Lisa and the F Bomb

Fiction by Jack and Lisa

(M/F Bare, hand, brush, spanking, domestic discipline, Consent)

(This is a fiction piece that has a man spanking a woman. If that offends you, please do not read)

(Note: It is very important to get context between (Jack and Emma) and (Tom and Lisa) so make sure you read “Our New Neighbors" first.)

Summer always felt like freedom to most teachers, but for me it came with a different kind of responsibility. When school paused, my mouth tended to loosen—too much time alone, too many little frustrations slipping out unfiltered. Tom always teased that the more time I had off, the more “colorful” my vocabulary became. And in our home, with the lifestyle we lived by choice, that meant I had to be mindful.

It was late morning, warm enough that I’d tied my hair up and slipped into an old tee and shorts for gardening. I was crouched beside the hydrangeas, trying—and failing—to break up a stubborn clump of soil when the trowel slipped and smacked hard against my knuckle.

The sting shot up my hand, and without thinking I blurted, “Oh for—! F—!”. The word was loud. Sharp. And it hung in the summer air like a firecracker. I froze.

A moment later, from the other side of the fence, came a quiet, unmistakable clearing of a throat. Jack, our neighbor. Tom’s best friend. And—the part that mattered—someone who followed the same domestic-discipline lifestyle with his wife, which meant he understood every rule Tom and I lived by. A few summers ago, after a long, honest conversation between all four of us, we’d agreed that if I slipped when Tom wasn’t home and Jack overheard something serious, he had permission to call me out and if he felt necessary to hold me accountable. Or at a minimum tell Tom so he could handle it. 

I stood slowly, brushing soil from my hands as my face went hot. Jack didn’t poke his head over the fence, but his voice carried easily. “Lisa? Everything alright over there?”

Mortification washed over me. “Yes, Jack… just dropped the trowel.” There was a pause. A knowing pause. “And the language?” he asked gently—not scolding, not mocking, simply reminding. I shut my eyes. “I know. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“You and Tom still keeping to the rule this summer?” he asked. We both knew the answer, but he always waited for me to confirm—my lifestyle, my consent. “Yes,” I said quietly. “We are.”

Another beat of silence, then his voice softened in that neighborly, steady way he had. “You know he’d want to be told.” My cheeks burned. “I know. I’ll tell him when he gets home.” “Good,” Jack said kindly. “And try to keep it together out here. Hydrangeas aren’t worth getting yourself in trouble over.” Despite the embarrassment, I let out a shaky laugh. “Noted.”

I knelt again, this time working more carefully, the slip of my tongue echoing in my mind. Tom didn’t demand perfection, but language—especially the harsher sort—was one of his firm lines. Not because he wanted me meek, but because he believed words shaped mood, tone, discipline, even the atmosphere of a home. And I loved him enough to honor that.

By mid-afternoon, the sun had grown hot, and I decided to bring in the sheets and clothes I’d hung on the line earlier that morning. The breeze had been gentle all day, so I didn’t expect any trouble.

But the moment I rounded the corner of the house, my stomach dropped.

Half the laundry lay in a heap on the ground—draped over dirt, mulch, and worse, the edge of a muddy flowerbed.

My favorite white tank top was smeared brown.

I stood there frozen, heat rising in my chest, frustration bubbling so fast I barely had time to bite it back.

“Are you kidding me?” I snapped—and then it came out, sharp and loud and echoing across both yards—

“Oh for f—’s sake!”

It was louder than the first one. Angrier. And unlike the gardening slip, this one was very much directed at the world around me.

A second later, as if summoned, I heard the sound of a gate latch click behind me.

Jack. stepped through the side yard, wiping his hands on a pair of work gloves. His expression wasn’t annoyed—not even surprised. Just calm, steady, and incredibly neighborly in that maddening way of his.

“Laundry trouble?” he asked. I pressed my hands to my face. “Jack, I swear, it just fell. And I didn’t mean to—well… I did mean to say it, but I shouldn’t have.” He nodded, not unkindly. “We all have moments.” I swallowed hard. “Tom’s going to be so disappointed.”

“He might,” Jack agreed gently. “But we also agreed on something last year, didn’t we?” His voice stayed careful, offering, never pushing. I nodded slowly. “That if I let the same rule slip twice in one day, and he wasn’t home… you could handle the correction before it built into a bigger problem.”

“And do you still consent to that?” he asked plainly. He always asked. Every single time. My cheeks burned, but my voice came out steady. “Yes. I do.” He gave a small, understanding nod. “Alright then. Let’s gather the laundry on the ground and meet me inside.”

I quickly gathered all the laundry that ended in the dirt and walked inside. My eyes got big as I saw the chair and hairbrush in the living room. Jack was getting two glasses of water from our fridge  and when he saw me come in from the backyard he said, “Go get the laundry started before it stains.” He continued, “Might as well through those shorts and panties in there too” 

I blushed so much as I walked into the laundry room and one by one put each dirty item in the laundry and pre-treated my tank top. When everything was loaded I was shaking as I stood there thinking about my language. “Gosh” I thought to myself, “I really need to work on my language”. 

Then with shaky hands, I unbuttoned my shorts, slid them off and tossed them into washer. Then I dreading this, I pushed my panties down to my ankles and they joined the rest of the laundry. I added soap and fabric softener to the washer. Then I closed the door, set the cycle and pushed the start button and the machine started to fill. 

Now I stood frozen in just my shirt dreading walking back into the living room. Nervously I walked down the hallway and rounded the corner. My hands were at my side holding my shirt down as far as I could and looking very meekly. 

Jack didn’t make a show of anything, was always calm and wasn't mean as he lectured ,“Lisa, hands on your head please.” I complied which made me really self conscious as my t-shirt lifted to just above my belly button. 

He continued, “Lisa, you really need to watch your language. You are an intelligent young lady who is beautiful, but that sort of language takes away from both your intelligence and looks. Plus, it does not reflect the family values.”

These words cut like a knife and I felt deep shame forgetting about my modesty. He asked me, “Do you ever hear Tom swear?” I shook my head no and said, “Very very rarely!” Jack continued, “So he does set a good example for you?” I nodded yes, “Yes sir.” I said meekly. 

He patted his lap and said, “Over you go.” He guided me gently over his knee, his voice low. “Just enough to settle you down.” The first swat landed sharp enough to make me jump—but not painful because he was using his hand,. not punishing, just decisive. A boundary tapped back into place. A dozen or so more followed, measured, steady, enough to make my eyes sting with embarrassment more than pain. 

Then he tapped my shoulder and said, “Be a dear and hand me that brush.” which was on the ground in front of me. Sniffling I grabbed it and reached it back for him to take. This is going to be a bit more painful but I know you can hold on. 

He moved his leg over my legs and took my hand and pressed it down in the middle of my back. “You ready Lisa?”. I nodded and squeak out a, “Yes sir… please not so hard” Jack chuckled, “Lisa you are too cute. I am just giving you a reminder of your behavior.”

He rubbed my bottom with the brush and then brought it down really hard. I screamed out and my leg tried to lift but was held down by his leg. The brush came down so hard over and over again. As I screamed I tried to twist but couldn’t because he held me so tightly. All I could do is endure. Within a few minutes it was over and I laid over his lap blubbering like a baby. 

After I calmed down, he helped me stand and gave me a moment to breathe.

“You alright?” he asked.

I nodded, wiping my cheeks. “Yes. Thank you. I—I needed the reset.”

“Good.” He offered a small, reassuring smile. “And I’ll tell Tom I handled it with your consent. He’ll be proud of you for being honest.”

My face warmed. “I hope so.”

“You know this is just a reset. Tom can take it from here tonight.”

Jack stepped back toward the back door. “Now go get that laundry finished up.. And maybe keep the language G-rated for the rest of the day.”

Despite the sting—both emotional and physical—I let out a tiny laugh. “I’ll try.”

As he headed home, I headed into the laundry room to check on the time remaining, feeling calmer, steadier, and oddly grateful. Not for the embarrassment, but for the structure—the accountability I had chosen and that Tom and I built together. For the next hour I did laundry in just my shirt, which kept me grounded. 

And tonight, when Tom came home, I knew there would be another conversation. But instead of dread, I felt something else:

Relief.