In Case of Emergency

I have done a log of complaining about the bath brush and how much I hate it. So it's only fair to tell you that Mr. Dogleg and I have reached an understanding. This is how it all came about.



I hate doing my income taxes. It's the only time I procrastinate. I leave it until the last day then grumble because I'm surrounded by a sea of forms. Even the thought of the generous refund I always manage to get is not enough to inspire me to get them done early. So I was in a pretty bad mood. I wasn't happy about wasting part of my precious weekend fiddling with a calculator. I finally finished the endless calculations, transfered all the numbers to the good copy, and stuffed the completed forms and handfuls of receipts into the envelope. 

That's when various other unpleasant and unrelated events began to unfold. Without going into grim detail, I seemed destined to continue having a really bad day. Normally I keep my emotions under tight control and try to smile as much as possible because that usually keeps me feeling cheerful. But that day, it didn't work. My dark side was showing, and I didn't like that at all. By evening I was down in the dumps, big time!


The following morning, I couldn't finish the lovely breakfast Ron had made me, which is very unusual because I like to eat! Instead, I burst into tears, which is even more unusual. I knew I had to get a grip. Not even telling myself to cheer up and snap out of it, or my husband's helpful advice to "Get over it" did any good. 


Later that day we would be having our regular weekly date for spanking and loving, and I sure wasn't in a very romantic mood. I wasn't even looking forward to the spanking that I usually couldn't wait to get. This was serious. For a moment I considered having a "headache", but in the dynamics of our relationship that isn't really an option, so I discarded the idea.


I had had spankings in the past that, besides being very exciting and erotic, had greatly helped to relieve stress. That was what I needed - a stress-relief spanking. But how could I be certain it would do the trick? A tiny voice inside my head whispered, "the brush". I tried to ignore it; that bath brush was wicked. I couldn't deny that something heavy duty was what I needed. Ron had never used it again after that first time; would I have the courage to ask for it? 


Later, I found myself in my husband's arms. He kissed me, then caressed my bottom before smacking it with his hand a few times as a preview of things to come. When he stopped I looked at him and asked, "Will you finish off with the bath brush?" 


"Okay," my man of few words agreed. And on we went.


As I got into position over some pillows on the bed, Ron reached for the much-loved leather paddle then applied it vigorously, alternating left and right cheeks. He stopped to rub my bottom while I caught my breath and waited, both wanting and not wanting him to continue. Continue he did, and the swats were harder and quicker. Then another pause for caressing, and he put down the paddle. 


I heard the drawer open. He reached in and picked up the bath brush. Was it too late to stop him? Did I want to? I didn't. I braced myself and held on tight to the brass rails of the bed.


The wood cracked against my right cheek. Pain seared through me but I kept silent. The left cheek got the next whack, and I took the scalding blow, relishing it. Ron kept up the rhythm of strokes, and all I thought of was enduring the ordeal and letting the pain heal me. All the other emotions that had been swirling inside me melted and vanished as the brush did its work. 


Then Ron laid the brush aside, caressed my sore bottom and explored further. I was gasping from the intense burning, yet very ready for attention of a different kind now, and he lost no time in slipping inside me from behind. If that sensation was lovely, the ones that followed, as he gently and skilfully took me completely out of myself, were even more wonderful. Finally we lay exhausted, and I was once more at peace. I smiled. 


I know it's an old cliche, but every cloud has a silver lining, or in this case, a wooden one, with bristles.