A Holiday Stress Reset by the Christmas Lights (Part 1 of 2)

 “A Holiday Stress Reset by the Christmas Lights”

Fictional Story by Lisa

This story contains a really hard spanking between a husband and wife. Also includes oral sex. If any of these themes bother you or you are underage, please please please do not read

“That’s it. I warned you.”

Tom’s voice cut through my angry tirade, low and final. The warmth of the living room, all twinkling lights and pine scent, vanished. A chill went up my spine that had nothing to do with the snow falling outside.

He stood up from the armchair, his usually gentle face set in a hard line I rarely saw.

I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from ranting about my Uncle Jerry’s snide comments at dinner. “Warned me about what? I have a right to be furious!”

“You have a right to feel it, Lisa. You don’t have a right to let it poison our entire evening, or the next three days. I’ve asked you three times to let it go.” He walked to the mantle, his movements deliberate. My eyes followed him, confusion warring with a sudden, dawning trepidation.

He didn’t reach for a Christmas ornament. His hand closed around the heavy, solid wood hairbrush I’d left there after fixing my hair.

Oh.

The word didn’t make it past my lips. My throat went dry. I had not been defiant in such a long time. But the look in his eyes, the firm set of his shoulders—it was the same look from years ago, when we’d first explored this. A shiver that wasn’t entirely fear danced over my skin.

“Tom…” My voice was a whisper.

“You need to let it out. All that bitter tension. And since you won’t talk it out calmly, we’ll do it this way.” He pointed to the arm of the plush sofa. “Now. Jeans and panties down. Over the arm of the sofa.”

The command was absolute. My face flushed hot. I wanted to argue, to shout that he was being unfair. But a deeper, secret part of me clenched low in my belly. The part that was so tired of being the stressed, wound-up hostess, the part that craved his control, his ability to cut through my noise. I hated that part right now. And I ached for it.

Slowly, hands trembling, I fumbled with the button of my jeans. The denim was tight, and I had to wiggle to get them, along with my cotton panties, down to my knees. The air in the room was warm, but it felt shockingly cool on my exposed skin. I avoided his gaze, my cheeks burning, as I bent awkwardly over the firm arm of the sofa. The upholstery brushed my stomach. My heart thundered in my ears.

I heard him move behind me. Then, his large, warm hand settled on the crest of my bottom. A simple, possessive touch that made me gasp.

“This is for your own good, Lisa. To clear your head.” His voice was closer now, right above me. “And because I love you too much to let you stew in this.”

I know. I thought, but couldn’t say.

The first swat landed. His bare heavy hand. A sharp, stinging crack that jolted me. It was more surprise than pain at first. Then the heat spread, a bright, blooming warmth.

Smack!

Another, on the other cheek. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. A yelp escaped me.

“Count them,” he instructed, his voice calm.

“One… Two…” I whispered into the sofa cushion.

The spanks began in earnest. Not frantic, but measured and steady. Each one a deliberate punctuation to my earlier, scattered anger. Smack! That was for snapping at his mother. Smack! That was for the sarcastic comment I’d made about his sister’s pie. Smack! And that… that was for letting Uncle Jerry, a miserable old man, live rent-free in my head on Christmas Eve.

The pain was a bright, sharp sting that built and built, layering over itself until my entire backside was a throbbing, fiery ache. Tears pricked my eyes—not just from the pain, but from the catharsis of it. All the petty frustrations, the holiday stress, began to melt under this relentless, focused attention. My struggles grew weaker, my protests fading into ragged breaths and hitched sobs. I was just feeling. Pure, raw sensation.

Then, the spanking stopped. The warm weight of his hand rested on my blazing skin.

I heard a different sound. The soft clink of the hairbrush being picked up from the side table. My body went rigid. Not that. Please, not that.

“Ten with the brush, sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. “For not heeding my warnings. Then we’re done.”

Before I could beg, the cool, hard flat of the solid wood pressed against the hottest part of my right cheek. I braced.

THWACK!

The pain was brilliant, concentrated, and deep. It stole my breath. A choked cry tore from my throat.

THWACK! On the left. A line of fire.

“Seven!” I sobbed out, having lost count but knowing we must be near the end. The brush fell again, and again, each impact a seismic shock to my system, driving out every last thought of anyone but him, this room, this searing connection.

Finally, it stopped.

Silence, except for my ragged weeping. His hands were on me again, but now they were soothing, rubbing my lower back, then gently, so gently, massaging the tortured, burning curves of my bottom. The contrast was exquisite. The pain receded, leaving behind a profound, throbbing warmth and a strange, floaty emptiness. The toxic anger was gone. Truly gone. In its place was a deep, submissive ache and an overwhelming wave of gratitude.

I lay there for a long moment, catching my breath, feeling his care in every slow circle of his palms.

Slowly, I pushed myself up. My jeans and panties pooled around my ankles. I didn’t pull them up. I turned to look at him. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with a mix of concern and something else… a strained tension in his jaw.

He’d done that for me. He’d taken on my stress, my chaos, and met it with firm, loving discipline. And now he was wound tight with the effort of it.

Without a word, I sank to my knees on the soft rug between his legs. He looked down at me, surprise flickering in his eyes.

“My turn,” I said, my voice hoarse but clear. “Let me help with yours.”

My fingers went to his belt buckle. The leather slid free with a soft hiss. The button of his jeans popped open. The zpper came down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet. I could see the thick outline of him straining against his boxers. A fresh, different heat pooled low in my own belly.

I hooked my fingers in the waistbands and drew everything down in one smooth motion.

He sprang free, heavy and full. I leaned forward, pressing my face into the warm skin of his lower stomach for a second, inhaling his familiar, comforting scent. Then I looked down.

I didn’t tease. I wanted this to be about him, about release. I opened my mouth, letting my tongue dart out to taste the salty bead of moisture at his tip. A low groan rumbled in his chest. The sound went straight to my core.

I took him in, slowly, letting my mouth stretch to accommodate his girth. I focused on the sensations—the smooth, velvety skin, the solid weight on my tongue, the faint, musky taste of him. I hollowed my cheeks and began to move, one hand wrapping around the base to stroke in time with my mouth.

My other hand crept between my own legs, my fingers finding the slick, aching heat there. The throbbing in my bottom was a constant, sweet background pulse, but this… this was a sharp, urgent need. I rubbed tight, desperate circles as I bobbed my head, taking him deeper each time, until he hit the back of my throat.

His hands came down, tangling in my hair. Not forcing, just holding. “God, Lisa… yes… just like that.”

His hips began to move, meeting my rhythm. The pace quickened. The wet sounds of my mouth on him, my own soft moans around him, filled the room. I was lost in it—the power of his pleasure, the building tension in my own body, the complete immersion in this physical act. The Christmas lights blurred into streaks of color in my tear-filled vision.

His breathing grew ragged, his grip in my hair tightening. “I’m gonna… don’t stop…”

I didn’t. I took him deep, urging him on with my tongue, my hand, the hungry suction of my mouth. With a deep, guttural shout that was nothing like his usual voice, he came. I swallowed, taking everything he gave me, until he was spent and softening in my mouth.

I pulled back, gently cleaning him with my tongue before sitting back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My own need was a frantic scream between my legs. I looked up at him, my eyes wide.

He was breathing heavily, looking down at me with a dazed, satiated expression that slowly sharpened into one of dark hunger as he saw my own state.

A slow smile touched his lips. “Your turn now,” he murmured, his voice rough.