From the Top Shelf - Andy Returns

It's been too long since our last visit with Andy and his wife Rachael. This spanko couple comes to us from Rollin Hand, who has kindly given me permission to reproduce their story here.

If you would like to refresh your memory, the first three parts of the story are:

• Meet Andy
• Andy's in Trouble Again
• Andy's Revenge

We'll let Rachael tell us what Andy is up to this week. I do hope he's not in trouble again.

So by now we had kind of an arrangement. If Andy pulled some crazy stunt he got it. If I got all moody and grumpy because of something I did, it was me in trouble. Our code was “Someone’s going to the woodshed,” or “someone needs to go to the woodshed.” It wasn’t often, but it happened and when it did the misbehaving party acknowledged their fault and took the licking. I think we discovered limits that worked for us— medium hard, enough to generate a good hot sting, and enough to make it hurt so intensely that you really wanted it to stop. The bottom should be uniformly red and sitting should be a reminder for a day or so of what had led to the misbehavior. Making up afterwards continued to be a fine way to put it behind us.

Once, even my girlfriends and Andy’s pals got involved. Of course they didn’t know about Andy and me-- and I wasn’t going to tell them. It was just one of those things that fate and coincidence throws your way.

As I mentioned one of the things that drives me nuts is the way Andy can throw money away on impulsive sports bets. That day the boys were off playing golf and we girls were fixing food for a get together that we were having that night. It was a Sunday and there was some big golf tournament on TV so the boys were going to play, and Helen who is Rob’s wife, was going to record it on the DVR so the boys could see the end of it later. They were all talking about avoiding the clubhouse so they would not know who won thus preserving the excitement for when they got home.

So Helen put it on TV and we went about doing our things. I must have wandered into the den at a critical point because there on TV was Tiger Woods and the announcers were going on and on about how he hadn’t missed a putt inside six feet all week or something. So they were all shocked when he hit this really short putt that missed and the crowd groaned and the announcers went on babbling about how impossible it was that he could have missed from point blank range.

Helen was watching too and she said, “Now see? That’s something those boys would have bet on—a two foot putt. I can hear them now.” And all of a sudden I had an idea. I asked Helen, “How would you like to teach them a lesson?” And she said, “How?” I asked her if she had her old sorority paddle—she’d been a Gamma Rho, same as me. She just pointed to the den wall. There it was, hanging right there.

I said, “Ok, lets get Marci and Clare in here. Here’s what we’ll do…”

Soon we heard the gang return. Wives were dutifully kissed, cold beers popped open and the boys plopped on the couch and hit the DVR. “Now don’t any of you tell us what happened, even if you heard,” said Rob, hollering in Helen’s direction.

Helen said, “Honey, nobody has touched that TV since you set it up to record. We haven’t even had it on. We’ve been cooking and yakking, and besides whatever would we care about some stupid golf game?”

Gary and Rob shook their heads, “The US Open---and to them it’s just ‘some stupid golf game’. Women….but hey you gotta love ‘em.”

Now we were in the kitchen and you can see the den from there so every now and then we’d peek in. Sure enough they came to the part I’d seen.

The announcer intoned, “Tiger has this---straight uphill about two feet for a birdie to take the lead.”

“No way he’ll miss this,” said Phil.

“It’s a gimme,” said Andy.

From the doorway Helen said, “He’ll probably miss. It’s a stupid game.” The men all turned in unison at this outrageous comment. “Are you crazy? He can’t miss from this range. I’ll bet you dinner out he makes it,” said Rob.

“And if you win?” asked Helen. “I play golf next Saturday—no honey do list,” said Rob.

“Wait, wait,” I said. “Hit the pause button.” Someone did. Tiger was crouched, placing his ball. “If you really want a bet, how about putting your asses on the line, boys?”

Rob asked what I meant. I pointed to Helen’s wall and the paddle hanging there. “If you win, ok. Free day next week. Play golf all day if you want. No complaints, no list. But if you lose, well…each of you agrees to bend over and take six swats with that---right on the seat.” I said patting my rump for emphasis. Marci added, “Oh, and in your undies. Pants down. We don’t want too much protection to hit through back there.” The girls all nodded in agreement and giggled at that one. That would be a sight, the boys in their briefs, bending over. Priceless, as they say on TV.

On cue, we girls agreed enthusiastically. The boys looked at each other, speechless. Rob broke the ice. “Well, hell yeah.” He threw up his arms. “Guys, guys---this one’s a no brainer. It’s a sure thing. We’re playing next weekend.”

Phil said, “I don’t know Rob, that paddle might hurt.” He eyed his smiling wife nervously.

We girls all laughed. “So now that you have something to really lose, you’re chicken, hunh?” This from Marci.

“C’mon boys, all you have to lose is your pants. I can’t believe this,” said Gary’s wife, Clare. “They bet $20 on a first down play or a pitch, but when it’s just a little possible embarrassment they chicken out.”

Gary huffed, “I’m in. I want to play next week, and no chores. He’s not going to miss. No way.”

Andy eyed me suspiciously. Did he smell a rat? I could see his mind working. We’d had these talks about stupid sports betting. Now the sorority paddle was in play, and in view of our recent activities, well, he had to suspect something.

But he waved his hand nonchalantly and said, “Ok, let’s do it. Hit the
remote.”

The screen flickered to life. The color commentator said, “Tiger lines it up. He hasn’t missed from this distance the whole tournament. Looks straight uphill.” He stroked the putt, typical Tiger smoothness. It flirted with the edge of the cup and spun out. A collective groan went up from the gallery.

“What?” screamed Phil. “What is this? How could he miss that?”

Rob and Gary watched in stunned silence. Andy ran his hand through his hair and said, “I can’t believe that. That’s impossible!”

We girls stood in a line, smirking.

“Looks like your guy struck out or whatever, boys,” said Marci. “I guess you shouldn’t bet on things you don’t control,” added Helen. She went over to the wall, unhooked the paddle and swished it a time or two.

“Hmmm…..good weight. Just like I remember it.”

The men watched her nervously, then looked at each other, like they were thinking ‘are we really going to do this?’ Helen gave the paddle to Clare who swung it a time or two. Then Marci said, “Ok, boys, time to pay up. Are you ready? Where do we want them, Helen?”

Helen thought for a minute. “Let’s take them one at a time. Here, over the back of the couch.” Helen had a couch in her den that sat in the middle of the room facing the TV. It was padded. If you bent over the back it would put your butt in perfect position to take paddle swats. The guys were milling around not knowing what to do. This was all happening too fast for them.

Helen said, “I’ll go first. Rob, get your little fanny over here. Right here.” She slapped the paddle onto the back of the couch.

Rob put up his hands in protest. “Now wait a minute, honey. We don’t mind working next weekend…maybe two weekends. How about that?” He turned to his buddies. “What about that guys?

We’ll give the girls two weekends in a row, and, ah…we’ll throw in a dinner out.” They all nodded, yeah, great idea.

Helen’s eyes narrowed. She tapped her foot. “Rob Barton, are trying to welch on a bet?”

“Well, gee, no, honey but wouldn’t you rather have…”

“I’ll tell you what I’d rather have, and that is your sweet buns up over this couch. Let’s go, Rob. Drop those shorts.”

Rob sighed, resigned to his fate. He’d probably seen this kind of resolve from Helen before. He took a position at the back of the couch and loosened his shorts and let them fall. He was wearing fruit-of-the-looms. Not much protection. Helen came right along side and stood to his left. She tapped his bottom with the paddle.

“Six swats. That was the bet. Don’t get up ‘til we’re done Rob.”

She reared back and brought the paddle down with a loud crack! I think everyone winced and Rob yelled out a big “Yeow! That hurt.” Before he could move Helen landed swat number two. “My God, Helen, not so hard!”

“Then stop betting on sports, Rob,” she said sweetly while landing smack number three. Crack! “Yoww!” yelled Rob.

At four he rose straight up and his hands flew to his rear cheeks.

“Get back down, Rob. There are two more to go.”

Number five got a wail of protest and at six he shot bolt upright and rubbed his bottom frantically while doing a little dance that we girls found quite amusing. The rest of the paddlings followed suit.

Clare took the paddle from Helen and tapped it on her leg. “All right, Gary, dear. Pants down and bend over, please.” Gary mumbled in protest but let his shorts fall to his ankles thus exposing his preference for white y-briefs.

“Tighty whitey’s. Very fashionable Gary,” laughed Marci. The rest of us girls had to chuckle at that.

Gary howled through his paddling as Clare seemed to really put the wood to him. She lined her swats up like a tennis pro and chided him repeatedly to stay still while she cracked the paddle across the seat of his briefs.

We could see how red his behind got right through the thin cotton. He shifted from side to side stamping his feet and verbalized his discomfort with a more or less steady ‘ooo….oooh!’ sound.

When Marci was handed the paddle she had a wide grin on her face, and I got the notion that this might be payback for more than just the bet. Phil tried to talk Marci out of it, but she told him he better take his licks like the rest, and he yelped through six hard swats right on his sit spot.

Andy was last. By now of course, he was no stranger to the shock of getting his hiney tanned, but the larger heavier wooden paddle was, I think, an eye opener. He complained and howled as loud as the others had while I delivered six hard smacks. He did a little dance too when it was over.

It was a rueful group, standing around liked spanked schoolboys gingerly rubbing their seats, as we wives scolded them about making stupid sports bets.

“I hope that cures them,” said Helen as we sat down to eat the barbeque. The boys ate standing up, grousing the whole time.”

* * *

Andy didn’t say much in the car going home. It made me a little nervous.

“Penny for your thoughts, dear?”

“Well, I guess you girls taught us a lesson tonight. I’ve got to tell you, Rachael, that paddle was a real scorcher.”

“Well,” I said, “You didn’t get it any worse than anyone else, and that’s  what you get for that dumb bet.”

“You know,” Andy mused, “Anybody at all knowledgeable would have taken that bet. In fact anybody betting the other way would have to either have been given stupendous odds, or… would have had to know the outcome in advance.”

He turned and looked straight at me. “You didn’t know the outcome in advance, did you Rachael?”

Now, I’ve never been able to lie to Andy. So I gulped and stammered and ran my hand through my hair, you know, all those little body language things that say you’re very nervous about that question. I decided that the best defense was a good offense. “I, we, figured we needed to teach you guys a lesson, that’s all. So what if we knew?” I blurted this out quickly, hoping he’d see the logic. See, the end justifies the means, right?

By that time we were pulling into the driveway. Andy went in and paid the babysitter. Once she left, I was about to head for the bedroom when I found my path blocked by Andy. He was holding the little novelty store paddle. Oops. I started to back up. “Now, Andy, we were just trying to make a point and…”

“Cheating. It’s called cheating. And cheating is very much frowned upon, Rachael. Come on down to the rec room now. We have to have one of those woodshed talks about this.”

Well it was only a two minute paddling. Andy timed it. He figured that was the equivalent of his six swats with the heavy sorority paddle (plus everyone elses’s). And, it was only the novelty store paddle. However, it was on my bare behind. And, I was naked.

And, I was put over Andy’s knee for it. And, it really, really stung. Andy got me where he wanted me, cocked up over his left knee, my hiney in the air and my legs fluttering behind me. Then he tapped me once or twice and let fly.

Sharp stinging spanks peppered my fanny, and all I could do was gasp and writhe around while he methodically tanned me for two solid minutes. But there is something about being naked and held down over your husband’s knee while he warms up your bottom.

After he let me up and I had finished hopping around in a suburban housewife’s version of a war dance Andy embraced me and dragged me into bed. His hands were all over me, his lips were all over me and I was swooning with desire. We didn’t get to sleep until much, much later.

So now, that’s the truth about Andy. He’s a big kid like I said, but also a real man. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And they lived happily ever after.