Saturday Instead

 Saturday Instead

Aug 15, 2026

The Friday afternoon sun slanted through the windshield as I pulled into the garage, and as I exited the car I could see Emma's beat-up Honda Civic parked crooked by the barn, The girls were home.

I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, my hands still on the wheel. The week had been long. The classroom size are crazy right now and I have to many students. Thursday had been crazy— already first meeting with parent, and then grading papers at the kitchen table while he worked late. And now Friday.

The garage door swung open before I reached it. Sophie barreled out, her curly brown hair wild, her arms already reaching for a hug.

"Mom! Em and I were thinking homemade pizza? Like the individual ones? Please please please?"

Emma appeared behind her, brown ponytail swinging, phone in hand. "She's been talking about it for an hour. I told her to wait till you got home."

I laughed, letting Sophie's hug absorb me. "Pizza sounds perfect. Did you take the dough out of the freezer?"

"Twenty minutes ago," Emma said. "Cauliflower crust for you. I remembered."

My chest squeezed. "Thank you, sweetheart."

The kitchen became chaos in the best way. Sophie had already laid out ingredients—bowls of shredded mozzarella, sliced pepperoni, diced bell peppers, black olives, mushrooms, crumbled sausage. The counter looked like a salad bar had exploded. Emma preheated the oven, her phone propped against the backsplash blasting some playlist I didn't recognize. I pulled on my apron and started flattening my cauliflower crust on parchment paper, the familiar ritual settling something restless in me.

"What movie are we watching?" Sophie asked, sprinkling an aggressive amount of cheese on her dough.

"Something everyone likes," I said. "Any suggestions?"

"The Sandlot," both girls said in unison, then burst out laughing.

Emma looked at me over her shoulder. "It's been forever. And Sophie's never seen the whole thing."

"I have too!"

"You fell asleep during the pool scene."

"That was one time—"

I held up my hands. "The Sandlot it is. Go tell your dad while I finish these."

Sophie darted toward the stairs, her bare feet slapping on the hardwood. I heard her banging on our bedroom door, heard his low voice answer, heard her excited explanation about pizza and movies and something else I couldn't make out. The sound of it—my family, our house, the easy chaos of a Friday night—settled into my bones like warm water.

He came downstairs a few minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a soft gray t-shirt and worn jeans. His hand found my lower back as I slid the pizzas into the oven.

"Smells amazing," he murmured.

"Sophie's idea. She's been planning it all afternoon."

His fingers pressed gently, right where the belt marks from Wednesday were still healing. "How are you?"

"Good." I leaned into him. "Tired. Happy."

"Good." He kissed my temple. "Let's feed these kids."

The pizzas came out perfectly—golden and bubbling, each one a reflection of its creator. Sophie's was a mountain of pepperoni and extra cheese. Emma's was artfully arranged with bell peppers in concentric circles. Mine was modest: grilled chicken, light mozzarella, a sprinkle of oregano. His was loaded with everything, the crust stretched thin and crispy.

We ate in the living room, plates balanced on laps, the opening credits of The Sandlot flickering across the TV. Sophie curled into the corner of the couch, her feet tucked under her. Emma sprawled on the floor, a throw pillow under her chin. He sat in the recliner, his long legs stretched out, and I sat on the arm of the chair, his hand resting on my thigh.

The movie worked its magic. Sophie laughed at the pool scene—awake this time—her giggles bright and infectious. Emma quoted her favorite lines under her breath, her phone forgotten on the floor beside her. He chuckled at the same jokes he'd laughed at when we watched this movie in college, before the girls, before the farm, before everything.

When the credits rolled, Sophie was yawning. Emma was half-asleep on the floor.

"Bed," I said. "Both of you."

No protests. That was how I knew they were tired. Sophie shuffled upstairs first, mumbling goodnight. Emma followed, pausing to kiss her dad's cheek and then mine before disappearing down the hallway.

The house fell quiet.

He stood, stretched, offered me his hand. "Coming to bed?"

"In a minute. Let me clean up."

He kissed my forehead and headed upstairs. I gathered the plates, rinsed them in the sink, wiped down the counters. The kitchen smelled of oregano and baked cheese. I stood at the window for a moment, looking out at the dark backyard, the silhouette of the barn against the stars.

By the time I climbed the stairs, he was already in bed. The lamp on his nightstand was off. His breathing was slow and even.

Asleep. Five minutes, maybe less.

I smiled, pulled my camisole over my head, and slid under the covers beside him. My Kindle was on my nightstand, the novel I'd been reading for weeks—something funny , something about following a quirky woman. I clicked on my reading light and lost myself in the pages.

Eventually, my eyes grew heavy. I clicked off the light and curled onto my side, my back to him, my bottom still tender against the sheets. The house was silent. The girls were asleep. He was asleep. Everything was exactly as it should be.

I closed my eyes.

---

Six o'clock crept in pale gray through the curtains.

The mattress shifted. A warm hand landed on my hip. I surfaced from sleep slowly, aware first of the weight of his palm, then of his breath on my shoulder, then of the way he was propped on one elbow, looking down at me.

I rolled onto my back and smiled.

He returned it. His hair was tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. The morning light caught the silver at his temples.

"Morning," I whispered.

"Morning."

"Chores?" My voice was still thick with sleep.

"Not yet." His hand slid from my hip to my stomach, resting there, warm and deliberate. "I think you need a spanking."

I widened my eyes, letting my jaw drop in mock offense. "No, I don't."

The lie hung between us, transparent.

He chuckled—a low, warm sound that made my stomach flip. "Liar."

Before I could respond, his hands were on me. He moved fast, pulling me across his lap in one smooth motion, my body suddenly tangled in sheets and sleep shirt and the surprise of being handled.

I resisted.

My hands flew to my bottom, covering it, my fingers splayed across the thin cotton of my panties. "No—"

He smacked my thigh.

The sting was sharp and immediate, a bright burst of heat that made me squeal. My hands flew to my mouth, my eyes darting toward the closed bedroom door.

He raised an eyebrow. "Shhhhhh. The girls."

I glared at him over my shoulder, my bottom still covered, my body braced for the next swat. But he didn't spank me again. Instead, he shifted me off his lap and stood.

The bathroom door opened and closed. I heard the sink run. When he came back, he was holding something—the washcloth from the shower rod, still slightly damp, folded into a neat square.

"Open," he said.

I shook my head.

"Lisa." His voice was patient. "You're going to be loud. I know you. Open."

I opened my mouth. He pressed the washcloth between my teeth. The cotton was cool against my tongue, smelled faintly of soap and tasted of clean water.

Then he walked to the closet.

My eyes tracked him. The slide of hangers, the soft clink of metal against metal. When his hand emerged, it was holding something I didn't expect.

A plastic hanger. White. Sturdy. The kind that came with dresses from department stores, wide across the shoulders, with a slim curve at the bottom.

My eyes went huge.

He saw my expression and smiled—not a cruel smile, but the smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. "Bite down on the washcloth."

I did.

His hand found my elbow, guiding me off the bed, turning me so I stood beside the mattress. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties—soft white cotton, still warm from sleep—and pulled them down. The fabric slid past my thighs, my knees, my ankles. I stepped out of them.

My camisole stayed on. Kelly Green. Silk. One of his favorites, though I hadn't been thinking about that when I'd pulled it over my head last night.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Patted his lap.

"Over my knee."

I climbed onto the mattress, positioning myself with the washcloth still clenched between my teeth. His thigh was warm beneath my stomach, the sheet soft against my bare skin. My bottom was raised, exposed, the morning air cool against it. His hand came to rest on my lower back.

The hanger tapped my right cheek. A warning.

I bit down harder.

The first stroke landed.

The sound was a soft thwack—deceptively quiet, like a book dropping on carpet. The sting was anything but quiet. It bloomed across my right cheek, a concentrated line of fire that made me gasp into the washcloth.

He moved to the left. Thwack. The same quiet sound, the same sharp sting. My legs kicked involuntarily.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The rhythm established itself. Left, right, left, right—each stroke landing with precision, each one layering a new line of heat on top of the last. The hanger was brutal. Not like his hand, which spread the sting across a broad surface. Not like the brush, which drove the pain deep into the muscle. The hanger was something else entirely—a slim, focused burn that left narrow stripes in its wake.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Tears were streaming down my face. The washcloth muffled my sobs, turning them into choked, hiccupping sounds that wouldn't carry through the walls. My fingers were white-knuckled on the sheets. My bottom was a landscape of fire.

He kept spanking.

Thwack. Across the center, where the stripes overlapped. Thwack. Low, at the crease where my bottom met my thigh. Thwack. High, where the curve met the small of my back.

I blubbered into the washcloth. The tears soaked through the cotton, dripping onto my chin and the sheets below me. My legs kicked and kicked, but I stayed in place. His hand on my back held me steady.

"Good girl," he murmured. His voice was soft, grounding. "Let it go. I've got you."

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The final flurry was the hardest—short, sharp strokes that blurred together into one continuous wave of heat. I sobbed, my shoulders shaking, my body limp across his lap. The washcloth was sodden now, my saliva mixing with the tears.

And then it stopped.

The hanger clattered to the floor. His hand came to rest on my burning skin, gentle now, soothing.

"Shhhh," he murmured. "It's over. You did so well."

He pulled me up, gathering me into his arms, settling me across his lap with my face pressed against his chest. I spat the washcloth out, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the tears still streaming.

His hand stroked my hair. His other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me close. I could feel his heartbeat through his t-shirt, steady and strong.

I whispered into his chest.

"Thank you, sir."

The words came out broken, barely audible. But he heard them. His arms tightened around me.

"My good girl." He kissed the top of my head. "I love you."

I curled into him, my body shaking with the last of the sobs, my bottom a field of fire against the cooling sheets. The house was quiet. The girls were still asleep. We had chores waiting—the donkey would be braying soon, the chickens demanding their breakfast.

But right now, in this moment, there was only this. His arms around me. The heat in my skin. The peace settling into the spaces the stress had left behind.

I closed my eyes and let myself be held.