Wednesday, 25 December 2013

'Twas the Night Before Christmas' - Guest Fiction

Just a quick update as I am still on holidays. I received this from one of my lovely followers; the very talented Phil, and it was a little late to post before the day, but this is pretty close, so if you want to stretch your Christmas out a little, here is a little present.

Our young hero has an eventful Christmas!

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

            I was always a “willful” child and my parents, especially my Mom, despaired about getting me to behave better and be more obedient and such.  I wasn’t “bad”, just “willful”, as Mom put it.  Most of her friends and neighbors were of the opinion that a good spanking would do wonders for my attitude.  My Dad agreed but Mom was adamant about spanking and said no.  Dad pretty much let her run the house and pay the bills, turning over his pay to her every week and keeping only “walking around money” for himself.  She was better with figures and more organized (I would characterize it as “anal”, but that would come much later) and she knew where every bill was and where every penny went, so it all worked out.

            At eight, I still believed in Santa Claus and, having no older (or younger, for that matter) siblings to disabuse me of that notion, got quite excited about Christmas.  I usually got every reasonable request I made to Santa every year, along with the usual clothes, socks, underwear and such “practical” gifts that my mother deemed appropriate.  There were, of course, disappointments like never getting the pony and full Lone Ranger gear (including the gun and silver bullets) that I asked for one year or the Dalmatian puppy that I had to have after seeing “101 Dalmatians” that year but I usually got most of what I wanted.  I was always rather demanding and not to shy about displaying my pique about undesirable gifts or not getting what I wanted and this usually caused no little stress on Christmas morning.  Let’s face it: I was a brat.

            Our next-door neighbor (and Mom’s best friend) came over after dinner to drop off a few little “stocking stuffer” gifts and she asked me if I had been good.  I shrugged my shoulders and she and my Mom laughed a little.  She asked me what I wanted from Santa and I enthusiastically repeated my desire for a BB gun.  I saw my mother’s frown and so did she.  She shook her head and smiled.

            “Well, I don’t know if you’ve been that good.  I doubt it.  Maybe Santa will bring you a good spanking instead!” she said with a grin.  I stared at her in surprise.  How could she possibly know that I was wondering to myself what a spanking would feel like and how I had spent a lot of time before I fell asleep at night thinking about it?  I had never mentioned it to anyone, much less my Mom or her.  She left soon after, giving me a wink that made me uneasy somehow.

            I had tried before to stay to see Santa come down the chimney “live”.  Mom always left a small plate with some cookies and a glass of milk for him and, for the third year in a row, I decided to sneak down and catch him in the act, despite my parent’s warning that, if he saw me, there would be no Christmas presents that year, as he didn’t reward “naughty”.  Than night, after dinner and some eggnog and hot chocolate in my PJs, I was sent to bed and told not to wait up for Santa.  Of course, I struggled to stay up and had the idea of setting my alarm clock to wake me at midnight.  I stuffed it under my pillow so as to not wake my parents.  My Mom was a particularly restless sleeper and often got up to investigate noises she heard and check on me.  If I had to get up to pee sometimes, I always woke her no matter how quiet I tried to be.  Of course, it’s impossible to flush a toilet quietly…

            Awakened from a dead sleep by the muffled clanging of the alarm under my pillow, I staggered awake, congratulating myself on my cleverness.  I shut it off and listened to see in my mother would come prowling out of the bedroom to see what the noise was, but no one was stirring (except me).  I slipped out of bed after a minute or two, putting on my slippers and robe and sneaked down the stairs to the living room, being careful to stay near the edges of the stairs to avoid any squeaks.  I had taken my official “Cub Scout” flashlight that I had recently obtained when I joined the local “pack” (Mom was one of the “den mothers”) and used it to shine light around the living room.  The cookies and milk were there, undisturbed, as was the tree, with no gifts there yet.  I knew I’d “get” him this time!

            We had a wooly throw blanket on the couch and throw pillows so I made myself comfortable to wait for the big guy.  I waited for awhile and soon became bored in the dark with not a creature stirring, not even my Mom.  Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from outside.  It sounded like it was coming from the roof.  I got up to look out the window and saw (and heard) nothing.  I decided to go outside to see if I could see anyone on the roof and went out the front door.  It was freezing (literally) but there was no snow and I hugged my robe around me as I shined the flashlight on the roof.  Nothing.  Disappointed, I went back inside, closing and locking the door behind me and luxuriating in the warmth of the house.  As I went back to the living room, I saw a silhouette in the dark, standing in the room.  I shined the flashlight on him and Santa, looking angry, was illuminated in the beam.  Despite being in our nice, warm living room, I felt a sudden chill.

            “Get that light out of my face!” he thundered.  I turned off the light and the living room lights came on although neither of us had moved.  He brushed himself off and looked at me querulously.

            “Sooooo, you’re the boy who was told not to wait up for me…” he said, frowning.  I nodded dumbly after I got over my surprise.  His hands on his hips, he stared at me, frowning some more.
            “So I suppose you think Santa doesn’t care that you disobey your parents, hmmm?  Or that you should get whatever you want, even if you’re naughty?” he grumbled at me.

            “Um, uh, uh, how did you know?” I asked softly.  He raised his eyebrows in surprise and chuckled.

            “He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good, for goodness’ sake!” he sang, rather loudly (and badly), laughing with glee. 

            “How do you think I knew?  I know everything, even where you keep your stash of candy bars, young man!” he said.  I gulped because there was no way he could have known about that.

            “Now, I’m going to give you your present!  Not what you wanted.  A BB gun?  You’ll put your eye out, silly boy!” he chuckled.

            “Wha-what do you mean?” I said warily.  “What are you going to give me?”

            “A good spanking, of course!” he said cheerily.  “Now let’s get this over with, shall we?”

            He seized me and dragged me over to the couch, tossing aside the blanket and sitting down in the middle.  I was paralyzed with surprise as he yanked my pajama bottoms down and hauled me over his lap.  With his teeth, he tugged off his woolen mittens and got a good grip on me.  I felt his warm hand rubbing my bare buttocks gently.  I couldn’t believe this was happening!  The lights were on and he was not trying to be quiet or anything.  Why weren’t my parents awake?  I came out of my shock enough to react to this situation.

            “Wait!  Wait!  Please!  Don’t!  Please don’t!  Please don’t spank me!” I pleaded desperately and loudly, to no avail.

            “Oh, I think you’re pulling my leg!  I think you really want to be spanked and I’m going to give you your Christmas wish!” he said in a jolly tone.  With that, he brought down his big hand on my bare bottom.

            A loud “Smack!” was heard before I realized what had happened.  Then I felt the pain come and another smack echoed and another and another in rapid succession as I reacted with yelps of pain, yelling loudly as he spanked my bare, little pink bottom with vigor as he held me on his warm, wooly lap.
The wool of his red pants was a bit scratchy and I was glad he had his legs apart as it was uncomfortable against my penis.  It fell between his legs as he walloped my behind and I was less conscious of it and more conscious of the burning pain building up in my bare butt.  As I fussed and cried, I turned to see both my parents standing there in their nightclothes, looking completely unperturbed at the sight of their beloved boy with his pajamas around his ankles and his bare bottom steaming, tears streaming down his face.

            “MOMMY!” I yelled.  “Make him STOP!  Make him STOP!” I pleaded through my tears.  She looked at me as though this was an everyday occurrence
            “Oh stop making such a fuss!” she said unsympathetically.  “He’s only giving you what you deserve and need!  You’ve been a real brat lately!”  I could see my Dad grin next to her, both of them watching as he continued to smack my poor bottom.

            Finally, he stopped and let me up and I immediately started rubbing my scorched cheeks, crying loudly and doing the “spank dance” around the living room as he watched in approval, his arms folded across his chest.

            “Is that all?” my Mom said, disappointment in her voice.  My father too looked disappointed.

            “Not at all, my dear,” said the jolly old elf.  “Would you mind handing me that?” he said, pointing to a flat box on the side table that I had not noticed before.  Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she handed it to him and he opened it to reveal a large, old-fashioned wooden hairbrush, made of a beautiful, light-colored, well-figured wood.  He held it up and grinned, turning to me and patting his lap suggestively.  I was not about to go anywhere near him, especially with that thing in his hand and I backed away as best I could with my pajama bottoms around my ankles when I bumped into something behind me.

            “Where do you think you’re going, young man?” I heard as I spun around.  It was our neighbor and Mom’s friend, Val, smirking at me.  She was also in nightclothes and a robe and slippers.  I had no idea how she got there as she didn’t come in the door and I had heard no knock or doorbell.  She took me by the shoulders and spun me back around, pushing me inexorably towards Father Christmas, waiting on the sofa.  My pajamas still around my ankles, I stumbled and went down on my knees before both my parents materialized on either side of me, lifting me up bodily and dumping me back over Santa’s lap as I protested mightily.  Santa arranged me comfortably (for him) over his lap and got a good grip on me as I begged my Mom to help me.

            “Help you?” she laughed, “We are helping you!  Helping you to learn your lesson over Santa’s lap!  It’s about time you got a good spanking for all your misbehavior.  You’ve been asking for this, honey and I hope you understand we’re doing this for your own good!” she said, looking sympathetic for a moment.  Behind her, looking a bit smug, Val chirped in her two cents worth.

            “I said maybe Santa would bring you a good spanking, remember?  Looks like you’re getting your wish.  Or maybe I’m getting mine!” she chuckled as she and Mom exchanged satisfied glances.

            Before I knew it and without any hesitation, Old Saint Nick brought the hairbrush down on my already sore bottom with a solid SMACK! then another before I reacted with a loud scream.  If his meaty palm had stung my bottom before, he must have been using a branding iron or something!  It felt like a Mom’s cast-iron frying pan, heated to cherry red, had been applied to my poor bare buttocks.  I had never felt anything like this before and I howled loud enough (it seemed) to shatter glass.  Of course, I took no notice of my actions, focusing only on the agony being applied to my bottom, the sole thing existing in the universe at the time as far as I was concerned.

            I kicked and squirmed mightily, which had little effect on my punishment.  The Man With the Bag (or in this case, the brush) merely gripped me more tightly, “leg-locking” me and twisting my wrist up behind my back to prevent me from trying to block the blows from the brush and applying it vigorously and non-stop as I wailed and hollered at the top of my voice.  He stopped for a moment and I hardly noticed until he began whacking the backs of my upper thighs and my “sit spots” (where the thighs meet the lower buttocks) with the instrument of torture that the brush surely was.  I could only shut my eyes and bellow out my agony as loudly as humanly possible.  I no longer struggled, collapsing limply and simply absorbing the continuing smacks with no resistance whatsoever, save my vocal protests.

            After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped paddling me.  It took me several minutes to even notice, still crying and howling hard before I dimly realized the blows to the site of the raging forest fire that was my bottom had ceased.  I lay there limply, sobbing and bleating like a little, lost lamb in utter helplessness.  I couldn’t even open my eyes, much less see through the tears and could scarcely breathe, coughing and choking on the snot running from my nose.  I felt myself slipping off his lap, landing slowly on my knees in front of him.  As soon as my hands were free, I clamped them fiercely to the two “bowls full of jelly” that my buttocks had become.  They actually felt that way, although like jelly that had been heated by a blowtorch for several minutes first.  I rubbed frantically and put my head back, eyes screwed shut and howled my pain straight up to the ceiling.  I only saw a red blur in front of me, although I felt his wooly, scratchy trousers as I pressed my face in his lap, crying heartily.

            As I eventually calmed down enough to realize what was happening, I opened my eyes and looked around the room.  No one was there!  I was on my knees, PJs down, clutching my molten butt cheeks and crying but Kris Kringle nowhere to be seen.  Or were my parents or Val for that matter.  I remained there, rubbing and sobbing alone for some time before trying to get to my feet.  I stiffly climbed erect, using the sofa for support and stood shakily, knees wobbling as I bent over to pull up my pants.  Too sore to do anything else, I laid down on the sofa, curling up in the fetal position and hugging one of the throw pillows, burying my face in it for comfort, and tried to comprehend what had happened…

            I woke suddenly as a hand shook my shoulder, to look at my mother’s face beaming down at me as I was curled up on the sofa.  I blinked in surprise and looked around the living room.  The tree was surrounded by brightly wrapped boxes and I noticed the glass of milk was empty and the plate of cookies now held only crumbs.  Mom smiled at me.

            “So I guess you missed Santa, huh?” she asked, “You must have slept right though his visit because he came and delivered all these presents.”  She swept her arm around the room by way of example.

            “Well, should we get started?” she said, offering me her hand.  I reached out and took her hand and, as she helped me up, I was aware of an awful pain in my backside.  I must have grimaced because she gave me a look of concern.

            “Are you alright, honey?” she asked, frowning with worry.  I said I was, though I moved very slowly and cautiously.  I rubbed my bottom with both hands and she chuckled a little.

            “You look like you’ve just been spanked, honey.  What happened?  Did you fall on your butt or something?” she said with an indulgent smile.  I nodded dumbly, not knowing how to answer.

            “Maybe we should have breakfast first.”  said my Dad gruffly.  “He wasn’t supposed to come down here last night anyway!  What’s the last thing we told him when we put him to bed?”

            I didn’t answer but my Mom demurred, urging him to come and open presents with us.  He nodded assent and we started opening the presents.  As usual, the presents seemed to have already been arranged into separate piles, mine being the largest.  As I tore the wrapping off my gifts, I began to feel a bit better.  I got many of the things I wanted, but of course, there was no BB gun.  Seeing my disappointment, Mom smiled apologetically and said I was too young to have one and she hoped I understood.  With both of them apparently waiting for the storm, they looked surprised when I just shrugged my shoulders and nodded.

            “It must be a Christmas miracle!” said my Dad drily while Mom glared at him.

            Mom dragged a large, wrapped package out from behind the drapes, which was obviously a bicycle and I perked up immediately.  It was beautiful!  Just what I wanted (along with the BB gun, of course) and I beamed with delight, thanking them vociferously, causing more upraised eyebrows and then satisfied looks.

            After everything was opened, Mom went to the kitchen to get breakfast started and Dad and I started to gather up the wrappings.  Mom called out from the kitchen to make sure we were keeping all the gift labels with the right gifts and my Dad sighed and called back that we were.  He seemed surprised that I was helping instead of playing with my gifts or trying to take the bike outside.

            We had breakfast and then went back into the living room so Mom could inspect the gifts to make sure everyone, including “Santa” was credited with the gifts they gave.  She spotted another box behind a chair and exclaimed, “What’s that?”  I crawled behind the chair and dragged it out and handed it to her.  She turned it over and there was nothing written on it.  She asked my Dad if he recognized it and he shook his head.  She followed with a look at me.  I shook my head too, having no knowledge of it.  She opined that it must be a surprise “from Santa”, looking expectantly at my Dad.  She ripped it open and opened it: it was the hairbrush that had been used to roast my bare bottom by Old Saint Nick!

            We all stared at it, me as though it was a rattlesnake or something.  They both raised their eyebrows at my reaction to the thing and looked wonderingly at each other.  I backed away from it as if it was going to bite me.

            “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked with concern.  “Have you seen this before?  Whose is it?”

            I just shook my head and claimed to have never seen it before, blaming my reaction on surprise.  She left it in its box on the coffee table as we cleaned up a bit more.  My parents both went back to the kitchen for more coffee.  We normally left our gifts out for display when our friends and neighbors came over for to see what we had and discuss their Christmases.  I stared at it in utter hatred as I left to go up and get dressed.

            In my room, I checked out my bottom, finding not a mark on it, but, curiously, it still felt sore.  Very sore.  I had a flashback to my spanking and rubbed reflexively as I got dressed.  I went back downstairs to check out my new bike as our neighbors came over with few little gifts.

             No one seemed to know anything about the mysterious brush, though all the adults handled it quite a bit.  They all seemed to appreciate its heft and beauty, often mentioning how good it would be for spanking.  My friends and the other children that saw it all shunned it, as though they instinctively knew how evil it was.

            Finally, Val came over with her husband and daughter, a high-school freshman who also was my babysitter several times.  All of them exclaimed over the mystery brush.  Val caught me staring suspiciously at her and seemed to look back challengingly but she admitted nothing.  I was convinced that she had something to do with it, although nothing explained what had happened to me over Santa’s lap.  She held it and swished it around, giving me several significant looks and smirked at me.

            “What are you going to do with this, Ruthie?” she asked my Mom while fondling the brush.  Even her daughter began to look a little nervous at her obvious infatuation with the damned thing.

            “I don’t know, Val.  What do you think I should do with it?” she said questioningly.

            “Oh, I definitely think you should keep it.  Look how beautiful it is!  It must have cost a pretty penny!  And you never know when it might come in handy…” she said, smirking at me again and smacking her palm with it.  My mother raised her eyebrows sarcastically, well aware of her opinions on spanking and particularly on spanking me.  I stared daggers at her and it didn’t go unnoticed by Mom, who frowned at me disapprovingly.

            “And you know nothing about this?” Mom queried her with an intense look.

            “Nope!” she grinned, “maybe Santa brought it for you.  God knows you need it, dear.  Or you will one of these days.  In the meantime, you can always use it to brush your hair…”

            Handing it back to my mother, she and her family prepared to leave.  As they said their goodbyes, she came up to me and gave me an unappreciated hug.  And an even more unappreciated pat on my bottom.  I broke from her embrace with a resentful look and she responded with a slightly unsettling smile.  As she left with her husband and daughter, she caught my eye and then she gave me a wink…

Monday, 23 December 2013

Three Merry Christmasses

As I am sure you all know it is Christmas. I'd like to extend my best wishes for the season to you all. The shop will close for a few days between Christmas and New Year, although posts may still be made here, while we enjoy the time with family and friends.

As a nice way of wishing you all a Merry Christmas each one of us (Gabrielle, Kimberley and I) have found an appropriate image and will post it here with a few words. I'll go first as it is my shop and my blog.

This one from Spanking Sarah sees a young lady who has clearly made Santa's naughty list. I always wondered what Santa did to those on the naughty list, because it didn't really seem to matter if you'd behaved or not, you still got presents all the same. Maybe if a few more Santa's spanked we'd ensure good behaviour all the time and especially leading up to Christmas Day.

Andrea seems to have somehow made me a regular contributor to her blog, clever lady that she is. Here is my seasonal picture.

That's a very unhappy elf over Mrs Claus' lap. By the time the lady is done I'm betting the little elf's bottom will be the same colour as her tights. I've often wanted to do this to Santa's helpers. You see them in the malls all the time, they rarely have their minds on the job or the lines of children and are content to chat to each other about their plans for the money they're being paid, not to mention those scandalous little green outfits they parade around in!

Despite Mum's unkind and frankly alarming words about elves (I think I may need to slip something a little stronger into her egg nog) I've aways liked them and wanted to be one. Chelsea actually applied at the local mall this year. Seeing what Mum wrote she's probably lucky she didn't get the job. I have what I think is the best image ever.

You know I'm not sure whether to be envious of her or not. One the one hand she's getting spanked by Santa, although there's plenty of presents under that tree, so she's not missing out, but on the other hand she is wearing the most adorable onesie. It's even got feet! So so cute! No, the obsession hasn't gone and I'm hoping I can add to my collection this year. Don't tell them, but I got the most adorable pair for the twins this year.

A very Merry Christmas to you all from Andrea, Gabrielle and Kimberley Susan as well as the rest of the gang at the Spank Shop.

Saturday, 21 December 2013

'Christmas Carol'

So close to Christmas Seegee has provided us with a fun little tale of the season. I hope you all enjoy this.

The song.

The gift.

And from Girls Boarding School, the delivery.

Carol owed her name to the date of her birthday. She had been born at 12:01 on the 25th of December. As a result of that her father, who had a wicked, but not cruel, sense of humour, had decided that she should be named Carol. Eve and Noelle had been other strong contenders, but Carol had won out, and in fact her pet name had been Christmas Carol.

In a not uncommon form of childish rebellion and because she did get a good bit of teasing over her name and the reason behind it the girl refused to learn any Christmas carols.

Her parents were rather old fashioned in many ways and they practiced the time honoured custom of administering birthday spankings to their daughter. Over the years the girl came to accept as natural starting her Christmas Day off with a gentle bottom warming over her parent’s laps. The only smacks that had any real heat in them were the final ones for luck.

As Carol grew the spankings to pass the passage of time went by the wayside as childlike customs tend to. A blazing row with her boyfriend in university resulted in Carol being put over the angry man’s knee and having her pert rear end soundly spanked. Carol had married her chastiser, his name was Matthew, and spanking became an important part of their sex life. Carol did receive the occasional punishment spanking, but it was more often for fun, and the custom of Christmas birthday spankings was revived.

Matthew favoured a different method to that which Carol had grown accustomed to over the years. His parents had always tried to celebrate birthdays as close to the time of birth as they could, as both he and his sister had been considerate enough to arrive in the middle of the afternoon it had never been very difficult to do this with them. Carol having been born one minute after midnight on Christmas Day was problematic.

What the couple did was stay up until midnight on Christmas Eve and exchange one gift, after which Matthew would give Carol her birthday spanking for that year.

Matthew had come to accept Carol’s dislike of carols, but he didn’t like it. He had a good singing voice and he enjoyed watching and singing Christmas carols. One Christmas he decided that he would teach his wife one specific carol and he had a rather interesting way of doing it.

Matthew and Carol sat together on the couch, watching the time tick by and just waiting for the clock to strike midnight. The hands on the mantel clock reached twelve and the attractive old timepiece, which had belonged to Carol’s grandparents, solemnly bonged the hour.

Eyes shining Matt and Carol turned to each other and shouted, “Merry Christmas!” they embraced and kissed, as their lips parted Matthew said softly to his wife, “Happy birthday, darling.”

“Would you like a present?” Carol asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Shouldn’t the birthday girl go first?” Matthew countered.

“Ordinarily yes, dear, but I’d really like to have your reaction for something I got for you.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, his curiousity piqued.

“Close your eyes,” Carol said and turned to the Christmas tree, which had presents to each other and for friends and family bundled under it and gaily wrapped.

Matthew and Carol had a small custom over the first present of the day. It was usually something personal, that they wouldn’t want to unwrap in front of others and it was often a little silly.

Matthew frowned as he felt Carol place a long box shaped object in his outstretched hands. “Can I open my eyes now?” he asked.

“Of course,” Carol replied with a giggle.

Matthew looked down at the long, slender cardboard box in his hands, it was white and simply wrapped with a scarlet ribbon. Matthew looked at his wife, her green eyes shone and he knew from experience that was a wicked expression in them.

“Go on open it,” she urged.

“You don’t want yours yet?”

“No open that first,” Carol said, sitting back and crossing her legs, a smile playing across her lips as Matthew undid the ribbon and took off the lid to peer inside. She broke out into peals of laughter as his mouth dropped open on seeing the contents.

“But this is…”

“An old fashioned school cane!” Carol finished.

Matthew’s brown eyes narrowed. “You do know what I’m likely to use this for and on who?”

“Of course I do, darling, why else do you think I bought it? Do you know how hard they are to find these days? It’s made of rattan, the website said that was the best.”

“I haven’t seen one of these since my school days,” Matthew marveled, turning the slender item over in his hands to examine and admire it. He took a few steps back and swished it vigorously through the air.

Carol shivered and asked in a low voice, “Do you think we could christen it tonight?”

“Oh, I think that is a very real possibility, young lady,” Matthew said seriously. “It makes my present look rather silly by comparison.”

“Oh pish!” Carol exclaimed, jumping to her feet, her plump breasts jiggled fetchingly under her long sleeved pajama top. “It’s Christmas and it’s my birthday. Give me a present!” the dark haired woman demanded.

“Very well,” her husband said with a grin, putting his gift aside and handing Carol a small, wrapped square item.

Carol looked at the object in her hand, trying to work out what it was. It looked suspiciously like a CD, which was odd, because Matthew knew that she generally downloaded music, he did the same thing. Carol shrugged and unwrapped it gleefully. Her face fell as the paper came off and revealed a rather unremarkable looking CD.

“It’s a CD,” Carol said in a distinctly disappointed voice.

“Yes, it is,” Matt agreed with a smile.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, dear,” Carol pouted.

“Look at the title,” her husband advised.

Carol squinted at the cover. She actually needed glasses for reading, but was too vain to get them.

“The Twelve Days of Christmas,” Carol read slowly, then turned accusing eyes on her grinning husband. “You gave me a Christmas carol as a gift. Why? You know I hate them!”

“I thought I could teach you one,” Matt answered.

“Why this one?” Carol asked.

“Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard it of course. Something about a collection of ever increasingly extravagant gifts…”

“That’s the basic premise, yes. How about it, darling? Would you like to learn at least one Christmas song in your life?”

“Not particularly,” Carol grumped. “However you seem to have your heart set on it, so I’ll play along.”

“Wonderful,” Matthew said, rising from the couch and taking the CD from his wife’s hand. He popped it out of its case and put it in their CD player. “We’ll listen to it once, then we’ll have the first lesson in Professor Matthew’s Singing Class.”

Frowning at her husband Carol snuggled up next to him on the couch and they listened to the song.

With her natural prejudice against Christmas carols, the pretty brunette had never really listened to this one. Part of her problem with the songs, aside from the teasing it got her most of her life, was that she wasn’t particularly religious, her family were agnostic, and many of the carols seemed to be centred around the central tenet of Christianity; the birth of Christ.

“What do you think?” Matt asked at the end of it, knowing that Carol had probably never properly taken notice of the song.

“It’s kind of cute as they go,” Carol admitted. “If I were the girl in it, I think you would have finished off with twelve spankings, though,” she giggled.

“Funny you should say that,” Matthew said, pulling his wife over his lap.

“Hey!” she protested. “I didn’t sign up for that!”

“Well, it’s after midnight and you haven’t yet had your birthday spanking.”

Matt pressed the play button on a handy nearby remote and the strains of The Twelve Days of Christmas mingled with the sound of an experienced palm smacking a snug pajama seat and a woman’s occasional delighted squeal and half hearted protests.

“Do you think you know the song?” Matthew asked as he let his wife up and gave her an affectionate hug and patted her still warm bottom under her pajama pants.

“I think so,” Carol answered, her brow wrinkling prettily in concentration.

“Willing to take a test?”

“Are you challenging me, sir?” Carol asked, looking her husband in the eye.

“I know you pride yourself on your memory, Carol.”

“What happens if I get things wrong?”

“Oh, I think you know the answer to that, darling. You gave me such a lovely and apt present, too.”

The couple then hashed out the deal to the Great Christmas Carol Challenge. Carol would go back over her husband’s lap, bare bottom this time. He would ask her questions about the song if she got the answer right, then she got a gentle rub, however if she was wrong she got the number of spanks that corresponded with the correct answer of the gift and the day.

Carol did quite well to start with. Some of the gifts like the partridge in the pear tree, or the five golden rings were easy to remember because of how different they were or how often they were repeated throughout the song, but when Matthew asked how many Ladies Dancing or Lords-a-Leaping were received Carol got them mixed up, she had the same problem with the Swans-a-Swimming and the Geese-a-Laying. The Pipers Piping and the Drummers Drumming weren’t easy either. Unfortunately for the lady those were on the higher end of the scale.

Matthew wrote his wife’s answers down and then said, “Let’s see how we did and what the bill adds up to, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” a clearly nervous Carol said, her bottom tingling in anticipation. She knew she had done well with her memory, but was also certain that she would be getting a few smacks when they played the song again.

For the first few verses Carol was smiling and luxuriating over Matthew’s lap as he massaged, fondled, stroked and tickled her buttocks, which had a faint pink tinge from the earlier spanking over her pajama pants. Then they sang ‘On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me Six Geese-a-Laying…’

Matthew paused the CD, consulted his written down answers and asked, “What did you say there, Carol?”

Carol winced and whispered, “I think I said swans.”

“You did indeed,” Matthew confirmed. “Shall we listen a little bit further and see how many swans were received?”

“Okay,” Carol breathed and mentally added up how many spanks she was about to get. She had mixed up the swans and the geese, so that would come to thirteen slaps, she knew how hard her husband could smack and hoped that she hadn’t made too many more mistakes.

The singers lustily sang ‘Seven Swans-a-Swimming’ and Carol mentally cursed the stupid white birds as Matt paused the CD and announced. “It looks like this pretty little bottom is going to get thirteen slaps, young lady.”

As Carol had feared Matthew didn’t hold back and she got thirteen very hard smacks on her tingling bottom. Matthew doled them out slowly and rebounded six stingers off her right cheek and the same amount on her left hemisphere before finishing off with one real cracker right in the centre. That one made Carol lift up and yelp, “Matthew!”

The song picked up again and Carol heaved a sigh of relief as she heard ‘Eight Maids-a-Milking’ because she knew she got that one right. Matthew grinned and massaged his wife’s now simmering rump. Then there was a groan as the words ‘On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me Nine Ladies Dancing…”

Matt hit the pause button again. “You seemed to think that was Lords-a-Leaping, darling.”

“Bloody lords, stupid ladies,” Carol muttered as her husband picked up a ping pong paddle they used in their spanking games with each other. Her next words were incoherent squeals and cries of, “Owwww! Ouch! You never said anything about the bloody paddle you brute!”

After nine stinging strokes of the paddle, most of which reddened Carol’s creamy upper thighs and got her legs scissor kicking, Matthew asked, “Ready to continue?”

“Yes,” Carol sighed. “You’re enjoying this far too much. Just wait until it’s your birthday.”

“Oh dear,” Matt sighed. “It was ten Lords-a-Leaping and you said Ladies Dancing, so we’ll just have to give you another ten, sweetheart.”

“Just get it done,” Carol ground out through gritted teeth and then started kicking and howling as the paddle cracked across her now sizzling hindquarters. This round also started the tears flowing.

Carol lay over Matt’s lap sobbing as she half listened to the end of the song and thanked her lucky stars that her memory had served her right with the pipers and the drummers. She wasn’t sure what else her husband had in his arsenal and she didn’t really fancy paying the ‘piper’ any more than she already had.

Matthew stood his wife up as the final strains of the song played and kissed her tears away before using a tissue to clean her face up.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that one,” Carol said with a smile through her tears.

“Shall we test that little boast?” Matthew asked cheerfully, swishing the cane through the air.

Carol backed away a step, her hands held up in front of her. “I gave you that for fun, Matthew.”

“You gave this to me, because you really want to play the naughty schoolgirl,” Matt told his wife.

Carol’s lips quirked up in a smile.

“I promise to not use it too hard,” Matthew said. “So assume the position young lady.”

Carol pouted, but bent from the waist and touched her toes, sticking her glowing bottom up high and proud.

“You would have given a few stuffy old headmasters a heart attack if they’d been allowed to cane when you went to school, Carol.”

Carol giggled and asked, “So what are we going to do? How many?”

“You’re going to get twelve…” Matt announced and then at Carol’s squawk, “I promise they won’t be full strength, just enough to keep those lovely orbs simmering and maybe get some pretty lines.”

“Okay,” Carol muttered, her backside clenching unconsciously.

“Now, I won’t make you count,” Matthew said, as he lined up his wife’s rosy bent over target. “What I want you to do is tell me what gift was received after each stroke.”


“A partridge in a pear tree,” Carol said.


“Turtle doves,” Carol sang.


“French hens.”


“Calling birds,” the caned wife winced.


“Five golden rings,” Carol shouted and willed herself to remain in position.

“Halfway there!” SLAP!

“Geese laying eggs.”

“Oh good, you got that one wrong earlier,” Matt said cheerfully as he delivered another searing stroke.

“Swimming swans.”



“You’re doing so well, only four more to go.”

“Ladies dancing!” a tear squeezed out of Carol’s eye.


“Leaping lords.”

“Brilliant! Two left.”


“Let’s make the lucky last count!”


“Owwww! Drummers!” Carol howled and then collapsed in a flood of tears into her husband’s arms.

Matt sat on the couch, kissing and cuddling his wife, gentling her down. “Got a little more than expected?” he asked.

“Yes,” Carol gasped. “Do you think I could have some brandy?”

As Carol sipped her brandy, she said, “How are we going to explain the big pillow on my chair at Christmas lunch?”