The quaint little restaurant was decorated floor to ceiling with 1970's kitchen utensils. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks overheard. The walls had shelves lined with mixers, tea kettles, cutting boards and potato peelers. There were wooden spoons on our right and spatulas on our left; it was a regular smorgasbord of household spanking tools.
Eric asked about my day as we nibbled on soup and sandwiches. I babbled on about work and other mundane topics. We agreed the month was flying by and suddenly, my throat went dry as I realized the mortgage payment was due yesterday.
"What's wrong?" Eric asked, tuning in right on cue.
My face does not hide things well.
"Nothing," I tried to sound sincere. "I just need to take care of something after lunch."
Eric raised an eyebrow. Apparently my tone was a dead give away.
"What did you forget?" his question was posed more like an accusation than anything.
"I haven't paid the mortgage yet," I stammered, "but I will!"
Eric eyed me and then made the obvious gesture of scanning all of the implements along the wall.
"You wouldn't!" I whispered.
"Try me," he threatened. "Get up and march yourself to the restroom right now."
The moment I paused allotted me just enough time to catch Eric stand in one motion and snatch a wooden spoon off the wall in another, clutching it along his thigh so it was hidden by his forearm.
"We're just running to the restroom," he hollered, nodding to the waiter as my cheeks went flush.
The single his/hers stall at the end of a long hallway made his task possible and it wasn't a minute before I was over the sink, dress up around my waist, and that darn spoon spanking my sit spots. After a few good hard whacks, we returned to our seats and the utensil was returned to it's place on the wall.
Convinced everyone in the place knew what had just happened, I opted to tread lightly for the rest of our meal and once back at the office, immediately called to figure out the fastest and cheapest way to get the bill paid.
"When I get home, Amy Lynn," the last thing my husband said before dropping me off, "you will feel the sting of the strap for every dollar you spend in penalties on that late payment."
There is always so much going on in my world, I often wonder how I get through the day but somehow I do and occasionally, I surprise myself. Today was one of those miracles. The mortgage had been paid during the last week of May.
I picked up the phone and left the following message:
"So, you think it's fine to just haul your wife off to a public bathroom and spank her for missing a deadline, do ya?! Well think again, buddy boy. It seems you punished me prematurely because I did pay the mortgage after all so as I see it, the next time this girl screws up, you owe me a get-out-of-spanking-free-card. I will see you at home, where I might accept your apology."
Oh, it was delicious. All the sarcastic inflection, a master piece of a message.
Eric in the entry way.
"Go get the strap, young lady."
"Didn't you get my message?"
Eric removed his sun glasses and stared me straight in the eye. He does this, removing of said glasses, when he is making a serious point. Most often, it is when he is assuring me that my insecurities are only in my own mind and that he truly loves me. This was not that case. This was Eric, serious about the strap and my ass.
By the time I returned downstairs, Eric had planted himself on a chair in the dining room and I was ordered to lay across his lap. Once again my dress was pulled above my waist but this time, my panties were taken just below my knees.
"I promised you a strapping for every dollar you cost us in penalties," he began. "I did get your message and not only was I unimpressed by your mouthy tone, it occurred to me that had you paid the mortgage a second time, it would have cost us $1200!"
With that, the strap bit across both cheeks and I sucked in a huge breath of air trying my best not to cry out. It seems like a very long time since I took a real licking from that thin folded piece of leather and though Eric opted to strike only 12, rather than 1200 times, I was up and dancing around the minute he let me go.
"Put it away," he commanded, handing the weapon over and watching as I clutched my right cheek and stumbled up to our room.
Damn that thing hurts! (Oh, but it hurts so good...)