Procrastination

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

“If you were mine,” she said sternly, “I’d bare that naughty little bottom of yours, take you over my knee, and spank you long and hard until I was sure you had seen the error of your ways.”

My jaw dropped at this pronouncement, but I found myself with nothing to say.  True, my apartment was a little messy (i.e., a disaster area; a threat to public health on a national scale; a disgrace to any civilized creature; a trash heap of monumental proportions), but a “spanking”?  And what was that about a, “naughty little bottom”?  My brain spun with the import of her words and the threat of this situation.  I might lose her over this.  (I might get spanked because of this!)  Oh, why didn’t I clean up a little before she saw how I lived?  The honest answer is I intended to, I just never quite got around to it.

“Then,” she continued after a glaring pause, “I’d put you into a little apron and follow you around this apartment with my hairbrush while you cleaned this sewer you’ve been living in until it was up to my standards.”

But, I’ve started at the climax of the story.  I need to back up a bit.

After my first marriage, I swore I would not make that mistake again.  Angela was a nice enough woman, but she had a strong tendency to nag, a tendency that over the twenty-four years of our union only got worse.  Granted, I am one of the world’s leading (or perhaps lagging would be more accurate) procrastinators, and that really drove her nuts, but surely she knew what she was getting before we married.  I mean it’s not as if I was on time or ever prepared for anything when we were dating.

Finally, we’d both had more than enough, and we agreed to separate on fairly reasonable and friendly terms.  Angela, being the ambitious one, was successful in her own right and didn’t need any financial help from me, so we agreed I would just make regular contributions to the girls’ education funds (we have two college-age daughters) and otherwise go my own way.

I enjoyed my bachelor existence for a while, but frankly I found it a little lonely.  I also got tired of cooking and cleaning for myself (well, intending to clean), and decided that perhaps some female companionship would not be such a very bad idea after all.  But what to do?  I had not gone out cruising for dates for almost 30 years.  I suspect the process changed in all that time, and besides, I was never very good at it to begin with.  Landing a lady as special as Angela had been pure luck.

It was about this time I found myself attending a company picnic, and I was wearing, if you can believe it, my one clean shirt.  Now despite my best intentions, I don’t usually make it to these affairs.  I like the people I work with, my boss is a terrific old guy, and I’m not anti-social, it’s just that getting ready and getting out the door when the time comes is usually more than I’m willing to contribute to the occasion.

The barbecued ribs and baked beans were surprisingly good, and I managed to keep from spilling any on my shirt (a source of some considerable personal pride).  I was wandering around after eating, a beer in my hand, talking to various friends in the company.  We are a large and diverse build-to-print manufacturing group, and I don’t get to see some of these people too often.

As the party began to decline and people began departing, I went looking for my boss to say a few words before I left.  I spotted him in a clump of folks off in a corner, but as I approached, his wife, Helen—an older lady, but truly charming and well put together—broke off from them and came my way.

“Oh Bill, I’m glad you’re still here.  I’ve been wanting to introduce you to a friend of mine.”  With this, she firmly gripped my left wrist and led me briskly off in the other direction.

Somewhat bemused, I allowed Helen to lead me like a little boy back through the picnic tables, around the barbecue pit, and right up to a tall, auburn-haired beauty in tight blue jeans and a loose fitting plaid shirt.

“Pardon us, Jim,” Helen said as she sandwiched us in between Jim Harris, the slightly married sales rep. and office lothario, and this striking looking woman.

“Amy, I’d like you to meet Bill Francis,” Helen said.  “Bill is our Senior Accounts Manager.  Bill, this is Amy Cartwright, an old and dear friend.”

“I’ll call you,” Jim awkwardly said to Amy from over my shoulder.

Amy gave him a small smile, and he moved away looking for some other closing-time opportunity.

“You didn’t actually give Jim Harris your phone number, did you?” Helen asked Amy.

“No, of course not.  I just happened to be thinking of the number for the Breast Cancer Help Line when he asked me.”

“Good.  I’ve never known you to be a fool.

“Now, where was I?  Oh yes.  Bill here is one of our best, and it just occurred to me you two might find you have a lot in common.

“Well, that’s that then.  I’ll leave you to get acquainted.

“Watch out for this one, dear,” she added to Amy.  “He requires some managing, but I think you’ll find it’s worth the effort.”

Having completed her mission, Helen let go of my wrist and briskly walked back the way we’d come.

Amy and I looked at each other, glanced at Helen striding away, back at each other and we both burst into quiet laughter.

When we recovered, Amy said, “Well, I guess we better get to know each other.  The picnic is about over, would you like to accompany me to Finnigan’s for a Guinness and some conversation?”

Well, that’s how it began.  We quickly discovered Helen had it all wrong.  Amy and I had virtually nothing in common, but surprisingly (and delightfully) we just seemed to fit.

I tried to abandon my procrastinating ways, or at least I made a firm resolution to do so in the near future, and I only occasionally irritated Amy.  Funny about those instances, though, there was something about Amy’s look that inspired me to avoid them in the future, at least for a while.  She didn’t resort to nagging as Angela did, she just somehow made it clear in a non-verbal way that she expected better of me.

It was about four months later the incident with which I started this tale occured.  Over those four months, I successfully deflected any suggestion from Amy that we go to my place.  I knew exposing her to my apartment was a bad idea until I had a chance to neaten it up a bit.  But on this particular Saturday afternoon, with a couple of beers over lunch at Finnigan’s clouding my judgment, I agreed.  I realized my grave error as I opened my door, was confronted by the dirty dishes and clothing littering the place, and just before I heard that chilling statement:

“If you were mine, I’d bare that naughty little bottom of yours, take you over my knee, and spank you long and hard until I was sure you had seen the error of your ways.  Then I’d put you into a little apron and follow you around this apartment with my hairbrush while you cleaned this sewer you’ve been living in until it was up to my standards.”

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly, struggling to digest what Amy said, “I didn’t realize it was quite this bad.  I’ll just get rid of some of this mess,” I said, grabbing a pile of clothes and other things off the couch and trying to stuff them into an already bulging closet.  (One of these days I’ve just got to organize those closets.)

“Stop, Bill.  That’s not going to do it.

“Lately I’ve been thinking we might have a real future together, but it could never happen if you honestly think this,” she swept her left hand in a broad arc indicating the entire room, “is an acceptable way to live.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “I just fell behind in my housekeeping, and things got a little bit out of hand.”

“ ‘A little bit out of hand,’ ” Amy quoted back to me.  “I think this is more than just ‘a little bit out of hand.’  This is severe negligence on the part of a naughty little boy who lacks the self-discipline to do what he knows needs to be done.

“Helen warned me you needed some oversight, and she was not the only one, I just did not quite realize how serious those warnings were.”

“Sorry.  Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

“If anyone leaves now, it will be me, and I’ll be by myself.  How could you live like this?  No, don’t answer that, ‘things just got a little bit out of hand.’  Well, I think it’s time to take things back in hand, but I’ll leave it up to you to make the choice.”

“Choice?”

“As I said, I’d like to have a real future with you, Bill, but I’m going to let you make the call.  Either you change your slovenly ways, or I am out this door and out of your life.  And,” she continued, raising her hand to prevent me from voicing my sincere opposition to her leaving, “since we both know you will not, or cannot, make lasting, meaningful change on your own, you’ll have to agree to grant me full authority to help you.”

“Of course I don’t want you to leave me,” I blurted.  “I’ll do anything to keep you in my life.  I’d be more than glad to accept your help.  In fact, please help me.  I’ll take any help you are willing to give me, if you’ll only stay.”

“You will, will you?  Even the help I outlined when you first opened this door?”

Amy’s words flashed back through my mind.  Not the exact words, I’d already blanked on those, but “over my knee”, “bare bottom”, “spank you long and hard” seemed to reverberate off the walls of my skull.

“Uh, well, I’ve never actually been, uh, you know,” I stammered and faded out, blushing profusely and staring at the floor.  (I noticed I’d missed a spot the last time I cleaned.  Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned that floor.)

“That’s your choice.  Make it now.”

“Okay, I don’t want you to leave,” I said with a sigh and looked Amy in the eyes.  “I’ll take whatever help you’re willing to give me.”

“Be specific, Bill.  Ask me to spank you for your sins.  Ask me to spank you like a naughty little boy for your own good, and for the good of our future.  And ask me to spank you thoroughly and often, whenever I think it is necessary to help you be the kind of man I know you can be.”

I freely acknowledge it took me a minute.  I had to swallow several times and struggle to get enough moisture in my mouth to respond, but I’m proud to say I finally managed it.

“I’ve made my choice, Amy.  Please take me in hand.  I’m sorry for my past behavior, and I freely accept your offer of help.  Please spank me long and hard.  Spank me now, and whenever you think it will do me good.  I promise to do better in the future, and hope you’ll not have to do this again, but from now on, the decision is yours.”

Not much was said after that.  Not much, except my heartfelt apologies and pleas for mercy while over Amy’s knee.

She spanked me, alright.  She cleared off a dining room chair that happened to be in the living room, unfastened and pulled down my pants and underpants, and pulled me down across her lap.  Her slapping hand didn’t hurt too much at first, but she was determined and it paid off.  Eventually I was definitely squirming and grunting in response to the sting and heat generated by her persistent efforts.

After what seemed like an eternity, she commanded me off her lap and said, “Don’t go anywhere, we’re just getting started.”

As I knelt on the floor, trying to soothe my battered bottom with my hands, I could hear her rummaging in the kitchen.  I could also hear her muttering what sounded like swear words while she opened and closed my kitchen drawers.  From there she moved into the bathroom, then came striding back down the hall firmly holding a long-handled wooden bath brush in her strong right hand.  (Damn, I didn’t even know I owned a bath brush.)

Reseating herself, Amy pulled me back over her lap and commenced to apply the brush with the same enthusiasm and stamina with which she applied her hand.  I squealed and nearly shot off her lap with the difference.  Her hand had warmed me up but good.  I honestly thought I had been well spanked when she stopped to arm herself.  I had no idea!!!

Amy took my spanking and my distress to a whole new level.  In no time at all, I was emitting a near constant wail, interrupted only occasionally by the physical necessity to inhale before expelling more pain filled breath.

That was the first time, far from the last, and when it was finally over Amy, true to her word, assisted me with the help of that brush in cleaning my apartment up to her standards.

We’ve been married for three years now, and that brush, her hand, a paddle and strap have all been brought into service on many occasions to help me overcome my procrastinating ways.  I occasionally wonder whether if Angela had taken this approach we would still be together, in which case I might never have met Amy.  A sad thought, really, I would never want to have missed my life with either of these wonderful women.

Besides, whenever I try looking back to see what might have been, the glare from my brightly spanked bottom just gets in my eyes.  ;>)

END

Copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Quincy Graves  All rights reserved.

Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.