The Craving

The Craving

Fiction by Lisa

The ping from her phone was jarring. I am sure that hubby is tracking me on Live360. My knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. I had just pulled into the cracked asphalt lot of Hector’s Grill, a place Tom had explicitly, repeatedly, told me to avoid when he was traveling. The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly glow over the few cars huddled near the dumpster.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Tom. What the heck are you doing in that area alone?

I sighed, the sound loud in the quiet car. I tapped out a reply. Just picking up some food. I was craving Hector’s Grilled Chicken..

The three dots appeared instantly. “Use DoorDash or something. I don’t like it. You know the rules!”

Before I could form a defensive text, another message popped up. “I’m texting Jack. He’ll handle it.”

A cold flush, a mix of dread and a strange, humiliating warmth, spread through my chest. Handle it. That was our code. The agreement. Tom was gone, and now the consequence for my little rebellion was waiting next door.

The five-minute drive home felt endless. Every stoplight was a reprieve I didn’t want. I pulled into the garage and went into the empty house dark and silent. I didn’t even make it to the back door to unlock when I heard the click of the latch on the side gate. 

Jack stepped into the spill of the porch light. He was in a simple grey t-shirt and jeans, his expression unreadable. In his right hand, he held the familiar, heavy wooden hairbrush. The sight of it made her stomach clench.

“Evening, Lisa,” he said, his voice calm, neutral. “Tom called.”

As I let him in I said, “I… I just got some chicken,” holding up the paper bag as if it were a shield.

“That’s not the point, and you know it.” He gestured with the brush toward the living room. “Let’s go”

The walk into the living room was surreal. This was my sanctuary, my space. But with Jack following close behind, the brush a silent promise, it felt like a stage. He directed me to the center of the room, away from the soft couch, onto the unforgiving hardwood floor.

“You know the drill,” Jack said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Skirt and panties off. Over the arm of the chair.”

Heat flooded my face. This was the worst part. The deliberate, clinical exposure. My fingers trembled as I unzipped the side of my summer dress. I slipped it over my bottom and down my legs and stepped out of the dress. The cool air of the house kissed my thighs. Then I hhooked my thumbs into the waistband of my cotton panties and pushed them down, letting them pool around my ankles. When I step out of them, I feel impossibly vulnerable.

“Bend over. Properly,” Jack instructed. I was glad my blouse was long and covered half my bottom. 

As I leaned forward, draping myself over the padded arm of the reading chair I felt my bottom thrusted high into the air. Then I felt his hand push my blouse up to the middle of my back and then I felt completely exposed. I clenched my eyes shut, waiting.

The first touch wasn’t the brush. It was his hand, large and warm, settling on the crest of her right cheek. A simple, assessing touch. It made me jump.

“Tom’s worried about you,” Jack said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. “That neighborhood isn’t safe. This is for your own good.” His hand lifted.

The first smack of his palm was a shock. A sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet room. A gasp tore from my lips. It burned. He delivered another, and another, a rapid volley of four or five spanks that painted my skin with a uniform, hot sting. It was a warm-up, but it was effective. My bottom was already throbbing, sensitized.

Then I heard the soft whisk of the brush through the air.

Thwack!

The wood was a different creature entirely. It was a deep, concentrated thud of pain that sank right to the bone. A choked cry escaped my lungs. I dug my fingers into the chair fabric.

Thwack! On the other cheek. The impact was so precise, so authoritative. The sting radiated outwards in hot waves.

The smacks with the hair brush just kept coming. I was screaming out as the brush landed over and over.  Each smack harder than the one before it and I swear my cries are making him smack harder. 

He took his time. The brush would fall, and I would cry out, and then he would let the pain bloom and settle before delivering the next. The rhythm was merciless. By the fifth stroke, tears were welling in my eyes. By the seventh, they were tracing hot paths down my cheeks. The pain was immense, a bright, sharp fire that consumed every thought. The shame of my position, bent over, bare, being punished by her neighbor, was almost as acute as the physical sensation.

The smacks just kept coming. I lost count after 20 and I was screaming between each one. And then he said, “Last one!” 

The final stroke, Thwack!, was the hardest. I was blubbering uncontrollably and then slumped over the chair, my body trembling, my backside a roaring inferno of pain.

For a moment, there was only the sound of my ragged breathing. Then Jack’s hand was on the small of my back, not unkindly. “Alright. Corner time. You know where. Ten minutes. Nose to the wall. Don’t move. Don’t rub.”

Sniffling, I pushed myself upright. The movement made the pain flare anew. I shuffled, my bottom glowing and furious, to the empty corner of the dining room. I pressed my nose to the cool paint of the wall, my hands on my head. The position kept my sore cheeks on full, aching display.

I blushed as I heard the click of a phone camera.

Humiliation washed over me, fresh and hot. He was taking the verification picture for Tom. Proof of discipline. Then I heard the soft swoosh of a text being sent.

The minutes crawled by. Each second was measured in the persistent, throbbing ache in my rear. The cool air on her heated skin was a constant reminder of my exposure. In my mind, which had been so full of defiance and craving for some stupid chicken, was now wiped clean, focused solely on the physical reality of my punishment.

After an eternity, Jack’s voice came from behind me. “Time’s up.”

I didn’t move immediately, my body was stiff.

“You can stand down, Lisa.”

Slowly, I turned. Jack was slipping his phone back into his pocket. He looked at me, his gaze was taking in my tear-streaked face, my disheveled blouse, the vivid redness he had painted on my bottom. I was mortified when he picked up my discarded panties from the floor and held them out to me.

“Get yourself together,” he said, his tone finally softening just a fraction. “And next time, use DoorDash.”

He turned and walked out of the living room, leaving me standing there, clutching my underwear, the sting on my backside a lasting testament to the agreement, and the heavy silence of the house pressing in around me.