Think Carefully 12

Attitude Adjustment

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

{ Note: This is the twelfth installment of this story. If you have not read the earlier chapters, this one will make more sense to you if you do. The opener can be found here: Think Carefully. }

Work has been a bitch this week. Long days and frustrating problems. Coming home each night tired and irritated did not put me in the mood to get my chores done to “Gloria’s satisfaction.”

That was the other problem with the week, my chores. I did two on Saturday, earning a three out of five for the kitchen and a four for the bedroom, which Gloria said was a gift not to be repeated in future weeks. (Who bothers with “hospital corners” when making the bed these days? And don’t even ask me about the distance between the bedspread and the floor on the two sides of the bed.)

I mowed the lawn Sunday, knowing I would not have time during the week to do a complete job. That earned another three. I edged, but didn’t rake, and also neglected the weeds in the flower beds. Less than halfway down the list, and already marginal. By Wednesday, I was tired of the game, and fell short on my chore of cleaning up after dinner.

I have vague memories of my father helping my mother in the kitchen when I was about, oh, I must have been five or so. But in those days, we did not have a dishwasher, so dad dried the dishes as mom washed them. With all of today’s modern conveniences in the kitchen, it is no longer a two-person job. I know my mother would not have left it for my father.

As I said, it was a bad week at work. By Wednesday, I was sick of the whole thing, did a slapdash job of the cleanup, checked the chore off for that night, and threw the marker back in the drawer. From the kitchen, I migrated to the family room, dropped into my chair for an evening in front of the flatscreen. I could not have cared less about what was showing on the screen.

Ten minutes later, Gloria entered the room, switched off the TV, and said, “I see you checked off your chore for this evening.”

“Yes,” I said, not quite in a snarl. I didn’t care about the program on the tube, but it would have been more polite had she asked me to mute it.

“I won’t bother listing the tasks that you left undone this evening,” she said. “After the past couple nights, I thought you had that one pretty well in hand. You hadn’t earned a five, but a couple of solid fours. And I want you to know that I appreciated your help. Tonight, I gave you a two.”

She reminded me that any score less than five would be addressed during my weekly maintenance spanking Friday evening, and anything less than three would result in an additional spanking the same day that score was earned.

“There’s no need for discussion,” Gloria said. “Get off your ass, go up to the bedroom, and change into your pajamas. I’ll be up shortly to address your performance.”

“I don’t wear pajamas,” I muttered, still sitting in the chair, staring at the blank flatscreen.

“No, but you own a pair, and tonight you’ll wear them. A good spanking and an early bedtime should provide the attitude adjustment you need. You’ve been grumpy this week, and I know it’s due in part to problems at your job, but you should not be bringing that home so it affects the two of us. If talking about it would help, I’m more than willing to listen, but bottling it up and acting like a jerk is not acceptable. An attitude correction and a little more sleep may be just what you need. So, get upstairs and change, unless you want me to spank you right here, with a second, harder spanking in the bedroom.”

There were so many things I could have said to Gloria at that moment. So many witty, sarcastic, possibly hurtful things. I kept my mouth shut and headed for the stairs. Would she have spanked me twice? Yeah, she probably would, unless I fought her.

It occurred to me, while climbing the stairs, trying to remember just where my pajamas were kept, that I’d asked my wife for exactly what she just promised to give me. It was on the way to church that Sunday morning, and I’m not sure of the exact words, but they were something along the lines of: “I suffer from a lack of discipline. There ought to be consequences when I don’t do my chores or am inconsiderate of you. I’ve read some couples use corporal punishment.”

Was that really the extent of the discussion? I think that was about all there was to it until Gloria surprised me days later with a formal agreement for me to sign. “Think carefully, before you sign,” she said. I thought I had. I thought I’d done nothing but think about it—wish for it—since I was fourteen years old. Now I realized I’d not had a clue what I was really wishing for. Surprise, surprise, spankings hurt. Mild ones can be fun, like the other night in bed. Real ones, like the one I was likely to receive tonight, can be damned painful, not to mention humiliating.

As I removed my trousers, I realized that my dick was slightly engorged. It still remembers all those years of fantasy spankings. The idiot! My ass, which was about to have a meeting with Gloria’s hairbrush, would have liked to choke the little bastard’s neck. I found my pajamas at the back of the bottom drawer of my dresser, stripped completely and put them on. They were an old pair, and barely accommodated my size.

If I were not an adult, I thought, and Gloria was my mother, a maiden aunt, or babysitter, she probably would have told me to be standing facing the corner when she came up to spank me. Jammie bottoms up or down, I wonder? Definitely down in a puddle at my feet.

My cock had resumed growing as I had these thoughts. I was tempted to take it in my fist and encourage the enlarging process like in the old days before such activity was prohibited by rule number seven on the plaque decorating our bathroom wall. “Prioritize Gloria’s pleasure…” and, “Never take pleasure without permission.” It was made clear to me that “pleasure” did not refer to ice cream and chocolates. It was pleasures of the flesh.

Then, I thought, Oh, shit! Is Gloria going to think I’ve been playing with myself in anticipation of this spanking? That would not be good.

I wondered if I should get a cold washcloth to bring it back down, and would Gloria notice my crotch was wet if I did so? But… no time. I heard her coming up the stairs.

When my wife entered the room, my left hand was resting outside my pajamas, palm up, and nonchalantly in my groin area. No rule violations here. No siree Bob.

Gloria gave me a quick glance and said, “Where did you find those pajamas? They must date back to before we were married. I’m amazed you can still get in them. I guess they’ll do, but they can’t be very comfortable.”

They were tight at the waist and crotch, and short at the ankles. I just assumed they seemed to fit poorly because I was not used to wearing pajamas.

Gloria strode to my dresser, pulled out the second drawer down and removed a pair she gave me for Christmas three years ago. “If you’d like to change,” she said, “these might fit you a little better.” She dropped them on the corner of the bed. “But let’s take care of that other matter first.”

She turned to the bathroom and said, “Get yourself ready. I’ll get my brush.”

Ironic, that statement. I know of no way to get ready for a spanking with that damned evil hairbrush. I mean, there aren’t any calisthenics or warm-up exercises you can do to make it less painful. So, I stood to wait, and noticed my tumescence was obvious in the front of my old, tight-fitting pajamas. Would it have been less noticeable if I were wearing the pair she gave me three years ago? The ones that might still fit? Probably.

I remembered now. Gloria gave me those newer pajamas to wear while her mother stayed with us that Christmas. “In case of an emergency,” she said. (Like running from the house in the middle of the night to escape a burning building.) Yeah, that would be embarrassing, standing in front of your mother-in-law, back-lit by the flames, in just your underwear. Or perhaps a person could grab a pair of pants as he headed for the stairs? Not necessary. I had those brand new, spiffy pajamas. The ones that fit.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gloria said as she came out of the bathroom. “You look ridiculous in those pajama bottoms. You know I will not let you keep them on for your spanking. In fact, let’s make a new rule. From now on, if I send you up here to await a discipline spanking, I want to find you standing with your nose in the corner, and with your pants, underpants, pajamas, whatever you’re wearing puddled at your ankles.”

“That sounds a little juvenile, don’t you think? I am an adult.”

“Perhaps, but no more juvenile than taking you over mommy’s knee for a good spanking. So, should I ask Cynthia in graphics to add it to your ‘Rules for Hubby’ plaque? She’s still after me to do a version with decorative scroll work and little pink hearts and cherubs. Or do you think you can remember I want you nose in the corner, pants down, from now on?”

“I can remember. And I wish you would not involve the women at your office in our private lives.”

“Too late,” she said. “Drag that chair to the middle of this open space. And, while we are on the topic, include that in your standard preparations for a spanking as well.”

I moved the chair. Gloria sat and beckoned me toward her.

With me secured over her knee, Gloria lowered my pajama bottoms, which popped a seam. “We needn’t worry about you wearing these again. Trash them when we’re done here. Before we start, John, tell me why you are in this position this evening.”

“I did a crappy job cleaning the kitchen after dinner.”

“Yes, and…?” Gloria’s palm and long delicate fingers rested on a naked butt cheek, and my cock was responding accordingly. I suspected she could feel it growing against her thigh.

“And you don’t like my attitude,” I said.

“No, I don’t. You’re in serious need of an attitude adjustment. And why is that, John?”

“Oh, come on, Gloria. If you are going to spank me, then just spank me and get it over with.”

“Is that our goal, dear? To ‘get it over with?’ Tell me why you have had an attitude problem this week.” Her hand was cupping and stroking, and coupled with the position I was in over her lap, it was about to drive me out of my mind! I had to fight to keep from panting.

“Things have turned to crap at work,” I said. “I have a subordinate who manages to fuck up every assignment I give him.”

“Can you fire him, or pass him off to someone else?”

“No, on both counts. He doesn’t screw up on purpose. I’ve got no basis to terminate him, and he’s already been passed on a half-dozen times. He’s so well known; nobody would take him.”

“Then what you need to do, John, is to step back a moment and take the opportunity to admire just how superlative a fuckup he is. I mean, if he’s really that amazing, stop fighting the inevitable and enjoy the act.”

“You want me to do what?!”

“I want you to relax, my dear. Stop jousting at windmills. You cannot change what can’t be changed. So, do what you can to limit the damage while accepting the role of an amused spectator. You control how you respond to the world. No one can make you unhappy if you do not let them.

“Now, there’s the little matter of an attitude adjustment and the grade you earned in the kitchen this evening.”

Gloria’s hand lifted off my cheek and came crashing down with a hearty SMACK! As her hand landed, her knees spread apart, and my fully engorged cock slid down between her thighs. With the next hard SMACK! her thighs closed and squeezed.

Gloria alternated between squeezing and relaxing to the rhythm of her spanking hand. I was of three minds. My ass was thinking: “Ouch, man, this stings.” My brain was worrying: “When is she going to switch to her hairbrush?” While my cock was fully immersed in: “Shit, yeah! I’m lovin’ this!” My cock won the debate. The rest of me stopped trying to change what could not be changed, and I enjoyed the moment.

END of Part 12

The story continues with: Think Carefully 13 

Copyright © 2023 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

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