Water in the backyard

 Water in the backyard

Fiction by Lisa

Inspired by Jack

I like chores, keeps me busy, I especially like working in the back yard. I have some weeding, I have to fill the pit with water and some pruning to do. I start the water and then get to the weeding. Jack, our neighbors, comes to visit my side of the fence to see if I need help. I tell Jack that I am fine. “Okay Lisa, just remember to turn off the water when it is full.” I show an attitude like I know what I am doing. I reply, “I will”

Jack ignores my attitude and heads back to his house. I go inside to check on the brownies and just as I get inside the timer goes off. I check to see if they are done and the clean knife shows they are. I turn off the oven and set the brownies on the stove. I sit to relax a bit.

Meanwhile Jack comes back over to ask me something and sees that the backyard has flooded. He turns off the water and knocks on my door, I answer and he looks upset.

“Go and look.”

His voice was flat, leaving no room for argument.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned toward the open front door. I took a hesitant step, then another, my bare feet silent on the tile. The afternoon sun was blinding after the dimness of the foyer. I saw it immediately—the glistening sheen of water covering both lawns, sparkling mockingly in the light. The cement pit I’d been filling was a tiny, overflowing lake, and a lazy river was coursing from it, soaking into the flowerbeds and turning Jack’s pristine lawn into a swamp.

“Ohhhh my gosh,” I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth. “I forgot.”

“Are the girls home?”

Jack’s question was sharp, cutting through my rising panic. I swiveled to face him, his tall frame blocking the interior of my own house.

“They’re… they’re upstairs,” I stammered.

“Get your phone.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. His large hand closed around my upper arm, his grip firm but not cruel. It was a grip that brooked no resistance, a grip that made my stomach clench with a dreadful, familiar anticipation. He guided me, not ungently, out the door and onto the porch.

“Through the back,” he said, his voice low.

We didn’t go through the house. He led me down the steps, across the sodden grass of my own yard. My sandals sank into the mud. I could feel his silent disapproval radiating from him, hotter than the sun on my neck. We passed through the open gate in the shared fence—the gate that symbolized this whole strange arrangement—and into his backyard. It was worse over here. The water had pooled against his deck.

He didn’t let go of my arm until we were inside his kitchen. The room was clean, modern, smelling of lemon cleaner and coffee. Emma, his wife, looked up from the sink, her eyebrows raising.

“Upstairs, please, Emma,” Jack said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

Emma nodded, gave me a quick, unreadable glance, and disappeared up the staircase.

The silence she left behind was thick and heavy. Jack turned to me, folding his arms over his chest. “You were filling the pit. I came to check on you. I reminded you to turn the water off. Do you remember what you said, Lisa?”

I stared at the floor. I remembered. I’m fine, Jack. I know what I’m doing. I’d said it with a roll of my eyes, a toss of my hair. A show of independence I didn’t truly feel, not with him.

“I remember,” I mumbled.

“Look at me.”

I forced my gaze up. His eyes were steady, not angry, but deeply disappointed. That was worse.

“Your carelessness caused damage to both our properties. Your disrespect when given a simple, friendly reminder showed a lack of humility. Tom and I have an agreement for moments exactly like this. You understand why this is necessary.”

A hot flush of shame crawled up my chest, my neck, into my cheeks. I could only nod.

“Waist down. Everything off. Now.”

The command, delivered so matter-of-factly, made my breath catch. My fingers felt numb, clumsy. I fumbled with the button of my shorts, my head swimming. The shush of the zipper was obscenely loud. I pushed the denim down my hips, letting them puddle around my ankles. My panties followed. The cool air of the kitchen kissed my bare skin, raising goosebumps. I stood there, exposed from the waist down, my eyes fixed on a whorl in the wooden floor.

“Over here.”

He was standing by the kitchen table. He’d pulled out one of the sturdy wooden chairs. In his hand was an object that made my knees weaken—a plain, old-fashioned hairbrush with a stout wooden back.

Oh, god.

“Come here, Lisa.”

Every step was an effort. I stopped beside him, the scent of his soap and the faint starch of his shirt filling my senses.

“Over my lap.”

I bent forward, the world tilting. My palms landed on the cool floor. His thigh was solid beneath my belly. He adjusted me slightly, positioning me so that my bottom was raised, the most vulnerable part of me presented to the hard wood in his hand. The position was utterly degrading. I could feel the warmth of his leg through his trousers, the slight scratch of the fabric against my bare stomach.

“This is for the flooding,” he said, his voice calm. “And this is for the attitude.”

The first swat landed.

CRACK!

It wasn’t a slap. It was a sharp, dense impact, a shockwave of pure, concentrated heat that exploded across my left cheek. I gasped, my fingers curling against the floor.

CRACK!

The second landed on the right, a perfect mirror of the first. The heat began to bloom, a deep, throbbing sting.

He began in earnest then. Methodical. Unhurried. The heavy brush rose and fell in a relentless rhythm.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The pain built with each blow, layering upon itself. It was a bright, biting sting that quickly sank into a deep, muscular ache. I kicked my legs involuntarily, a soft whimper escaping my lips with each strike.

“Hold still.”

His free hand pressed firmly into the small of my back, pinning me. The spanking continued. The brush found every inch of my sit-spots, the tender undercurve of my bottom, the tops of my thighs. The sound of wood meeting flesh was a sharp, mortifying percussion in the quiet kitchen. Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring the grain of the floorboards.

I deserve this, I deserve this, I chanted in my head, but it did nothing to lessen the agony. The careful control I’d tried to maintain shattered. A ragged sob tore from my throat.

“Please…” I hiccupped, the word barely audible.

He didn’t stop. If anything, the spanking intensified, the blows landing faster, driving the fire deeper. I was crying openly now, my body shaking with each impact, my tears dripping onto the floor. The pain was all-consuming, a universe of hot, throbbing sensation centered entirely on my backside.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the blows ceased. The sudden absence of the punishing rhythm was almost a shock in itself. My entire behind was a roaring inferno, pulsing with a heat that felt three sizes too big.

He let me lie there for a moment, sobbing and spent over his knee. Then his hand, surprisingly gentle, rubbed my back.

“Up you get.”

He helped me to my feet. I could barely stand, my legs were trembling so badly. I clutched my burning bottom with both hands, the skin feeling impossibly tight and sensitive.

“Corner. Nose to the wall. Hands on your head. Think about why you’re here.”

Sniffling, I shuffled to the empty corner by the pantry. I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, my aching arms raising to lace my fingers on top of my head. The position stretched my sore muscles and kept my punished bottom on full, humiliating display. I cried quietly, the aftershocks of the spanking rippling through me. I heard him moving behind me, the clink of a mug.

“The agreement is for your benefit, Lisa,” he said, his voice closer now. “Tom trusts me to provide guidance he can’t when he’s away. This isn’t about cruelty. It’s about accountability. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, sir,” I choked out.

“Good. You may get dressed.”

Gratefully, I lowered my arms. My clothes were still in a heap by the door. I hobbled over, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through my throbbing flesh. I picked up my panties and slowly, carefully, worked them up over my tender skin. I left my shorts where they lay. The thought of rough denim against my punished bottom was unbearable.

“Would you like some coffee?” Jack asked, as if he’d just invited me over for a casual visit.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Yes, please.”

He called up the stairs. “Emma, honey? Come down, please.”

Emma appeared, her expression soft with sympathy. She brought over a box of tissues, and I took one with a mumbled thanks. Jack placed a steaming mug in front of me, then one for Emma, and sat down with his own. For a few minutes, we just sat in the sunny kitchen, the only sounds the sipping of coffee and the hum of the refrigerator.

“I just… I keep messing up,” I said softly, the words tumbling out. “Tom’s only been gone two days.”

Emma reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It happens to all of us.” She gave a little shrug and a wry smile. “Jack spanked me just last night.”

My eyes widened. “He did? For what?”

“I let the car run almost completely out of gas. Again. It’s a rule.” She said it so simply, without a trace of resentment.

“I… I had no idea,” I stammered.

“It’s okay. Do you want to see?”

Before I could process the question, Emma stood up, turned her back to me, and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her soft yoga pants. She pulled them down, just enough to reveal the full curves of her bottom. It was crisscrossed with faint, pinkish lines—the clear, lingering evidence of a recent, thorough hairbrush spanking.

A strange, intimate solidarity washed over me. Without a word, I stood, turned, and carefully eased my own panties down, showing her the angry, deep red canvas of my own backside.

Emma let out a low whistle. “Oh, honey. He really got you good, didn’t he?”

“It feels like it’s still on fire,” I admitted, pulling my panties back up with a wince.

“Mine’s just sore today. Yours is going to be talking to you for a while.” She gave me a knowing look as we both sat back down. “The first one after a while is always the worst.”

I finished my coffee, the warmth of the mug in my hands a stark contrast to the heat still blazing across my rear. The conversation drifted to mundane things—the kids, a new recipe Emma wanted to try. The normalcy of it was almost surreal.

Finally, I stood. “I should… I should go see about cleaning up that mess.”

“Alright, Lisa,” Jack said, walking me to the back door. “Remember the lesson.”

“I will.”