A Snowblower Birthday

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

I’m a forty-year-old man, but a man of very limited experience with women. I came to our marriage bed a virgin, and let my wife, Karen, take the lead. She, after all, had the experience to draw from. (A feature from her past that didn’t bother me at all.) I loved it, and so did she. So, from the beginning, she had the lead in the bedroom, while I acted the traditional role of husband everywhere else. It’s worked well for us. We’ve been married now for eighteen years, eighteen good years.

I just have this one little quirk. I love it when Karen gets all dominant in the bedroom, and I secretly want her to expand on that role both in that room and out of it. I know what you’re thinking, but no, I don’t want to be her little sissy slave. Ugh. Being taken over her knee for a little spanking foreplay, though, that I could get into. So much so, in fact, that I started hinting to her seven or eight years into our marriage. I know, a lot of wasted time leading up to it, but cut me some slack. Before we were married, I hardly even talked to a pretty girl. Who would have guessed that one would talk to me and bring us to this remarkable union?

Each year, starting about ten years ago, when Karen would ask me what I wanted for my birthday, I would respond, flippantly, “How about a good birthday spanking. Just kidding. [Coward!] There’s a fly rod that caught my eye down at Slack Water, but I really don’t need anything, dear. Just you.”

To which she would call me an old flatterer, or such like and I would be surprised with a new fly rod for my birthday.

We followed this routine as usual, approaching my fortieth, but she left the exchange with a raised eyebrow. I thought nothing of it and was looking forward to that new snowblower. It was really cool, with all the bells and whistles—headlights, heated handlebars, electric ignition, 24-inch auger, tracks instead of wheels and power up the wazoo. It’s a little pricey for a birthday present, (Perhaps the cause of the elevated eyebrow?) but you only reach forty once. Of course, the same could be said for thirty-nine, but somehow, “thirty-nine” doesn’t have the same zing to it as “forty”. Forty is a bench mark.

Sure enough, midmorning of my special day, the dealership delivered my new snowblower, all uncrated, fueled and ready to go. Now, all I need is snow so that I can start flinging it into the next county. There’s no better way to ensure that the winter weather will turn mild, than sinking a ton of money into a new snowblower. Still, there is an inch or so of slush on the patio. Wonder if I can sail it over the back fence into Stan’s yard.

I sauntered into the house a half-hour later with a big grin on my face; mission accomplished. Cleared the fence by a good three feet. Karen was on the phone, so I gave her a big thumbs up, and proceeded downstairs to the family room to watch some football. I intended to spend a good part of my fortieth relaxing in front of the tube. There were some good games on the schedule.

[It just occurred to me, does anyone still refer to TV as “the tube”? You’d have to go to a second hand store to get a TV that still used a picture tube display. It’s probably a generational thing.]

Karen brought lunch down to me, and I watched two games before emerging from the depths in time for dinner. We were having steak, and Karen had set out two very nice ribeyes. We usually share one, but when I asked, she said that Martha was joining us.

Martha is Stan’s wife. Stan is a Tech Rep for a big software company, and he spends most of his time on the road. He makes great money, and their marriage is one that is not uncommon for husbands that are gone a lot. It flourishes when they are apart and struggles when he comes home. Martha is a large woman, in her mid-fifties, both physically strong and independent. She can cope with being alone better than most, but probably does get a little lonesome from time to time.

Karen invites Martha over now and then when Stan is gone for longer than usual. Apparently, this is one of those times. No problem. It is just as easy to cook two steaks as one. I use the James Beard method, which starts with a very hot pan. We installed an exhaust fan on steroids above our gas range to handle the smoke.

I didn’t start the steaks until after Martha arrived. They only take ten or twelve minutes, and half of that is spent heating up the pan. Martha was carrying a small, white box with a red ribbon, along with a bottle of red wine. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” I said when she came into the kitchen.

“What makes you think this is for you?” she said with a smile.

“Well, it being my birthday and all…”

“Okay, it is for you, but later. Are those sweet potatoes I smell baking?”

“Yep,” Karen said. “I’m just tossing the salad, and John’s ready to do the steaks. Why don’t you open the wine first, John, and pour us all a glass.”

At our house, we allow the wine to breathe for the second glass.

We have a large center island in the kitchen at which we take most of our meals. It’s informal, comfortable and allows the cook to be part of the conversation. When I’m the cook, this advantage is purely theoretical, however. Karen has all the social skills in our family and does the bulk of the conversing.

Martha took a seat at the island and set her package down next to her, between where she was and where Karen would be sitting. Excessive curiosity is not one of my usual failings, but I kept eyeing that box, wondering what she brought.

Dinner was excellent. Karen and Martha brought each other up to date, while I enjoyed my steak. Those two spend an hour or more almost every day on the phone, but they still find things to talk about when Martha comes over. When Stan and I get together, we can cover the waterfront in twenty minutes, max.

I cleared the counter and stacked the dishes in the sink for later. Martha caught me looking at the package again, and said, “Later. Let’s let that good meal settle first.”

Aha, desert. Probably chocolates. She shouldn’t have, but glad she did. I do enjoy good chocolate.

I left the women to their conversation. They’d moved to the living room, taking their wine with them. I went back to the basement to catch the second half of the last game of the day.

I wandered back upstairs after the game, my mind back on chocolates and perhaps a brandy. What the heck, you’re only forty once (I guess I already covered that).

I checked in with the ladies to see if they wanted anything, and Karen said, “We’re fine, dear, unless… Martha, do you want anything?”

“Actually, I think it’s about time for presents. John, would you please bring in one of your dining room chairs?”

Not sure why she wanted one of those straight-backed chairs—the padding is minimal and they are not very comfortable (comes from choosing appearance over practicality)—but I brought one and placed it where Martha indicated.

She rose from the couch and handed the package she’d brought to Karen. “This is actually for the both of you,” she said, “but Karen should be the custodian.”

By the look on Karen’s face, I could tell that she had no more idea what this was about than I did.

Martha turned to face me, and said, “I understand you have a new snowblower, John.”

“Yes, Karen got it for me. It’s quite a machine, would you like to see it?”

“That’s not necessary; I’ve seen what it can do. Are you aware that the slush you launched in the direction of my house ended up in a pile up against our patio door?”

“Oh, did it? I’m sorry, Martha, I got a little carried away.”

“You might say that. It gets worse, though. The wet snow against the glass of that door continued to melt and seeped into the room, soaking about four feet of our carpet. I shoveled it away from the glass when I realized what happened, but it was already too late.”

“Gee, I’m really sorry. You should have called me. I’d have come right over to take care of it.”

“Oh, you will take care of it. You can propel it back over the fence to your yard tomorrow. I’ve already moved the slush back from the house and cleaned up the wet carpet. But enough of that for now, let’s get back to your birthday present.”

While we were talking, Karen had slid off the ribbon and opened the box. When Martha and I turned back to her, she was holding a heavy, wooden hairbrush and had a quizzical look on her face.

“That’s for you and John,” Martha said to my wife, “but may I borrow it for a few minutes?”

Karen handed the brush to Martha, who then sat down on the dining room chair.

“Now, birthday boy, drop your pants,” Martha ordered.

“What?” I said. I looked at my wife, confused, but could see that a light turned on for her, and she was struggling to control her laughter.

“It’s your birthday,” Martha said, “and boy do you deserve a birthday spanking. I only spank on the bare, so drop your pants.”

I’ve only, “dropped my pants,” in front of two women my entire life—my mother as a child, and my wife as an adult. Expanding that number to include our neighbor, my friend Stan’s wife, was unthinkable. It was humiliating; embarrassing to the extreme. Sure, I fantasized about being spanked, but only ever by my wife, or by some faceless female who only lived in my imagination. Certainly not by a close neighbor whom I couldn’t avoid seeing on a semi-regular basis.

I looked an appeal at Karen, but she said, “You better do what Martha says. I think you are finally going to get that birthday present that you have been requesting for the past few years.” She barely suppressed a giggle to get that out.

“But I…”

“Oh, stop stalling,” Martha said. “Step over here and I’ll drop your pants for you.”

I wasn’t standing far enough away, and Martha reached out, grabbed me by my belt and pulled me in between her knees. I was still trying to figure out how I managed to get into this fix when my belt and pants were unfastened and yanked down to my ankles.

With this, Karen finally lost it. I thought she was going to fall off the couch, she was laughing so hard.

Then, it hit me. Oh, shit! For fun, I had put on a pair of briefs that I seldom wear. They are bright red, stretchy, micro-hip briefs I bought years ago on an impulse. I’m rarely bold enough to wear them, but I dug them out of the bottom of my drawer and put them on this morning just for fun. I figured they would give Karen a laugh when we went to bed, leading up to some adult fun. Well, the first part of that plan seemed to be working, she was indeed laughing.

“Interesting,” Martha said. “Let’s leave those where they are for now.” She grabbed my arm, twisted me around and practically threw me over her left leg. Her right leg wrapped around me and before I knew what was happening, she had taken my right hand and locked it up behind my back. I was not going anywhere, no matter what the motivation.

Karen’s and my brand new hairbrush was on the floor under my nose, but Martha was not impeded, she started right in smacking the back of my very tight briefs with her hand. This is a big woman; she has a big hand and the strength to apply it with considerable impact.

She landed four or five good spanks before I gained control of my voice to yell, “Ouch! Hey! Birthday spankings are supposed to be fun!” (I didn’t get this sentence out as smoothly as it reads on paper. Martha had not paused her spanking, and my words were interspersed with various grunts and exclamations in time with her smacks.)

Martha must have spanked me twenty times or more, when she paused to pull down my briefs and uncover her target. The embarrassment I felt jumped up a couple notches.

“That looks warm enough,” she said. “Hand me the hairbrush, John, so I can start your birthday spanking.”

“What? What was that you just gave me? I wasn’t counting, but I’m pretty sure that we should be done by now.”

She’d said, “Warm enough.” Felt like a three-alarm fire to me. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but I’d never been spanked before and my fantasies had not quite prepared me for the rock-hard hand of this powerful lady.

“Nonsense,” Martha said. “You can’t call that a birthday spanking, it didn’t even involve your birthday present. Besides, I told you I only spank on the bare. Since you were still wearing these, um, appropriately colored shorts, I clearly must not have been actually spanking you. Now, hand me the hairbrush, John, unless you want me to go back to the preliminaries.”  SMACK!!  SMACK!!

“No, no,” I yelped, grabbed the hairbrush and passed it up over my shoulder. I knew the brush would be worse than her hand (at least I assumed as much), but if I was getting forty with the brush no matter what, I did not need any more “preliminaries”.

“Thank you, John. Karen, would you mind keeping the count? I don’t want to fall short, and I might get carried away thinking about correcting this little boy who soaked my good carpet and could have broken my patio door.”

Karen was still laughing, and my concern that she might not be in the best condition to keep an accurate count intensified with the descent of that hairbrush from hell. I wasn’t sure I could handle forty spanks with that monster, and I sure didn’t want any more than that.

“That’s ten,” Karen announced, after what felt to me to be a long and painful time. Martha was bringing that brush down from shoulder height with a quick snap of the wrist, imparting significant sting. The spanks were landing at a regular cadence to all parts of my backside and a couple inches down my thighs.

Surely that’s been twenty, I thought. Panic was setting in. Martha must have bought us a hairbrush with an ignition system built in, because it was really setting my backside ablaze.

By the time Karen announced, “That’s twenty,” I was squirming to get free. To no avail. Martha had me well constrained.

I barely heard Karen say, “That’s thirty.” I had started begging for mercy by about twenty-five.

By the time the count reached forty, I was a sobbing mess. In my fantasies, I had never cried like a little girl, and I’m not saying that I did in reality, either, but I will say I’m glad there is no permanent record.

Martha stopped at forty, put down the brush and smoothed her hard hand over my burning bottom. “I love a job well done,” she said. “And speaking of jobs, I will see you tomorrow morning, cleaning up the slush on my patio, won’t I, John.”  SMACK!!  “And one to grow on.”

END

Copyright © 2020 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.