Friday, February 12, 2010


Warning: This story came from something I saw that made me want to specifically write a certain mood. This wouldn't necessarily fit cleanly into the context of a discipline relationship but then not all ideas and themes do, and sometimes I want to write them anyway ;) This is less a story than a photograph, the context isn't important.

Title: Bedtime
Author: Ranger

He was lying on the rug on his stomach, head on his hand, buried in the evening paper, his long legs stretching out until his feet nearly brushed mine. I hadn’t seen him glance at the clock- he was doing much better than I was.  I’d been watching its inexorable ticking for the last twenty minutes and there was no escaping the fact any longer.
I marked my place in my book with one finger, hating to disturb him, determined to see this through. My poor baby. Who meant so well. And could get himself in so deep.
“All right, honey, it’s nine. Go on up and get ready for bed.”
He looked up and turned around towards me, giving me a look of mingled protest and appeal. Without a word, he wasn’t exactly arguing, but I still shook my head at him.
“Go on.  I’ll be up when you’re ready.”
He looked down, flushing slightly, but he got up. Slowly, uncurling his long legs and folding the paper with all the time and carefulness he could muster, laying it carefully in the magazine rack before he went out into the hall. I heard his usual short yank at the front door as he passed it, checking it was locked and secure as he did every night, then his slow and unwilling footsteps heading upstairs.
I wasn’t enjoying this any more than he was.
I marked and closed my book, laid it aside and put my glasses on top of it. Got up and wandered into the kitchen, turning off the light in the lounge. Boiled the kettle, made myself a cup of tea I wouldn’t finish, stood at the kitchen door for several minutes looking out at the garden in the darkness and the glow of the security light we fitted a few weekends ago now the nights are starting to draw in. It had been a nice afternoon of ladders, companionable teasing over the power drill and the satisfaction of a job on our home done. I had a vivid memory of standing beside him when we were done, my elbow propped on his shoulder as we looked up at it. Of sitting on the swing together and cuddling in the last of the afternoon sun while we recovered the energy to get up and put away the ladder and tools.
The bathroom light went out upstairs, I heard the click.
I took another mouthful of tea and poured the rest down the sink. Checked the back door lock. Turned out the light. And slowly headed upstairs.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing pyjamas. Red pyjamas, vaguely tartaned, his head down, his hands palm down on the duvet either side of him. He’d brushed his hair as part of his preparations for bed; it was hanging straight and shining under the electric light, dropping over his forehead. In the way that hits me straight to the heart because it makes him look about ten and a half if I look at his eyes and not the six foot and a bit around them. One definite part of my man that is very definitely my little boy.
The room had the faint lingering scent of the cotton spray on the sheets and the curtains were drawn which casts a reddish light across the white and grey of the quilt. I went past him to click the bedside light on, then across the room to turn off the overhead light, which took away the electric harshness to a much softer and more muted glow. He lifted his head to shoot me another look of appeal, somewhat embarrassed if I read his mouth and the lines on his brow right, but he couldn’t help it escaping past his lips. Even if it was quietly, as if in the hope I wouldn’t notice he was arguing.
“Please? I won’t again, I’ve got it now, I promise. Really.”

”I believe you, honey.” I took a seat on the edge of the bed beside him, keeping my voice quiet. Gentle. I did believe him; that was very far from the issue. And this wasn’t about being angry with him either, there wasn’t one drop of exasperation in me.
“But I said a week and you know I meant it. You need to remember.”

”I willllll………” he was trying valiantly not to whine and his head was down again, partly in denial that he was pleading.
“Come on,” I said softly.
He didn’t move for a minute. Then with a wince and somewhat muted and wordless mutter that was also definitely a whine, he got up and his hands went to his hips. It took him an unnecessary minute of fumbling there, and I didn’t interfere, letting him take his own time. I’m not sure he found that at all helpful, in a way he might well have preferred me to grab him and make it easier for him by doing it myself. But eventually he slid his pyjama trousers down. They dropped around his legs, around the angles of his calves, and slowly, head still down, he took the last step to me and bent down across my lap.
I put my hands on him to guide him into position, settling him a little further over as always than he was actually comfortable being, the last inch that bent him acutely, lifting his toes from the floor. He wriggled a little, trying for a few seconds to negotiate a less vulnerable position, then gave way and lay quietly, his chin on his arms on the quilt. I rubbed his back once, gently, then put a hand on the tail of his pyjama shirt, pushing it up the hollow of his back to bare his bottom completely. Still a definite pink instead of its usual white, and I had no doubt either still sore. He cast one look back at me, eyes dark under his tumbled fringe with something between plaintive and reproachful protest, and apprehension as I rested one hand across both cheeks and the other across his waist.
“I AM sorryyyyyyyyyy………”

”I know.”
I rubbed the cheeks under my hand, comforting, which I suppose rationally made no sense, but he’s mine and I love him and however much he deserves it, it doesn’t stop me sympathising with him. Then I took my eyes away from his and he turned back around, his back tensing, his legs shifting nervously against mine as they had every night this week.
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. And three days still yet to go of this ritual beyond tonight.
I slapped his upturned bottom firmly; firmly enough to elicit a sharp, hissed yelp and a jerk, mirrored as I slapped the other cheek just as sharply. For a moment or two I moved steadily, from side to side, an unbroken and slow rhythm punctuated by his yelps, hisses and occasional jerks as one caught him particularly effectively, the frequency of them increasing as the colour of the cheeks under my hand began to darken.
His hips began to twist a little in somewhat spastic jumps and turns and his upper body pressed against my arm as he lifted up onto his elbows. I didn’t let my arm move, holding him no tighter but not letting him shift from his position. We were nowhere near done here and he knew it well. I let my right hand begin to fall harder and to pick its target more carefully, picking out the spots that rouse the keener yelps, the more vigorous kicks. The upper half of each flank, the lower curve where his buttock melts into thigh. The repetition at each spot that changes his sounds quickly from hushed hisses to far less reserved cries and moves from jumps and twitches to active moves to turn away or to reflexively put his hands behind him.
He stifled them all- I saw all the movements born and thwarted, the jolt of his hand thrust out to the side, just prevented from reaching back to grab mine. Only once did he put it right back, a kick and twist in response to a particularly acute slap and a hand laid palm outwards, fingers spread to shield his buttock. I said nothing. Just waited, moving my hand upwards to rub across the tense small of his back.
For a long moment he didn’t move and his breathing was shuddering, I could hear and feel it against my knees and stomach. Then he slowly moved his hand away and once more went limp across my lap. I once more, just as hard, began to spank, covering his now red bottom with methodical care. From there I began to hear the shake in his breathing, feel the tremble through his shoulders and chest that told me he was beginning to lose the battle with tears. I slapped still harder at that cue, the last extra inch I could lift my arm, concentrating on the lower curves of his cheeks and the very tops of his thighs. One or two sharp slaps there and I heard his voice break instantly, a juddering collapse into tears that opened out into sobbing as I followed up that entry. Quickly, thank God. It hadn’t taken long to bring him to this point tonight.
I continued a moment longer, long enough to hear the steady, free flowing tears that gave me clear evidence of remembering and continuing to be sorry for what had been done. That was what this was about, this act of discipline. Not exactly punishment, that point had been dealt with and passed on Saturday night when we first discussed this. This was a commitment to reminding. Remembering. This quiet ritual, something beyond just a simple transaction. Something more than repayment on an even balance sheet. Not punishment, but discipline. The discipline that we’d made a commitment to live by, codes we kept as a priority. Rules we were prepared to stand behind, even when it wasn’t easy.
He was shaky, crying quietly and convulsively when I helped him to his feet, twisting his hands in the flannel of his pyjamas in an effort not to put his hands behind him and rub. His hair was in his eyes and his face was tearstained. I got up too and he came into my arms, laying his head against my shoulder, leaning against me while I hugged him, rubbing his back in silent sympathy. When I kissed his forehead he shut his eyes, drew in a breath and moved silently towards the bed, letting me draw the duvet down for him as he climbed in. Turning on his side, his pyjamas still lowered, his bottom bare and scarlet as he pushed the quilt away. He was going to want some time to snuffle, to rub and to calm himself, some solitude to re-gather himself before I came to bed. I stooped and once more kissed his forehead, a kiss that asked nothing of him but made clear that he was loved. Beloved.
He didn’t move as I went out, leaving the door ajar behind me where the dimmed light cast a pool out onto the landing.
~The End~
Copyright Ranger 2010


Anonymous said...

This is all kinds of gorgeous. Gabby

Anonymous said...

Such an odd story-- erotic and yet, not. I have a pet who enjoys spanking purely for the pleasure/pain of it-- no misdeeds necessary. The care and concern comes through here loudly, which is, of course, what the D/s relationship is about, yet, it seems clear to me that this sort of thing wouldn't work on every pet. Something to think on, I suppose, which is never a bad thing.

Anonymous said...

Thats the way I would like to be loved, I could stand the spanking as long as I was loved like Rolf loves him.

Most of the artwork on the blog is by Canadian artist Steve Walker.

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