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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