Page 46 of Carter

“And when you’re extra naughty, like you’ve been this week, hiding things from me, lying… what do I need to do, then?”

“Give my naughty bottom a good strapping.” My cheeks are burning. I can’t believe the words are coming from my mouth.

“I’m going to warm up your pretty bottom with my hand, first.” He spanks me softly. It doesn’t even sting—not yet. His hand comes down, over my panties, on the center of my cheeks. Back and forth as he says, “Tell me. Do you miss your black thongs? They were so sexy. So grown up. Too bad you’re just a naughty little girl who doesn’t get to buy her own panties anymore.” His hand comes down in a hard slap. It makes me rise up on my toes and whine. He spanks again, harder this time. Then his hand is peppering my bottom with hard smacks. His palm lands with stinging strikes all over the curves of my ass.

The pain spreads quickly, like a fire. I’m dancing from toe to toe.

“As much as I like them, let’s go ahead and take these panties down.” He stops spanking and I’m grateful for the break. My ass starts to throb. He pulls my panties down over my curves, leaving them right at the tops of my thighs. I can sense his gaze on me.

“Beautiful. Now for my strap.”

My smarting bottom is begging me to at least make some form of plea. “Carter, I really don’t think I need the strap. I’m sorry, and I’ll go right back to cooking. I promise.”

“Oh, I know you will, baby. When we are finished here, I am going to pull your jeans up just high enough that they meet your bunched-up little panties. Then you are going to march yourself down those stairs and cook a proper meal. With your naughty, red, strapped bottom hanging out while you work.”

I let out a low groan. Before I can protest, the strap comes down on my bare, sore ass. I cry out as the leather meets my skin. A vicious line of stinging rises across my cheeks. Before I can catch my breath, the strap comes down again and again. I’m sucking in air between my teeth. Tears are forming in my eyes. I cry, “Please, Carter.”

The strap comes down again. This time just above that delicate skin where the bottom of my ass meets the tops of my thighs. I’ll not be sitting down tomorrow. I whine. I whimper. He strikes again and again. Once more. The pain is blinding. It’s all I can think about. Every inch of my bottom is throbbing and smarting. I feel naughty, chastised. No longer the strong-willed woman running my man as I please—he’s taken over, made me his vulnerable little girl.

He lifts the strap again and I beg, “I’m sorry, I’ll never lie to you again. I promise. I was bad and I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

He can hear the remorse in my voice. He knows he has my submission. My regret. That I fully understand the line that I’ve crossed, and I’ll not do it again.

He drops the strap.

His hand brushes over my sore bottom. I hang limp, letting the tears fall from the corners of my eyes.

He says, “Come here, baby.”

I rise, shuffle into his arms. I lean against his chest, my balled-up hands pressing against my eyes. His big arms reach around me. His knees bend so he’s face to face with me. He kisses my lips as he pulls up my jeans from my thighs. Bringing the fabric up to sit just under the curve of my ass, like he promised. My sore bottom hangs out, exposed, over my jeans and panties. His hands go to my stinging ass cheeks and he gives them a squeeze. He straightens, kissing the top of my head. Wraps his arms around my back. Holds me as my breathing slows.

His finger and thumb grasp my chin. He directs my gaze to his. In his eyes shine love and absolute, total authority. He says, “You can never, ever lie to me again, baby girl.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“There’s my good girl,” he says.

I lay my cheek against his chest, snuggle in further. He rubs my back and murmurs sweet nothings.

I’m cozy and spanked and loved and full of love. Too soon, he pulls away. Our eyes meet and I know it’s time for the second part of my punishment. He takes my hand in his and leads me all the way down to the first floor. To the dreaded kitchen. I’m shamefully shuffling. The jeans and panties constricting my movements. The stiff denim is pushing the curve of my bottom upward.

We’re in the kitchen. I stand there, face burning, ass burning. My hands clench in front of my partially exposed pussy. I don’t know what to do. I await instruction.

He leaves me standing awkwardly in front of the countertop where I do most of my prep. He goes to the dining table in the eat-in area of the room, grabbing a chair. He brings it over and plops it down, right in front of me. He takes a seat. There’s a bemused smile on his face.

He’s going to watch me work. With my punished bottom on display for his enjoyment. And he’s going to love every second of it. “Why don’t you cook me the dish you’ll be bringing to Brett’s service? It will be good practice for you.”

I’d forgotten all about the funeral—or Celebration of Life, as they call it. Soon, we Bachmans will gather and I will experience my first family burial. Though Carter has warned me it’s nothing like my grandmother’s funeral was, the only one I’ve ever been to. I have no idea what to expect, but I’m nervous about the meal that follows. All the wives make food for a ginormous after party. People talk about the dishes that are served for weeks afterwards.

And they will be lining up to try mine, wondering, has Carter whipped any domesticity into Sasha yet?

Best get cooking.

Ignoring the flush in my cheeks, I pull things from the fridge. Peppers, onions, linked chicken sausages. I go to the pantry. My jeans are constricting my movements. It makes me do a funny shuffle as I collect my pots and pans from the cupboards.

I hear a chuckle.

“Not funny,” I murmur, putting a pan on the stove.