Gardening is a terrible hobby

It’s spring again and it makes me think of the one time I heard,”Go fetch a switch”, well, I don’t live in a Mark Twain novel, so he didn’t actually say that. However, after a thorough spanking, I was sent out to cut one. The man was drunk with power- it wasn’t enough that I had promised to do as he asked, he was hell bent on making me acknowledge that he was in fact, right. and I couldn’t, because he clearly wasn’t. I brushed my skirt down over my already more than rosy bottom and huffed outside. It took a few minutes since my clippers were lost in the grass near one of the several perennial borders I had begun and then abandoned. I had no idea what I was looking for. None. It was early spring, so thankfully most of the branches were lightly budded. I cut three different ones, all very thin and whippy and sullenly returned them to my lunatic husband.

“Lay on the couch, no on your back.” I did so with extreme trepidation. He slid an elbow under my knees and lifted my legs. I compulsively clutched my thighs tightly together. he danced the demon switch three times over my bottom. Three times- a little swishy flick.
This is the part where we use every dumb simile for a hot, stinging, pain- fire ants, serrano chilies in an open wound, nuclear incursion. I wrenched myself away, falling off the couch in the process. I could not believe how much it hurt, nad not in the way that I usually found so ultimately satisfying. “You already won.” I declared with perhaps a touch of frantic petulance. he looked genuinely surprised,”Won what?”
“I will do what you want, so I don’t think it’s fair that you make me say you are right.” I added with a dramatic flounce,”You don’t get to tell me what to think!”
He helped me up and put his arm around me. “you are totally wrong,” he said. I kept my eyes down. he clucked a knuckle under my chin and lifted my face to his.”Of course, I don’t get to tell you what to think.”
“I really, really hated that switchy thing,” tears began to spill out of my eyes.
“yeah, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with one,” he admitted. I realize that in spanking fiction, this would have ended with me getting some sort of dramatic comeuppance for pulling away from him. But instead, we snuggled into each other and began to talk about other things.
Now, dear reader- although my bottom was already thoroughly spanked before, we are talking about three little “swishes” and those ()&*^&#@#’s burned for hours. Hours. How do people who are routinely switched do it? I would seriously consider relandscaping the entire yard with a thoroughly modern rock garden.

1 Comment

  1. minellesbreath
    Jun 8, 2016

    Ouch! Never thought switching sounded good! Lol! Now I know I will NEVER want it!

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