Out Shopping. What could go wrong?

 Out Shopping. What could go wrong?

Fiction by Lisa and Jack

The digital clock on Emma’s dashboard read 3:27 p.m. My stomach was a tight knot of dread. The shopping bags in the backseat, overflowing with things we absolutely did not need, felt like indictments. We’d lost track of time at the outlet mall, giddy on lattes and discount prices, ignoring the two phone alerts from Tom and the one from Emma’s husband, Jack.

“Book club was at three, Em,” I said, my voice thin.

She brushed a strand of dark hair from her pale face, her knuckles white on the wheel. “I know, I know. We’ll just say traffic was horrible. It’s not a lie.”

But we both knew it was. The rules were clear. Be back by three. Tom was in Chicago. Jack was home. The agreement was in force.

My phone buzzed. Not a text. A direct call. Tom’s face flashed on the screen. I swallowed hard and answered.

“You’re twenty-seven minutes late,” his voice came through, sharp and clipped, devoid of its usual warmth. “The app shows you’ve been forty miles away for the last two hours. And the credit card alert just came through. You went over the monthly discretionary limit. By a lot.”

“Tom, I’m sorry, we just—”

“Save it.” The finality in his tone made me flinch. “Jack is aware. He’s waiting. You are to present yourself, and Emma, at his house. Now. Do you understand?”

A hot wave of shame washed over me, mixed with that same treacherous warmth from before. “Yes,” I whispered.

“Good. I’ve given him full permission.” The line went dead.

Emma had gotten a similar call. Her face was ashen. We drove the remaining three blocks in suffocating silence, pulling into her driveway instead of mine. The gate between our yards stood open, an accusatory mouth.

Jack was waiting in the living room. He’d changed from his work clothes into a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his arms crossed over his chest. The room was tidy, almost sterile. No comforting clutter. The only pieces of furniture that seemed to matter were a sturdy armless chair pulled into the center of the rug, and the long, firm sofa behind it.

“You both know why you’re here,” he stated. No greeting. His stern jaw was set. “You broke the time rule and the spending rule. That’s two infractions each. You’ll be disciplined together. Emma. You first. Over my knee. Now.”

Emma let out a soft, shuddering breath. Her eyes met mine, wide with fear and a glimmer of something else—a nervous excitement that mirrored my own churning feelings. She walked forward, her movements stiff. Without being told, she reached for the button of her linen trousers.

“Waist down,” Jack confirmed, seating himself in the chair.

Her trousers and silk panties pooled at her ankles. She was so slender, her skin like porcelain. She hesitated for a second before lowering herself across his hard thighs, her bare bottom positioned high, her face turned toward me. I could see the tension in her spine. Jack took his hand and pulled the trousers and panties off and let them drop to the floor, leaving her bare from the waist down. 

Jack’s large hand rested on the curve of her cheek, a familiar, assessing gesture. Then his hand lifted.

Smack!

The sound was crisp, sharp. Emma gasped. Her fingers dug into the leg of his jeans.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

He started a steady, rhythmic spanking, his palm covering every inch of her bottom. The soft white skin began to flush a warm pink. Emma’s breaths came in little hitches. A soft whimper escaped her lips on the tenth stroke. I stood frozen, watching, my own skin prickling with anticipation and sympathy. Each spank echoed in the quiet room, a harsh metronome marking our disobedience. I saw her bottom darken to a deep, uniform rose, saw her legs tense and her toes curl. She was crying softly by the time he finished, his hand delivering one final, stinging swat to her sit-spots.

“Up,” Jack said, helping her stand. She was unsteady, her hands instinctively flying back to cover her heated skin. “No rubbing. Stand there with hands on your head. Lisa, you’re next.”

My turn. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached, walking past Emma. The scent of Emma’s perfume and the faint smell of his deodorant hung in the air. 

I fumbled with my own jeans, pushing them and my cotton panties down. The air felt cooler on my skin than it had in my own living room. I fumbled to get them over my bare feet looking a bit awkward. Then positioned myself over his lap, the denim of his jeans rough against my thighs. 

My curvier bottom felt heavier, more exposed. His hand came down.

Thwack!

The pain was immediate, a bright, shocking sting that stole my breath. His palm was broad, covering more surface area than the hairbrush, but it was no less intense. He spanked me in the same relentless rhythm, each smack layering fire on top of fire. I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet, but a choked sob broke free on the fifth impact. The spanks came faster, harder, until my entire world narrowed to the burning expanse of my backside and the solid pressure of his thigh beneath me. I was crying openly when he finished, my body limp and trembling over his lap.

“Up. Corner. Both of you.”

We shuffled to the normal corner that I knew all to well. Side by side, our noses pressed to the cool wallpaper. I could hear Emma’s ragged breathing, could see from the corner of my eye the vivid, hand-shaped blush across her pale curves. My own flesh throbbed in a hot, painful symphony. The humiliation was profound, standing bare from the waist down, side-by-side with my friend, our punished bottoms on display.

I heard the soft clink of a belt buckle.

My blood ran cold. Oh, god. Not the belt.

“You both earned this,” Jack’s voice cut through the heavy silence. “Turn around.”

We turned, our movements timid. He held a thick, brown leather belt, doubled over in his hand. His expression was impassive, a man about to perform a difficult duty.

“All the way. Everything off.”

The instruction hung in the air. Complete nudity. This was new. This was more. Emma’s fingers shook as she pulled her blouse over her head, letting it fall. I followed, stripping off my top and bra, until we both stood utterly bare before him. The vulnerability was absolute. My arms crossed instinctively over my breasts, but his sharp “Hands at your sides” made me drop them.

“Bend over the back of the couch. Grip the far edge. Do not let go.”

The leather of the sofa was cool and smooth against my belly and breasts as I leaned over it. Emma took her place beside me, our hips almost touching. I could feel the trembling in her body matching my own. We were two arches of red, quivering flesh, our sore bottoms offered up.

I heard the soft whisssh of the belt cutting the air.

CRACK!

The sound was terrifying. A searing, biting line of pure fire erupted across the center of my cheeks. I screamed into the couch cushion, my knuckles white.

CRACK! Emma shrieked beside me.

He took his time between strokes, letting the terrible bite of the leather settle and deepen before painting another stripe just below it. The pain was exquisite and horrible, a sharp, focused agony that the hand-spanking had only hinted at. Each stroke made my entire body jolt. Tears and mucus smeared the sofa leather. I lost count after six, lost in a haze of burning misery and shocking exposure.

When it finally stopped, the air was thick with our choked sobs. Our bottoms felt flayed, alive with a throbbing, criss-crossed pain.

“Back to the corners. Now.”

We stumbled back, our movements awkward and pained. The cool wall was a minor relief against my fevered forehead. I stood there, naked, crying quietly, every sob making my ravaged backside clench and ache. I heard the click of the phone camera. Once, twice. He was circling us, documenting the results. The final, humiliating verification for our husbands. I felt the heat of the flash against my skin.

The last picture must have been sent, because I heard the soft swoosh. Then, his voice, close to my ear, calm and low.

“Ten more minutes. Then you can get dressed. Think about the rules. Tomorrow we are all going back to those stores to return the stuff you bought. Hopefully as you return those items your sore bottom tingles reminding you that a spending limit is for a good reason ”