The Forgotten Deposit and the Lie

 The Forgotten Deposit and the Lie

(The following story was a long time ago. I remember most of the details but I did take liberties in filling in the story with how I think it went down.)

Some time in 2006 I think. 

It happened so early in our marriage that we were still learning how to lean on each other, still adjusting to the responsibilities that came with building a life together. Money was tight back then — tight enough that one forgotten check could throw a whole week off balance.

That morning, my husband handed me the paycheck with a little smile and said, “Please deposit this today, okay? We’re cutting it close.”

“I will,” I promised.

And I truly meant to. I slipped the check into my purse, feeling responsible and determined… until the day filled up with errands, interruptions, and a dozen small distractions. When he got home that night and asked, “Did you get the deposit done?” guilt flickered through me, but I smothered it with a quick, “Not yet, but I’ll go in the morning.”

He didn’t like that I’d forgotten — especially when he’d emphasized the timing — and he made that clear. We went upstairs to our bedroom, and he gave me a firm spanking as a consequence for not following through, for leaving something important undone when he had trusted me with it. It wasn’t angry or harsh, but it was enough to make the message unmistakable.

Afterward he held me, spoke softly, and reminded me why the deposit mattered. I apologized, sincerely, and promised I’d take care of it first thing.

But morning came… and I still didn’t go. One thing got in the way, then another, and soon the day was gone. I told myself I’d do it before weekend errands. I told myself it wouldn’t make a difference. And then he left on a short business trip.

That night, when he tried to pay for dinner with coworkers, his card was rejected.

He called me with confusion edging into worry. “Babe… did the deposit go through? My card didn’t.”

And then I made my second mistake.

Instead of admitting the truth, I panicked and said, “Yes, I deposited it. Maybe the bank is glitching.”

His silence told me everything. Not anger — not yet — but disappointment. A growing suspicion that something wasn’t adding up.

He came home the next day, and I could feel the truth hanging between us like fog. He asked me again, gently but firmly, “Where’s the receipt for the deposit?”

I froze.

And that was enough of an answer. He opened my purse, and there the check still sat, untouched, exactly where I’d put it days earlier.

For forgetting

“Lisa, lose the jeans and panties!” he said with authority. I instantly fumbled with the jeans button. After a few seconds of him watching I stopped and said while starting to cry, “I am so sorry, my fingers aren’t working!”

He pulled me close and undid my button quickly and pulled them over my hips and bottom bringing both my panties and jeans down to my knees. 

I shifted my legs back and forth and he continued pulling my jeans down and I stepped out of them. Then I bent and pushed my panties down to my knees, let them fall and then after I stepped out of them they joined my jeans piled on the floor. 

Fear started to fill my core and I found my nervousness saying, “Please please, I am sorry!” he replied, “You are going to be sorry, missy!”

With one swift pull I was over my lap and my hands flew back to my bottom, and he just waited for me to pull my hands forward after feeling his gaze upon my hands clutching my bottom. 

“Baby, you need to be more careful! Some of the things you forget cost us money!!!!” with that he lifted and landed his heavy hand on my left cheek with a loud crack. It took my breath away and the pain was intense. 

His hand kept landing on my bottom over and over again searing my bottom into a blazing inferno. As the glow increased, my twisting started and he pressed me into his belly stopping the twisting. 

After what felt like a million minutes and me blubbering he slowed and stopped. Rubbed my bottom and said, “Please add reminders to the calendar on important things!” I blubbered out a weak, “Yes sir!”

He pointed to the corner and said, “Put your nose there NOW!” Blubbering I hurried and placed my nose right into the corner and the cool wall felt good against my hot forehead.

For lying

After the 5 min was up and I heard the timer go off he told me, “Front and center!” With puffy eyes I shuffled over to him and stood there on display. 

“Lying to me,” he said, the words ice-cold. “That is not a small mistake. That is a betrayal. And that has a severe consequence.”

“Lose the shirt. Now. I want to see you.”

A fresh wave of shame hit me. I pulled the soft cotton tee over my head, letting it fall to the floor. Now I was in only my simple, everyday bra, completely exposed from behind. The air felt different on my naked back, a contrast to the searing heat of my punished backside.

He unbuckled his belt. The sound was deafening—the rasp of leather, the metallic clink. He folded it in half. “Thirty. You will count each one. You will thank me. And you will not move until I say you may.”

I braced, every muscle taut, my bare skin screaming with anticipation.

THWIP-CRACK!

The first stroke was a universe of pain. Not the broad smack of his hand. This was a focused, biting line of fire that seared across the very center of both cheeks. I cried out, my body jerking violently.

“One!” I sobbed, tears springing to my eyes. “Thank you!”

THWIP-CRACK!

The second landed just below the first, a parallel line of pure, white-hot agony. I gripped the chair until my knuckles were white. “T-two! Thank you!”

He was relentless. The belt fell in a steady, rhythmic punishment. Three. Four. Five. Each stroke was meticulously placed, a fresh stripe of fire laid down beside the last. The pain was breathtaking, a crescendo that built with every count. I was sobbing openly by ten, my body shaking, sweat beading on my skin and between my breasts. The heat from the spanking was a deep, throbbing radiance that consumed my entire world.

The searing pain made me forget about being humiliated. Each shocking crack sent a jolt straight to my core. Fifteen. Sixteen. The strokes came harder, the leather biting deeper into the already tortured flesh. I could feel the welts rising, sharp, angry ridges under his brutal attention.

“Seventeen! Thank you, please!” I wailed, my voice breaking.

The belt landed again. “Eighteen! Thank you!”

I lost count around twenty-two, lost in a haze of pain and shock. He kept the pace, the thwip-crack a terrible, familiar rhythm. My bra was soaked with sweat, the band chafing. My body was a map of agony from the waist down, a landscape of fire he was sculpting with the leather.

“Twenty-nine!” I screamed, my throat raw.

The final stroke landed low, across the very tops of my thighs where the skin was most sensitive. A fresh, brilliant burst of pain exploded, and my legs nearly buckled. “THIRTY! THANK YOU!”

Silence. Broken only by my ragged, wet sobs and the hammering of my heart.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t rush. He sat down beside me on the bed and said quietly, “Forgetting happens. Lying is different. Lying breaks trust.”

Those words stung more than anything that came after.

When it was over, I was crying into his chest, from the spanking and the shame of knowing I’d let fear make me dishonest. He held me tightly, rubbing my back, reminding me that consequences didn’t change the fact that he loved me — but trust had to be protected, even in small things.

That night, he took the check with him and deposited it himself, not out of anger, but to close the loop.

The next morning, before he even woke up, I wrote him a note promising I would never lie to cover a mistake again. And in the years since… I’ve kept that promise.