hemisphere, begging for clemency in high, piping tones.
“No, please Garry don't spank me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, really, don't, please don't, please don't spank my bottom-”
Garry wouldn't have it. She was his wife, his woman, and her entire body was his to examine at leisure. There were no secrets between them as it was, and he wouldn't stand for her hiding any part of her anatomy from his attention.
“Drop those hands and touch your toes,” he growled, bringing a groan of misery from the woefully sobbing girl, “DON'T make me tell you twice!!” Delia revealed her buttocks once more, giving over to the silent weeping of total defeat.
Garry inspected her prim little tail with an eye trained by long experience. Delia's fanny was full and lush and delectably soft, highlighted by the snowy expanse of her bikini triangle. The recent indentations of her panty lines were clearly marked on her tightly clenched bottom-tops. He patted her cheeks approvingly, marveling - as always - at their perfect, satiny texture. His impudent young bride had the most gloriously contoured bottie he'd ever known (and this was saying something, considering how many he'd seen over the years).
“Yes, I can see you're long overdue for a paddling,” Garry mused, almost to himself. It was ironic how the naughtiest girls always seemed to have the prettiest buns: sweet, luscious and profoundly dimpled, they virtually demanded a spanking. Delia's rear was no exception (proved the rule, in fact), and Garry planned to give her butt exactly what it required, no ifs, ands, or buts.
“OK, young lady,” he said, administering a smart, ringing slap to her posterior, “you're going over my knee. Right now!”
Delia cried softly as Garry picked her up and stretched her lightly across his lap. She was a frail, delicately shaped woman, appearing to weigh little more than a kitten. Her mind was still reeling with disbelief, unable to accept that she was surrendering to her punishment so passively. She was a woman, not a child; she'd spent four interminable years at university sweating over her bachelor's degree, she'd been a vigorous participant in equity groups and political action lobbies.
And yet here she was, dangling over Garry's knee with her bare bottom on exhibition to the world. It was a betrayal of all her deepest principals and convictions. Shame swept through her like a flash-flood: after all her speeches and debates and dissertations, she was meekly acquiescing to her husband's dominance!!
“No point in crying, Delia, you know that won’t do any good now.”
Delia listened in mute acceptance while Garry subjected her to one final round of broadside scolding. There were going to be a few changes from here on in. She'd gotten away with far too much over the last half a year, acting like a petty tyrant and constantly demanding her own way in everything. Well, those days were over. He was a man, she was his wife, and he planned to ensure that she respected her place in this marriage. She could look forward to regular discipline in future. As long as they shared the same home, she'd obey his rules or suffer the consequences. He'd been looking forward to this day for some time now. She'd grown increasingly belligerent and antagonistic in the months leading up to the wedding, and he'd decided weeks ago that a hot, scarlet bottom would the highest priority of their marriage.
Delia whimpered quietly, unable to raise a single word of protest. Now that she was hanging over his lap with her hair sweeping the floor and her fanny pointing to the skies, she found herself thinking that Garry was perfectly correct: she had been inexcusably naughty over the past few months: selfish and demanding and manipulative. He had every right to spank her as hard as he liked – particularly after what she’d said about his Mother.
“Now,” Garry told her, raising his stony right hand, “keep still and hold your bottom up!!”
TO BE CONTINUED