Sunday Morning Surrender

 Sunday Morning Surrender 

Sunday morning. Pale light through the curtains, the faint clatter downstairs, the distant bray of the donkey from the paddock. I lay still for a moment then I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

The house was already alive. Through the window, I could see him crossing the yard toward the barn, his bib overalls hanging loose over a t-shirt, a feed bucket in each hand. Emma and Sophie trailed behind him, in their chore clothes, Sophie's curly hair a wild halo in the morning light. They'd been up before me. That was rare.

Just in my pjs I padded downstairs.

The kitchen was quiet, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. I opened the fridge and started pulling out ingredients—eggs, bacon, butter, orange juice. The skillet was heavy in my hand, familiar. Bacon sizzled in the pan, the smell filling the kitchen, and I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork until they were frothy. Toast went into the toaster. Juice into glasses.

By the time the back door swung open, the table was set.

Sophie burst in first, her cheeks pink from the warm morning air. "Mom, the chickens are so funny today. One of them chased Emma—"

He came in last, his boots still on, his overalls streaked with hay. His eyes found mine across the kitchen, and something in his expression shifted—a flicker of heat, there and gone. I felt my stomach tighten. He sat and undid his boots, pulled them off and walked across the room toward me in his thick socks. He gave me a quick kiss and said it smells good as he gave my bottom a playful smack. 

Breakfast was loud. Sophie talked with her mouth full. Emma stole a piece of bacon from her sister's plate. He ate slowly, his knee pressed against mine under the table, a steady, grounding pressure. I sipped my juice and let the chaos wash over me.

After breakfast, Emma grabbed her keys. "I'm driving to youth group. Sophie, you coming?"

Sophie nodded, already pulling on her shoes. "We'll be back after lunch."

They left in a flurry of hugs and slammed doors. The house fell quiet.

I stood at the sink, rinsing plates, my back to the room. I heard him push back from the table. Then his hand landed on my hip, warm and heavy.

"Go upstairs."

The words were quiet. Matter-of-fact.

I turned, my eyes going wide. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I just stared at him—at the calm certainty in his face, the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes held mine without blinking.

He didn't repeat himself.

Instead, his hand found my shoulder and spun me around. Before I could react, his palm cracked against my bottom—one sharp, stinging swat through the thin cotton of my pajama shorts.

I yelped. My feet moved before my brain caught up, carrying me toward the stairs, my hand flying back to cover my stinging cheek. The heat bloomed through the fabric, sharp and immediate.

I ran.

Up the stairs, my bare feet slapping on the wood, my heart pounding in my throat. The bedroom door was open. I went through it, my breath coming fast, my bottom still smarting from that single swat.

I stood in the middle of the room, facing the bed, my hands at my sides. Waiting.

A minute passed. Maybe two. I heard him on the stairs—slow, deliberate, each step a countdown. The door creaked. He appeared.

He walked right past me and sat on the bed looking up at me he said, “Come here.” He spread his knees and his hands found a resting place on his thighs. The bib overalls were made his shoulders feel wider with the contrast of white t-shirt and blue straps, the denim worn soft at the knees. He looked enormous in the small room, his shoulders filling the space.

I walked to him. Stood between his legs, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. His hands came up, found the waistband of my pajama shorts, and yanked them down.

The fabric slid past my thighs, my knees, pooling at my ankles. I stepped out of them, my heart hammering. He pulled me over and was not satisfied that my pajama top hung past my hips, the soft cotton brushing against my bare thighs.

He frowned.

"This is in the way."

His hands found my waist, guiding me up. I stood, and he stood too, towering over me.

"Arms up."

I raised my arms. His fingers found the hem of my pajama top and pulled it up and over my head. The fabric whispered against my skin, and then I was nude—completely bare in the morning light, my skin prickling with goosebumps.

He sat back down. Pat his lap.

"Over my knee."

I climbed across his thighs. The rough denim of his overalls pressed against my stomach, the texture abrasive against my bare skin. My bottom was raised, exposed, vulnerable. My hands found the floor, my fingers pressing into the hardwood.

His hand came to rest on my lower back.

The first swat landed.

SMACK.

The sound was loud in the quiet room, and the pain bloomed sharp and sudden across my right cheek. I gasped, my fingers curling against the floor.

He didn't pause.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

The rhythm was hard and fast, each swat landing with a force that made me grunt. His hand covered every inch of my bottom, left cheek then right, the heat building in layers. I squirmed. Kicked. My hands scrabbled for purchase, finding his ankle, gripping tight.

The rough denim scraped against my stomach with every movement. The sting was relentless, a steady drumbeat of fire that made my legs kick and my shoulders twist.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

"Ow—ow—ow—"

The sounds spilled out of me unbidden, high and thin. My fingers tightened around his ankle, holding on like it was the only thing keeping me anchored. The tears came fast, hot and sudden, streaming down my face and dripping onto the floor.

He kept spanking.

The heat spread from my bottom to my thighs, a deep, throbbing burn that made me gasp and sob. My body went limp across his lap, my legs trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

The tears were a flood now, my voice cracking, my words dissolving into incoherent pleas. I blubbered into the floor, my shoulders shaking, my bottom a universe of fire.

And then it stopped.

His hand rested on my burning skin. Then he shifted, lifting me, standing me up.

I stood there, naked and trembling, my face wet with tears. The fire in my bottom was a living thing, pulsing and throbbing. And underneath the pain was something else. Something sharp. Something that made my jaw tighten and my eyes flash.

I crossed my arms over my chest. Shot him a look.

The look was pure defiance. A dirty, petulant glare that said everything I didn't have the words for.

His eyebrows lifted.

"Ohhhh," he said slowly. "You got some attitude."

He walked into the bathroom.

My heart stopped. I knew what was in there. The hairbrush, sitting on the vanity beside the soap dish, its oak handle worn smooth from years of use.

He came back holding it.

My feet froze. The floor might as well have been ice. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but watch as he crossed the room toward me.

His hand closed around my upper arm. Firm. Unyielding.

The brush fell.

The first stroke landed across the lower curve of my bottom, right where the heat was most intense. The pain was different from his hand—sharper, more focused, a crack that seemed to split the air.

I yelped. Pulled against his grip. Jumped.

He didn't let go.

The brush kept falling, fast and hard, peppering the tender undercurve of my bottom. I pulled on his arm, hoping between feet, my body twisting and jumping. The yelps turned to cries, the cries to sobs.

"Please—I'm sorry—please—"

The brush kept falling.

I jumped. Kicked. Pulled. The tears streamed down my face, hot and plentiful. My voice broke apart, the words dissolving into wordless, gasping sobs.

And then it stopped.

He let go of my arm and sat the brush on the night stand.

I stood there, blubbering, my arms held out at my sides, my fingers splayed wide. My chest heaved. My bottom was a landscape of fire, every nerve ending screaming.

He looked at me. Just looked. His eyes soft, warm, the hard edge gone.

Then he pulled me into his arms.

"Shhhhh," he murmured. "Are you okay?"

I pressed my face into his chest, the rough denim of his overalls against my cheek. The sobs shook my shoulders, my whole body trembling.

"Yes, sir," I blubbered. "Thank you."

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

I hugged him back. Hard. My fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he was the only solid thing in the world.

We stood like that for a long moment. The morning light slanted through the windows, warm and golden. The house was quiet. The girls were gone. There was only this—his arms around me, the heat in my skin, the peace settling into the spaces the stress had left behind.

Eventually, the sobs faded. My breathing slowed. I pulled back, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

"Shower," he said. His voice was gentle. "Then church."

I nodded. My voice had deserted me.

He kissed my forehead. Then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving me standing there, naked and trembling and somehow completely at peace.

The shower was hot and long. I let the water run over my shoulders, over my back, over the fire in my bottom. The heat soothed the sting, eased the ache. By the time I stepped out, I felt like a new person.

I dressed carefully. Soft underwear. A simple dress, knee-length, with a modest neckline. Flat sandals.

When I came downstairs, he was waiting by the door, keys in hand.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"Liar." But I smiled.

He crossed the room and kissed me, soft and lingering. His hand found my bottom, pressing gently. I winced.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"It's okay." I leaned into him. "It feels good. It all feels good."

He smiled. "Ready?"

"Ready."

BTW - I think my attitude came from a need for the spanking to be harder than it was. Anyone else ever do that?