Holiday Traditions

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Mary and I open our presents on Christmas Eve.  When our boys were young, we learned we got much more sleep Christmas morning if they weren’t up before the crack of dawn to see what was in the packages under the tree.  We’re empty nesters now, but have retained that holiday tradition.

This morning I noticed a new package for me from Mary.  It’s been on my mind while Mary and I clean up after our traditional Christmas Eve feast featuring a standing rib roast.  When our boys were teenagers, there would be not a scrap left, but with the two of us we have plenty of rare beef for sandwiches in the days to come.

I’m afraid I know what is in that package, judging from the size, shape, weight and the fact it does not rattle.  [Shaking presents is allowed under local policies, with the understanding: “You bust it and it’s your own damned fault.”]

Since our last son went off to college…  I should pause at this point to say there is another longstanding tradition in our family which was codified when our boys were difficult, obnoxious teenagers.  When they reach college age, they will go off to college.  They need not attend college, but at college age they will go off.  So, since our youngest went off to college (and is doing well, much to our surprise), Mary and I have started a new tradition, giving one gift to each other of a more personal [adult] nature.  This year, I bought Mary the latest thing in personal vibrators.  It has a remote control and will do everything for her except brew the morning coffee.  I’m pretty sure the present under the tree that caught my eye is Mary’s contribution to this adult tradition, and I’m also pretty sure I know what it is.

I know what that present is, and it’s got me a little scared.  I asked for it, sort of, and have no one to blame but myself. But it’s still scary.

When the dishes were done—as I put the roasting pan on the rack to dry—Mary said, “Bring the champagne bottle and your glass.  I can’t wait to see what you got me this year.”

We opened presents from other family and friends first, admiring and collecting the loot, keeping note of whom to thank for what.  We were down to just two presents, the special gifts for and from each other.

“I get to open mine first,” Mary proclaimed.  Traditionally, I have acted as the Santa, passing the gifts out one by one to their designated recipient, and Mary has acted as Mrs. Claus, telling me which to choose in which order.  This worked well, because Mary was usually the only one who knew what was in each box.

I watched Mary unwrap her present.  When she got down to the box with the pictures of the contents, she said, “Oh, you nasty man.”  She opened the box and extracted the vibrator and said, “Ooh, just my size,” as she stroked it through her fingers.  “I’ll not have to unlock you nearly as often with this bad boy in the family.”

That had not occurred to me when I bought it for her.  I took a big swallow of champagne to hide my consternation.

“Okay, now it’s your turn,” Mary said, gleefully.  “Open your present.”

Sure enough, when I removed the bow and lifted the lid off the long, flat box, I saw a beautifully finished hard oak paddle through the tissue paper.  Two rows of holes were visible down its length.  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I said, really meaning it, but not foolish enough to express myself too strongly.  After all, it would not be I who would hold the paddle by its handle for its first application to a naked bottom.  Mary looked very pleased with herself, and I strained to put a smile on my face.

“You know,” Mary said, “when you first suggested I give you a birthday spanking last May, I didn’t expect to enjoy smacking your bottom.  I just went along because even though you were nervous about asking, I could see you were excited by the idea of it.  It seemed to turn you on, so I agreed, reluctantly.  Then, with you naked and over my knee, about half way through the count, I found I kind of liked it.  I liked the feeling of power and authority, because once you were in position with your ass so vulnerable, it was really up to me how fast and hard you got spanked.  And then, after it was over, we had some of the best sex ever.  Do you remember that night?”

“Oh yes, and as I recall, I was not the only one turned on by that experience.”  I remembered thinking about half way through, as the heat in my backside rose higher than expected, maybe this was not such a good idea.  That would have been about the time she was beginning to like the whole thing.  Our relative enjoyments passed each other going in opposite directions as she got more enthusiastic, and I dealt with the painful consequences in a manly fashion.

“The only downside of that first time,” Mary said, “was I think I hurt my hand as much as your butt.”  I doubted that.  “Then in September, when you agreed to let me spank you for my birthday, I really got into it.  Switching to my hairbrush when my hand got sore really helped.  I still have sexy memories of how red your ass grew under my brush.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said, a little more sarcastically than I’d intended.

“Now, don’t be like that.  You enjoyed it too.  At least you sure enjoyed the sex later, when you recovered enough to get it up.  I’ve been doing some reading on the subject since, and spanking as foreplay is not as uncommon as I first thought.  I know in most cases, the wife is on the receiving end, but not always, and in our case, getting spanked would never work for me.  So, it’s wonderful you are the one who likes to get spanked because, surprise, surprise, I just love to spank you.”

I was still holding the opened box with the oak paddle lying there comfortably nestled in tissue paper, seeming to taunt me.

“So, I was having some trouble figuring out what special present I should get for you this year when I chanced to run across an ad for that paddle.  Right away, I knew it was the perfect gift.  I can’t wait to try it out.  You?”

I could wait.  I could wait for years before allowing Mary to paddle me with this evilly painful looking piece of polished wood.  Still, my dick was trying to stiffen.

“I was thinking,” Mary continued, ignoring my reticence in answering her question, “we could make a game of it.  For instance, on your birthday, I could spank you based on how good you were since your last birthday—eating right, getting your exercise, watching your weight, all actions and habits focused on you.  Then on my birthday, I could spank you based on how nice you were to me that year.  You know, saying you love me often enough, being helpful around the house, pampering me occasionally, that sort of thing.”

Oh good, I thought, deportment assessed by an impartial judge.

“Then it occurred to me, why should we limit our fun to only two times a year?”

“Well, those first two sessions were pretty intense,” I said, “especially when you used your hairbrush.”

“I know!  And they led to wonderful encounters between the sheets!” Mary said, completely missing my point.  “So, I thought, why not pick some additional dates to expand our game?  Like I’ll spank you on New Year’s Eve, based on how good you have been overall this year, and spank you again New Year’s Day to encourage you to be good in the coming year.”

“Mary, this paddle looks like it would really sting.  Don’t you think two days in a row might be a little too much for me to handle?”

“Maybe, but I’m getting wet just thinking about it.  Imagine how turned on we’ll be after that second paddling!  And, as I was saying, one thought led to another, and it occurred to me there are holidays we could celebrate with a spanking throughout the year.  We’ve got the first of January covered, and then on the third Monday of January, there is Martin Luther King Junior Day.  We could commemorate it by putting more color into your life, or at least into your bottom, if you get my drift.”

“I’m starting to see where you’re coming from, but…” I said, throwing myself in front of the train, to no avail.

“In February,” Mary continued before I could complete my thought, “there’s Valentine’s Day on the fourteenth.  I could give you an I-love-you spanking.  Then, I looked it up, and International Women’s Day is the eighth of March.  Every husband should probably be spanked on that day.  For April there’s April Fool’s day on the first and Arbor day on the twenty-fourth.”

“Arbor day?”

“Of course.  We should pay homage to the tree from which your new paddle was crafted, don’t you think?  Anyway, I’ve just scratched the surface and I haven’t even looked beyond April yet.  I bet we can find two or three reasons each month to keep our sex life on the boil by heating up that lovely ass of yours.”

“I suppose,” I said, trying desperately to think of a way to derail this train of thought.  “Um, New Year’s Eve is just a week away.  I’m not sure I can work up the courage for this new game by then.”

“Oh, we shouldn’t wait,” Mary said, enthusiastically.  “I mean, you’ve opened your present, but you won’t have actually received your present until I present it to you, so to speak.  Put down your wine glass and come over here.”  Mary scooted to the center of the couch.  “Bring your gift, but leave it in the box, I want to do a formal presentation by first unwrapping you, then finishing unwrapping your new paddle.”

I hesitated, thinking seriously about dashing down the hall and barricading myself in the bathroom.

Mary noticed my reluctance, pouted and said, “You don’t want to destroy our festive mood, do you?  It’s Christmas.”

“No, I…”

“Good!  Come stand in front of me.”

I stood in front of Mary and offered her the paddle, still in its box.  On impulse, I almost snatched it back and hid it behind my back, but I managed to quash that desire, barely.  Would the paddle be as bad as Mary’s hairbrush?  Would it be worse?  If I cooperated now, would Mary see it as acceptance of her plans for the rest of the year?  To be taken over Mary’s knee for a spanking two or three times a month?  The idea turned me on, more than I was willing to admit, but the reality…  I’m not at all sure I can handle that painful reality.

Mary ignored the paddle and reached for my belt buckle instead.  She opened and shoved my pants and boxers down past my knees.  My member was straining to rise again.  With a big grin, she took the box from me, folded back the tissue paper, lifted the paddle with a flourish and sailed the empty box across the room.

“I think I’ll have you over just my left thigh this time, so I can more easily keep you in position,” she said, scooting forward.  Clearly, she’d been reading up on methods and advantages of spanking her man.  As I went over, she wrapped her right leg over both of mine, and said, “Reach back with your right hand, please.”  She grabbed my wrist when I did and pushed it further up behind my back.

Mary rubbed my bottom with the paddle, its smooth surface gliding easily across my skin.  “Now take it easy with that thing,” I said just before a loud:  SMACK!  echoed across the room.

“Ouch!  Too hard!” I complained.

“Nonsense.  Don’t be such a sissy.  I hardly tapped you.”  SMACK!  Another “tap” registered in my ears and across my ass.  These were not trifling little pats, and the paddle was just long enough to impact all the way across.  As that thought registered, Mary delivered two quick smacks, first to one cheek then the other.

“Oh, this is fun,” Mary crowed.  “I’m really liking your new spanking paddle.  It requires a little more wrist strength than my hairbrush, but since I bought it in November, I’ve been practicing.”  SMACK!!  “And now it feels light as a feather.”

“It feels nothing like a feather to me.  Slow down and not so hard,” I begged, at which Mary increased both the pace and the intensity.  My legs kicked within the limits allowed; I tried to free my hand to cover my ass; I struggled to escape, but it was not going to happen.

I’ve long been turned on by the thought of spanking, especially with me on the receiving end (although the image of a pair of plump, naked, womanly cheeks across my knee also has its appeal).  But until I screwed up the courage to make my wishes known to Mary last May on my birthday, it was just a mind game.  It was spanking in the abstract.  Beginning on that fateful day, I learned fantasy and reality do not march in lockstep.  The lesson was brought home in September on Mary’s birthday when she used her hairbrush on my ass.  The reality of spanking is painful.  Well, duh, pain is the goal of a sound spanking (as opposed to a couple swats to the seat of the pants of a young person to startle them out of an unacceptable behavior).  Somehow, the pain involved played no part in my former fantasies.  That was a disconnect from reality I was now paying dearly for.

Along with the SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK! I thought I could hear Mary’s delighted giggles as she turned my ass from pale to purple.  Well, maybe not purple, but to me it felt like she had skipped right past pink to flaming red.  She was well beyond a couple dozen smacks, and my pleas for an end were ignored completely.  I felt the approach of tears.  I was almost crying.  Me, a man of at least average testosterone and capacity for discomfort, was on the cusp of weeping like a… like a child.

As if Mary could read my mind, she interspersed her strikes with the paddle with the words, “It’s okay to cry if you want to, my baby.  Let it out  SMACK!! (a particularly hard spank as punctuation), don’t keep it all bottled up.  I will not stop paddling you until you surrender to me and cry.”

I could not fight it any longer.  I ceased my struggles, collapsed across Mary’s thigh and sobbed out my surrender.

Mary delivered another half-dozen firm strikes, then stopped.  Silence filled the room with the exception of my sobs and Mary’s heavy breathing.  The poor dear must have worked up a sweat.

“Wow,” Mary said, “that was really something.  Don’t worry darling, not all of your paddlings will be so intense, I just needed to determine the effectiveness of your new paddle as a real discipline tool.  I’d say it was very effective, wouldn’t you?  It sure looked it from my vantage, unless you were just pretending?”  Smack.  Mary delivered a final spank with her hand—thank the gods.

“No! No, I was not pretending.  That really hurt, Mary.  It still hurts.  I’m never going over your knee again… ever!”

“Now, now, don’t talk such foolishness.  You know in a day or two you’ll be reliving this experience in your brain and secretly looking forward to your New Year’s Eve spanking.  Besides, darling, you don’t get the final vote on the subject.  It was your idea in the first place, but I’ve since discovered I love spanking you.  It turns me on more than you can possibly imagine.  In fact, get off of my lap and on your knees so I can remove my slacks and panties.  You need to put that talented tongue of yours to work.  Unless, you’d like me to resume with the paddle?”

END

[ A question for the reader: Which choice do you think I made?  Which would you have made? ]

Copyright © 2021 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.