Emma out Drinking
Emma out Drinking
Story by Lisa
Idea by Jack
“Jack,” he said, answering the call. “Morning.”
Lisa sipped her coffee, the memory of her own soreness from two nights ago a faint, tender echo. She listened to Tom’s side of the conversation.
“Out of town? I see… Uh-huh. And she went where?… Right. The rule’s clear… Sure, I understand. You want me to check on her… And handle it. Yes, of course. The usual terms.”
A thrill, sharp and unexpected, shot through Lisa. Emma. Jack’s wife. The other half of their unusual covenant.
Tom hung up and slid his phone into his pocket. He turned to Lisa, his dominant stare fixed on her. “Jack’s in Chicago. Emma went out with her girlfriends last night to that new club downtown. Drank. He wasn’t home. She broke the rule.”
“Oh,” Lisa breathed, setting her mug down. “So… you’re going to…”
“I’m going to check on her. And then I’m going to handle it,” Tom said, his voice leaving no room for question. “She’s to fetch her hairbrush from the bathroom. The spanking will be in their living room. Over my knee on the straight-backed chair from their breakfast nook. Bare. Just like it should be.”
Lisa felt a flush creep up her neck. Just like it should be. The formal, almost clinical description was intensely arousing. She nodded, unable to find words.
Tom leaned down, his large hand cupping her cheek. “Behave. I’ll be back.”
He left through the side gate, the latch clicking shut behind him. Lisa stayed at the table, her coffee cooling, her mind racing with vivid, unbidden images.
*
Emma opened the door to Tom. Her face, usually bright and cheerful, was pale, her eyes shadowed with guilt and a hint of fear. She was dressed in soft yoga pants and a loose tank top, her dark hair piled in a messy bun.
“Hi, Tom,” she whispered, stepping back to let him in.
“Emma.” Tom’s voice was firm but not unkind as he entered the familiar, sunlit living room. The straight-backed wooden chair from the kitchen table was already positioned in the center of the rug. “Do you understand why I’m here?”
She wrapped her arms around herself, nodding. “Yes. I… I went out. Jack wasn’t home. I had three martinis. I knew it was against the rule.”
“You did. And rules have consequences. You know the procedure. Fetch the brush, please.”
Emma’s breath hitched. She cast one fleeting, pleading look at him, but his expression was immovable. She turned and padded silently down the hall to the bathroom. Tom waited, his posture relaxed but authoritative. He heard the faint clatter of something on a counter, then the soft sound of her returning footsteps.
She held out a heavy, oval-backed wooden hairbrush, its cherry wood polished smooth from use. Tom took it, testing its weight in his hand. It was almost identical to the one Jack kept for Lisa.
“Over my knee, Emma. Now. Let’s get those pants down.”
A shudder ran through her. With trembling fingers, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her yoga pants and the simple cotton panties beneath them, pushing both down to her knees in one motion. The cool air of the room kissed her exposed skin. She hesitated for only a second before stepping out of the tangled fabric, leaving it pooled on the floor. She was completely bare from the waist down.
Tom sat in the straight-backed chair. It was hard, unforgiving. He patted his left thigh. “Come on. Over you go.”
The walk to him was the longest of her life. Every step heightened her vulnerability. She lowered herself across his lap, her body going limp in surrender. The position was deeply intimate and profoundly embarrassing. Her bare bottom was raised high over his leg, presented perfectly. Her cheek pressed against the rough denim of his jeans. She could feel the hard muscle of his thigh beneath her hips.
Tom’s large, warm hand settled on the curve of her right cheek. It wasn’t a spank, just a possessive, assessing weight. Emma flinched at the contact.
“This is for breaking Jack’s trust, and for your own safety,” Tom stated, his voice a low rumble above her. “He worries. This is the price.”
His hand lifted.
SMACK!
The first spank was a shocking crack that shattered the quiet room. A gasp burst from Emma’s lips. The sting was immediate, a bright, hot brand on her skin.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
He delivered a quick volley with his palm, spanking first one cheek, then the other, then back again. The sound was sharp, percussive. The flesh of her bottom began to warm, turning a light, blushing pink. She squirmed, her fingers digging into the air.
“Hold still,” Tom commanded, his free arm wrapping firmly around her waist, pinning her in place. His strength was absolute. She went still, a soft whimper escaping her.
Then his hand left her skin. She heard the soft whisk as he picked up the hairbrush from where he’d placed it beside the chair.
“Count for me, Emma.”
THWACK!
The wood was a universe of pain away from his hand. It landed with a deep, solid thud that seemed to vibrate through her entire pelvis. A sharp cry tore from her throat.
“One!” she gasped, the word choked.
THWACK!
“Two!” The second stroke landed on the opposite cheek, the pain radiating in a concentrated, burning circle.
He took his time. The rhythm was methodical, cruel in its precision. He let the agony of each stroke peak and begin to ebb before delivering the next. The brush was relentless. It painted a thorough, escalating heat across the full expanse of her bottom, from the crests down to the sensitive under-curves where cheek met thigh.
THWACK! “Three!”
THWACK! “Four!”
By the fifth, tears were leaking from her clenched eyes, spotting the denim of his jeans. Her body jerked with each impact, but his arm was an iron band, immobilizing her. The spanking was a full-sensory experience: the sharp, clean sound, the searing blaze on her skin, the scent of her own fear and his clean soap, the feel of his hard body beneath her.
THWACK! “Six!”
THWACK! “Seven!”
Her bottom was a roaring, unified fire. The pain was overwhelming, obliterating any thought of the night before, any shred of defiance. All that existed was the brush, the punishment, and the deep, shameful exposure of her position.
THWACK! “Eight!” she sobbed.
THWACK! “Nine!”
He paused. His hand rubbed the blazing skin, a rough, almost soothing gesture that made her flinch. “Last one, Emma. Make it count.”
THWACK!
The final stroke was the hardest, landing squarely across both tortured cheeks. She cried out, “TEN!” and then dissolved into helpless tears, her body going completely limp over his knee, shuddering with sobs.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her crying and the heavy silence of the room. Tom’s hand remained on her back, a steady pressure. He let her cry, let the reality of the discipline sink in. Her bottom was a deep, uniform crimson, hot to the touch and vividly marked.
Finally, he helped her up. She stood unsteadily before him, her hands instinctively flying back to cover herself, her face flushed and wet with tears.
“Corner time,” Tom said, his voice softer now. “Ten minutes. Nose to the wall. Hands on your head. Don’t you dare rub.”
Sniffling, Emma obeyed, shuffling to the nearest corner of her own living room. She placed her nose against the cool paint and laced her fingers on top of her head. The position arched her back, pushing her sore, well-spanked bottom out into the room, on full, aching display for Tom to see.
He pulled out his phone. The quiet click of the camera was a fresh wave of humiliation. He was taking the verification photo for Jack. Proof of duty done. She heard the soft swoosh of the sent message.
He didn’t speak to her again until the ten minutes were precisely up. “You can stand down, Emma.”
She lowered her arms, stiff and sore.
“Get dressed. Remember this the next time you think about bending the rules.” He placed the hairbrush on the side table and left, closing the front door quietly behind him.
*
Lisa was waiting on the couch when Tom returned. He walked in, his expression one of calm satisfaction. He hung his keys on the hook.
“Well?” Lisa asked, her voice barely a whisper. She was curled up, but her eyes were bright, intense.
Tom sat down beside her, the couch cushion dipping with his weight. He looked at her, a slow smile playing on his lips. “It’s handled.”
“Tell me,” she breathed, shifting closer. “Please. Tell me everything.”
Tom’s hand came to rest on her thigh, his touch possessive. “She was waiting. Guilty as sin. Fetched the brush herself.” He described it, his voice a low, detailed murmur. The way Emma pushed her pants down. The way she went over his knee, so bare and submissive. The sound of the brush, THWACK, on her skin. The way she cried out the count, her voice breaking. The deep, perfect red he’d painted across her backside. Her tears. The corner time.
As he spoke, his hand slid higher on Lisa’s thigh. She was breathing faster, her lips parted. Hearing him recount the discipline of another woman, the clinical execution of it, the shared intimacy of the punishment… it ignited something deep and hungry in her belly.
“Was she very sore?” Lisa asked, her own voice husky.
Tom’s smile widened. He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. “Oh, she’s sore. She’ll be feeling it every time she sits down for a day or two. Just like you did.” His fingers traced a circle on her inner thigh. “Does hearing about it excite you, Lisa? Does it make you remember what it feels like?”
She couldn’t lie. A soft, needy sound escaped her. “Yes.”
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