Today I'm bringing in another guest author, "mel b owen." I found this writer on usenet in the very early days of the internet and for me, at least, he had a voice that I found quite unique. His basic orientation is F/M. In particular, his stories tend to be about his domestic arrangement with his wife, Abby, a clinical psychologist and a sort of very together no nonsense woman who puts up with the mischievous Mel's antics...up to a point. The stories are first person POV with "mel" as the psuedo-autobiographical author. He impressed me so much that I wrote a series of similar stories which are titled "The Truth About Andy" in which I tried to capture that tone. He didn't write much. In fact, all I have of this author's output is seven or eight stories. I have no idea how to reach mel but I'd sure like to hear from him if he is still around. This one is called
"...and spank you I shall"
Abbey and I were seeing a lot of each other at the time, but we weren't married yet. In fact, I'd asked her to marry me and she was still thinking it over. She had called me to talk one Friday afternoon. When we were through, she asked me to patch in her mother so that the three of us could finalize plans for my visit over the weekend. I managed that electronic feat and, after a few minutes of chat, Abbey said that she had some things to talk over with her mom, so I could hang up.
I did hang up, but for some reason the phone didn't disconnect. I could distinctly hear Abbey's mom raising a question that, frankly, I'd thought of more than once myself: What in the world did Abbey see in me?
"I know you think he's wonderful," Mrs. Brookshier said, "and he is in many ways. But you're a no-nonsense girl, and there's a mischievous twelve-year old boy inside Mel that's going to drive you crazy."
"I'm used to dealing with twelve-year old boys," Abbey said dreamily. "Remember, I taught seventh- and eighth-grade Sunday school for three years."
"There's a big difference. When a real twelve-year old acts up, you can bend him over your desk and warm up his buns with a paddle -- which I know you did more than once. That's not an option with husbands."
"Maybe not," Abbey said without conviction. "But Mel loves me. If I want him to change, he will."
"You're absolutely right, and that's what worries me. He'll get rid of that mischievous twelve-year old boy, but I think it's that pre-teen rascal inside him that makes you love him. Once he's gone, I'm not sure you'll really be happy."
"Amor vincit omnia," Abbey said, displaying her splendid classical background.
I discreetly disconnected and left the office to buy some things for the weekend. The conversation didn't really bother me, although it should have. I guess it was the twelve-year old reacting. All I could think of was, how can I make a joke out of this?
I was buying flowers and wine at the mall when the pun came to me. I was walking through the Housewares section of a department store and saw a display of aluminum pans with four cups each. The enlarged box read, yellow letters on blue, BUN WARMERS! I figured -- or, more accurately, the twelve-year old rascal figures -- "It's fate!"
I bought one of the things and took it home. I threw the pan aside and kept the box. Then I went down to my workshop. I took a beautiful piece of solid maple and got to work with my Shopsmith and my woodburning tool. Four hours later I had the paddle I described in Nine-Fold Path: Sixteen inches long, three-and-a-half inches wide, a quarter-inch thick, sanded, polished, and varnished, and decorated on the front with my nifty little slogan:
(For Mischievous Twelve-Year Old Boys)
TRADITIONAL AMERICAN BUN WARMER
One Dozen Strokes: Warm Buns
Two Dozen Strokes: Red Hot Buns
I put that masterpiece in the box and gift-wrapped it. Late Saturday afternoon I managed to get alone with Abbey in the upstairs sitting room and presented it to her.
She unwrapped it with a look of intrigued interest on her face. The expression changed to puzzlement when she saw the box. Then she opened the box and saw the paddle. Her face lighted up.
At first she giggled, murmuring "You crazy idiot" and similar endearments. Then her expression took on a bit more gravitas. I realized, with a bit of a chill, that she was wondering whether I was suggesting a way to solve the little problem her mother had identified.
"Is this just a joke, Mel," she asked, "or are you being serious?"
"As serious as I ever get," I answered evasively.
"Some of this wording sounds a bit familiar," she said suggestively.
"Yeah," I stammered. "The phone didn't fully disconnect yesterday and I accidentally overheard a snatch of what you and your mom said after I'd signed off."
She raised the paddle with her right hand and smacked the palm of her left. Hard. She looked appraisingly at the red mark this produced, and seemed to think about the sting for a moment. Then she looked back at me with that steady, penetrating gaze of hers.
"Here's the way it looks from where I sit," she said. "If there was some technical fluke and you accidentally overheard a word or two, I don't see anything wrong with that. But if you deliberately eavesdropped on a private conversation, after you realized that was what was happening, then it seems to me that you're going to have to be disciplined."
I decided to tell the truth.
"It was deliberate after a few seconds," I said. "I realized you were talking about me, and I just listened in. It wasn't malicious -- "
"Of course not. There's not a malicious bone in your body."
" -- just impulsive. Childishly impulsive."
"So what you're saying," she said carefully, "is that you need a spanking."
"I guess that's about the size of it," I managed.
"Don't say that unless you really mean it, Mel," she warned me. "Corporal punishment is something I'm very serious about. I got spanked when I needed it, and I've spanked people who had it coming."
Realizing that my entire future might be at stake, I squared my shoulders and took the plunge.
"I meant every word of it," I said. "If you're willing to do the honors, I'm ready to take my punishment."
"Very well," she said decisively as she stood up. "Come with me."
She took me by the arm and marched me out of the room. I had no idea where we were going. The thing that terrified me most as we walked down the long hallway, the stairs, and through the back of the first floor wasn't the thought that I was about to get a spanking. It was the fear that parent or sibling or maid would see us and interpret the provocative vignette correctly.
Fortunately, that didn't happen. She marched me through the backdoor and across the driveway, past the three car garage to a little storage room built next to the last bay. I'd never been in there before. As I strode in with her, I saw lawn and garden implements stored neatly against the common wall, tools hanging from a pegboard above a worktable at the back wall, and a face cord of fireplace logs stacked up against the outside wall. I realized that Abbey had just walked me into a cliche: She had literally taken me to the woodshed.
Letting go of my arm, she walked over to the work table and perched on it. She stretched her left thigh across the length of the table, letting the rest of her leg dangle over the end. The table was about waist-high, so she had to anchor her right leg to the concrete floor by planting the ball of her right foot firmly there. Flourishing the paddle, she looked at me with an encouraging grin.
"Those pants will have to come down, won't they?" she asked/ordered. "Getting a spanking with your pants up is like washing your feet with your socks on."
I hesitated for a moment and she cajoled me a bit.
"Remember the Irish verse James Joyce made famous in Portrait of the Artist," she said. "'It can't be helped/It must be done/So down with your trousers/And out with your buns.'"
I think it was "bum" in Joyce's version, but I figured I wasn't here for literary criticism. I lowered my blue jeans and jockey shorts, then shuffled over to her in response to her beckoning index finger. When I was close enough, she slapped her left thigh, just below the hem of her white shorts.
"All right, Mel," she said. "Bottoms up."
I bent over leg and hoisted myself until I was standing on tiptoes. Sensing that I was really in for it, I grabbed the far edge of the work table and got a tight grip on it. I braced myself for the first stroke, but Abbey had a question first.
"Mel," she said tentatively, "do you really think this is appropriate?"
I hesitated and thought about it. This was the woman I'd asked to marry me. I was sprawled over her knee with my pants down and my bottom up, about to get a world-class spanking. Did I think this was appropriate?
"Yes," I said.
"So do I," she said decisively.
Exactly one second later the paddle smacked my bottom. The pain was excruciating -- a sharp sting, a searing burn. I would have yelled, but the pain literally took my breath away. Two seconds later the second stroke fell, and I yelped.
"You're going to grow (SMACK!) up quite a bit (SMACK!) in the next minute (SMACK!) or so, Mel (SMACK!)," she said calmly. "You'll hate it (SMACK!) while it's happening (SMACK!), but you'll be a better (SMACK!) man for it when (SMACK!) it's over, and one day (SMACK!) you'll thank me for it (SMACK!)."
She had a natural affinity for the task she had set herself. It's usually hard to administer an over-the-knee spanking with a sixteen-inch paddle, but Abbey had a well-vectored stroke, slightly down and mostly sweeping sideways. I couldn't think of much as smack after smack fell on my blazing bottom, but one odd thing that did occur to me was a basic Physics equation: F = MA. Force equals mass times acceleration. She had plenty of both, and she was making the most of them.
"Well, that's two dozen," she said crisply after an eternity of heat, pain, and chastening humiliation. "Are you sticking with your guarantee? Do you have red hot buns?"
"Absolutely," I squeaked. "I think I undersold my product."
"It's a masterpiece," she said. "Anyway, you'll have to do some corner time, and then I'll offer some tender ministrations to your poor, throbbing bottom. You took that magnificently, by the way. You'll have some handsome bruises to show the boys in the locker room if you work out on Monday."
"Just remember," she said, speaking tenderly now. "I said I was serious about corporal punishment, and I meant it. It is in my nature to spank naughty bottoms -- and spank yours I shall."
We were married three months later.