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Our First Christmas: A Naughty Wife's Stocking
"No!"
Greg’s firmness startled me into a second of silence. I had been happily prattling about what I wanted to get my best friend, Jenna, for Christmas while cleaning up the lasagna pan. It was still a pleasure: making dinner, cleaning up, doing the domestic thing. After all, we’d only been married for three months, and living in our new house for two. Life was everything I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. Right down to the picket fence Greg had promised to put up in the spring.
My contented mood, however, faded at his interruption. My first instinct was to ignore it. If I hadn’t heard what he had said, then I wouldn’t have to take his ‘no’ into consideration, right? So I turned on the water to soak one of the pans, and kept talking.
"It turns any normal tub into bath full of bubbles, just like a Jacuzzi." Damn. My deaf act was shaky at best; the nervousness in my voice was so thick I feared it was visible. I babbled on, hoping. "It's a mat that lays at the bottom of the tub and..."
"I said, 'no.'" His voice was too calm, too relaxed, and much too confident.
I whirled around to face him, the dishrag dripping on the floor. "What do you mean, 'no'?!" I bent down to wipe up dirty water, using the moment to get control over my emotions. I hate confrontation. I’d rather avoid it for weeks on end than face a disagreement. Tears were already brimming and my lips were just a hair’s breadth away from trembling.
"You heard me. We agreed on a budget so that we can meet our financial goals. Those bath things cost over a hundred dollars. You don’t have that much left in your Christmas budget." Greg’s most annoying habit was being logical in a disagreement. Even worse, he was reasonable, and, worst of all, he was almost always right. It irked me to no end sometimes.
"But it’s Christmas! Budgets don’t count!" My voice was creeping higher; it did that when I was upset or nervous.
Greg laughed good-naturedly, even gave me that smile that said he thought I was the most adorable creature on Earth. I usually love that smile.
“Bills don’t stop just because it’s Christmas, Sherry Anne.” He made to come hug me, but I pouted.
He always used my first and middle name together. Ever since I told him my Grandma called me that, and that I preferred “Sherry Anne” to the “Sherry” my mom called me, and the “Anne” my father and friends called me.
“I can put it on my credit card, and then pay it off in January.” It sounded reasonable to me.
“No.”
I tried to stare him down for a few seconds, but my talent is the cold shoulder. When I looked down, he explained.
“Sweetie, you know that’s the kind of thinking that we’ve been trying to pay off for the last year … and will be paying off for another six months.” See how annoying he is? Too reasonable, too right.
“So what’s another month? The credit card’s in my name, buster. I’ll do what I want.” I meant to sass in a teasing way, to lighten the mood and my words, but the surprised anger I felt at being told ‘no’ made me sound bitchy. I turned around and busied my hands with the dishes, pretending that he wouldn’t really consider telling me no … not again, not in all seriousness. I focused on projecting dismissive confidence.
The only problem: my heart was beating a million miles a minute. Greg came up behind me, breathed softly in my ear. “Put the dishes down.”
My hair stood up on end. We’d only been married a couple months, and he could turn me on at the drop of a hat. He knew how I loved it when he got … well … dominant … in the bedroom. It both embarrassed me and thrilled him that I’d blush head to toe with pleasure at the simplest of orders. Only a few weeks ago, he had come in right as I was ready to crawl into bed. He had grabbed my shoulder tightly, standing behind me.
“Someone didn’t make the bed this morning.”
I know I had blushed, and a second later I jumped and squealed. He had done something he had never done before: he had swatted my bottom! I had jumped around then, crying indignantly, “That hurt!”
His response had been a small smile, and a “Make the bed” command with arms folded on his chest. He leaned against the dresser, making himself comfortable so he could watch the war going on within myself.
Eventually, obedience had won out. It was my chore to do, and we had split the chores fifty-fifty. Besides, that adorable grin had been peeking out under his serious demeanor, and his hair had been tousled in that adorable boy sort of way—except he was the most manly man I had ever met. It was an absolutely irresistible mix. I had only started to make the bed though, when he had smiled and scooped me up in his arms, showering me with kisses. It was only a matter of seconds before his hand had found evidence of my arousal, much to my mortification.
At this moment, however, I didn’t think it was my arousal he was seeking. I spent a long time putting the dishes down, and slowly rinsed my hands, dried them off, and then hung up the rag on the spigot. Finally turning to face him, I crossed my arms on my chest and tried to keep the belligerence off my face.
“Come sit with me in front of the fire.” Greg put his arm around me and led me into the living room just like he would lead an errant child to the principal’s office for discipline. You see, Greg is actually Mr. Henderson, the assistant principal of our local elementary school. Give him two more years, and he’ll be the principal. That was Greg; he always rose to the top.
I could still beat him at any computer game, though. I took great comfort in that.
He took me on his lap and wrapped his arms around me, placing a kiss on my forehead. “Remember when you told me you were an old-fashioned kind of girl? That you expected to be cherished and courted, as you so cutely put it, for the rest of your life?” He pushed my nose as if it were a button, and I couldn’t stifle a giggle.
“Yeah.” It had been the night he proposed. How could I forget? Bended knee and everything. I smiled at him.
He smiled back, like a boy proud he had just scored his first goal. “Remember what I told you after that?”
I squirmed a little at that. It struck my memory, what he was referring to, but it made me blush. I didn’t feel like admitting I remembered. I shrugged, studying the design on his shirt.
“Sherry Anne,” he growled in a voice full of warning of—something. Of what, precisely, I didn’t know.
I shrugged again and said, “I dunno.” I fiddled with one of his buttons and shrugged a third time. “Maybe you said that you were old-fashioned too.” I stopped there, hoping that’d be enough.
Greg just growled again.
I bit my lip, and managed to prevent myself from shrugging this time. “You may have said that you expected obedience from your wife …” I was blushing again, and he took my hand gently away from his button; one more twist and it would surely pop off. My voice dropped to a whisper. “… that you would be head of your house …” I looked up at him for approval.
Not yet. “And …” he prompted.
I went on reluctantly, whispering. “That there would be consequences for disobedience.” I gnawed my lip. That conversation had been sexy; it had given me all sorts of warm fuzzies and tingles at the time. The repetition of it, though, gave me nervous butterflies in my stomach.
“And the consequences?” he asked.
I looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t say.”
“Yes, I’m sure I did.”
“No! You didn’t! You stood me up and patted me on the bottom like a child—” I said this a little bitterly, because it had annoyed me at the time. “—and then told me to go get the champagne in the fridge!”
It was the first time I ever saw him bewildered in the two and a half years I’d known him. “Those weren’t pats, those were a few warning spanks. To let you know what would happen, if you disobeyed me.” The expression in his face had become unreadable, and he stared down at me.
But my mouth had gone dry. “Spanks?” was all I could ask.
“Yes,” he said. “Spanks.”
Greg looked at me as if waiting for me to speak, but my brain was in a state of shock. “Spank?” I asked again, and my voice was pretty squeaky. There are times I’ve gotten so nervous that my voice squeaked too high to make an audible sound. I wasn’t that high … yet.
“Was I unclear?” He said it as if it were a rhetorical question, as if the thought of him being unclear was impossible.
My shock finally found voice, though. “Hell yes, you were unclear!” He flinched a bit at my language, but my voice got even shriller. “What the fuck—you’re a fucking wife-beater?!” Then the tears started pouring out, and I started sobbing. Was my safe, perfect world ending? Had it all been just a dream, an act he put on until he got the wedding ring on my finger? My sobs became broken-hearted cries. In retrospect, it may have been a bit histrionic, but … I’m pretty emotional.
Through the haze of my cries, I heard him reassuring me, hugging me close. “Nononononono, sweetie.” Greg rocked me, kissing me all over my face, trying to dry off the downpour of tears. “I’d never hurt you, not for the world. Not ever.” He pushed my face into his chest—it was comforting, despite the fact I could barely breathe. “You’re my baby, my precious. I will never hit you; I’d never even spank you, not without your consent.”
I looked up at him, then asked a bit tremulously, “So you won’t hit me? If I say I won’t consent?”
Greg looked disturbed when I said the word, ‘hit,’ but he shook his head. “I’d never spank you without your consent.”
And that was that.
Or so I thought.
To read the rest of Our First Christmas, and many more holiday-themed spanking stories:
I’ve fantasized about spanking all my life. Inspired by a contest at 
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