…the bastard.

Can you believe it? He brought it up to bed and set it by my head on the cabinet. It just makes me so angry when he does things like that. I think he may even have hummed while he did it. I think it is the tune from The Adams Family. I hate that song.

I am tired, that is not why I am angry, not at all but I am tired.

I woke up this morning at about four o’ clock. I’d had a nightmare. So I went to get a cuddle from him to make me feel safe and he held me but he fell back to sleep and his arm was heavy and he made me hot so I had to go back to my side of the bed.

I was wide awake, nervous to go back to sleep and my phone was there. I know he has told me very clearly I am not allowed to use my phone at night; it makes me tired and fed up the next day but I was awake anyway. So I started to look at it. The light from the phone was not as bright as it could have been; I had to hold it pretty high to get it into his eyes. But my nails are pretty long so getting them to click on the screen was not hard.

It didn’t take long.

“Put it away,” The duvet said. A little flutter in my tummy trilled from the command but not enough. I needed more. Click, click, click of my nails on the screen.

I saw two bleary eyes glare at me. He needs a shave. His dark beard contrasts beautifully with his eyes, even in the harsh dawn light.

“Put your phone down now.”

The thing is, I thought that command would do it. I thought that assertive voice would give me the comfort I needed to go back to sleep but I realised as I heard myself say, “NO” that I needed more.

I think it was because he had been away. He has not spanked me properly in weeks. I mean, he has spanked me. Some long spankings and once or twice with his belt but I needed more- I need a Proper Spanking. I need something else. I need that kind of intense spanking where it seems like it won’t stop and that my bottom will never recover. I could ask but then it would not count. It would be worse than not being spanked at all.

Either way here we were. I did not hand him my phone, even when he glared at me. I steeled myself waiting for the inevitable and I was determined not to cry no matter how hard he spanked me.

He stared at me for about thirty seconds- so I knew it would be a big, hard spanking, maybe even with my hair brush. I hate that hairbrush, it is an evil bit of wood. I hate being sent to fetch it. I looked at him, trying to keep my eyes steeled and stubborn.

He looked at me once more then turned over and away from me. I waited. He snored.

My phone and I kept each other company for a couple of hours, long after the sun fully came up and warmed the room. I looked at everything with the help of my only true partner and helper, Google. “Why spanking relationships fail” “Why some men won’t spank”  and the big helper “How to live with self denial.”

It was clear, as I raged in the dawn that he would not or could not give me what I need. It was clear I would be alone and in this pain for years, that everything I had ever wanted and needed would be denied me. This was true perspective, true understanding or who and what I am and what I will always be. It was probably evidence of my grasping and debased nature that I should want such a thing. I must be a pervert, a dreadful, terrible pervert. If my Doctor knew I would probably be locked up and given Electric Shock Therapy- or a lobotomy like in One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest.  I decided I would have to spend my life aspiring to accept my solitude and keeping my sordid and debased habits to myself.  I cried a little. I fell asleep eventually, phone in one hand, reaching forlornly out to him with the other.

I look at him now as I drink my tea. I will not let him see my pain. I will not let him see any of me. It is all too painful, too humiliating to be in need and waiting upon the actions of another. I am fine and I tell him so.

I also help him by explaining that seeing as I used my phone last night and am quite well this morning it is an unnecessary rule of his that I do not use it at night. That should let him off the hook; he need not be burdened by telling me what to do any more.

It is a clean start. We both know where we stand now. We can start our relationship with a crisp, clear and brittle understanding of what and who we are.

I tell him so. I sound dispassionate. I feel nothing, I tell myself this. I stop short of telling him that I am dead inside now. He does not need to know about these feelings any more, not now that my feelings no longer exist.

He tells me he wants to talk to me. He has his jeans on but no tee shirt his arms and chest look so broad and brutal that I find myself pulled towards him, like gravity but gravity is a weak force and I hold myself back.

I find my work face and sit up so I can look him firmly in the eye while he tells me all about it. I will listen but not allow him to subdue me. I must be strong and hold this line for both of us or we will keep on getting caught up in the charade and wake to disappointment and crowded solitude. This delusion will destroy us and only I can save us.

He places a wooden spoon on my bedside table. He had it in his back pocket from the kitchen. It sits next to my cup of tea.

What on earth is that for? Not hygienic to use a wooden spoon and I hate things like that. It is first thing in the morning for goodness sake. What on earth is his problem? Why does he have to be so bloody difficult about things?

He lies down next to me and talks. He strokes my face as I turn away from him. I look out of the window and fume at the skinny tree branch there with a stupid bird who loiters for just a moment before flying off to a more welcoming resting place. I can’t hear his words, each sentence tumbles into the next and I don’t believe a word of it but I am caught in the treacle of his voice.

How I do love him.

I can hear one thing. He says he need not use the spoon if I listen to reason and show I understand.

Bloody, bloody bastard. I understand all right. I understand everything, except it is hard to explain it all to him because all my understandings tumble out of my brain like toys from an over stacked cupboard.

I try to speak. I try to tell him everything while telling him nothing because I will not, for one more moment, bear to have him witness the humiliation of my need for him.

Now he is silent. I have turned to face him. He listens like he always does with stillness and patience.

He speaks.

“You are such a teenager sometimes.”

I duck my head around so he does not see my tears. I don’t know. Maybe I am, maybe I am not, but this is too much and I don’t have the words and I am so angry with him I could bite.

He sits up and picks me up like a rag doll, I am too miserable to resist him. This is the worst thing in the world. He is going to spank me and does not even want to. He does it only because I am so awful that there is nothing left to do. I could rip at my own flesh as I shout again and again inside my head, ‘But you are doing this for me. Not for you.’ The horror of this knowledge competes with his hand as it slaps against me in steady, hard spanks each one making my breath jerk out of me in little shocks.

I clench my fists into balls, as though ready to punch his ankles as he lets me dangle off the bed. I cannot do so, his hand is hard, it really hurts and my bottom is burning, and swelling as he smacks it. I am losing my dignity, my composure and I am forgetting all things I cannot say to him.

I kick out though. It is involuntary. It is a wretched plea for freedom until he tucks my legs under his arm and pins me still.

I give into my rage now. It is perfectly balanced with the force of the spanking he is making me endure. I give up trying to measure myself out for him in reasonable doses. I let myself go and push and pull and try to escape. But he does not stop. He holds my legs tight and spanks every part of me, inner thigh stings and then hurts, my bottom is burning so hot that I can feel the cool of his stomach when I twist back.

I try to kick, I try to fight him and all through it he spanks me, spanks me, spanks me until now it is just him spanking me. I yield, with empty brain and empty heart, I yield.

I listen now. I listen to his hand against my flesh, the sounds of my shame echoing around the room, I can feel his hand his hot. I don’t know anything else, my bum hurts so much.

He stops. He strokes me, round the swollen raised curve of my bottom but we both feel it. That tenderness makes my back go taut. His gentle stroke is a weakness. He cannot do this. I have won.

I am tipped forward as he leans and I know he is reaching for the spoon. The ground he just made is partially given as I try again to push myself off his lap only to be taken back up and tipped forward so I feel precarious and presented to him, bottom up and head down, both red, one with the ministrations of his hand and the other with shame and an anger that is considering retreating.

This is wrong. This is not what I need. I may have needed the spanking but not this bloody spoon. I hate the spoon. I get so angry thinking these thoughts that for a while I can’t feel the bite of it but when it makes its way through to my brain I start to shout at him, little guttural shouts, it makes no difference.

Each spiteful little hit bites me that mean little vengeful bit of wood will burn by the end of the day, I swear. He does not even hit hard but the neat little circle of pain makes an impression all over me.

I don’t think he will stop. I have had enough. I tell him to stop.

The precise little swats get harder, I think I might cry. Why won’t he listen to me?

“Please, please stop. Please, it hurts, I don’t like it.”

I swear the little nips on my bum get harder. I don’t understand why he won’t stop. I hold on tight to his ankle and bite his jeans, not him just the material, just to help me endure it, and just to help me stay still for him.

He stops. I wait for him to speak. He does not.

I wait for my thoughts to rush in. They are silent. My thoughts and I, we wait for him.

There is space now for his words.

He starts to talk and I listen.