Of Tattle Tale Legal Pads (Part 1)

[bratwriter]

(Author Note: This was 'published' on a different spanking/BDSM/fetish site (guess which one) and these are some of my favorite characters to write about so I thought it might be fun to add it here as the first (and second) that I put on this particular site. Please enjoy. (originally written 2014).

The strong, sweet rather intoxicating smell of coffee brewing met me as I descended the stairs, stretching long arms over my head in a gratifying streeeeetch.

It was slightly odd that I could smell the coffee, normally I was the first one to rise since my husband liked to burn the midnight oil as he whittled away, turning his writer’s block into a beautiful masterpiece of a story.

Not that I was disappointed, mind you, I enjoyed early mornings, well…. Early for Chris, anyways. I laughed at my small joke... Which is fine, it was a small laugh.

I entered the kitchen and saw my man standing there, a cup in his hands, his face in the cup as he took a long sip of the still warm brew. I could see the steam rising and fogging up his glasses a little. He must have been writing, he only wore his glasses when he wrote.

I moved to stand beside him, my hands on my hips.

“You’re up rather early,” I told him… in case he didn't know. I grinned before he could answer and teased. “Or should I say up late?”

Chris shook his head. “No. Early. Have a cup.”

I tilted my head to the side. One word answers were absolutely not his style. But still, I moved to the pot and poured myself a cup, then slowly and slightly unsure I finished preparing my own wake-up jolt of joe.

I turned every once in a while to see Chris watching me, but when I would say something about it he shrugged and shook his head.

This was getting weird.

And annoying.
Finally, I was sipping at my cream-colored refreshment when Chris spoke again. “I've been reading some of your writing, Izzy”
I could feel my forehead knit together… almost literally… like someone had come around with needle and thread and pulled the sides of my forehead together.

I said my husband is a writer, and he is. I am not. Not really anyways. I dabble where he is business. I write a few short stories here and there, but nothing grand, I’ve never truly thought my small candle had anything like the brilliance of my husband (not that I was biased or anything.)

What was odd about what Chris said was how he said it, and why for that matter. Chris read my stories when I was finished. They were never long, and I loved to hear what he had to say about them, both the good and the bad. I wasn’t sure why he felt the need to tell me he read anything of mine, and more to the direct point I hadn’t written anything new lately.

I shook my head. “Chris, what are you talking about?”

My husband took a sip and pointed to our small dinette table where one of those legal pads lay in the very center. My heart jumped as I recognized the papers.

Oh no. No… no.
I moved over slowly, almost certain the legal pad would grow legs, do a dance on the table, spit a raspberry at us, then run away.
I almost wished it had done just that.

But it didn’t. It stayed right there.

I placed my coffee cup on the table, too concerned I would drop it and make a mess everywhere to hold it any longer, and slowly sat down on a chair at the table.

I was quiet for a moment as I thought about what this meant.

And what did it mean? Talk about your million dollar question.

We have been married for ten years.

Met in college- he a senior, me a freshman- dated, moved in together and got married in the span of fifteen. I know my husband, he is my best friend, my confidant, my rock and my complete and honest love. I have told him everything and I’m about 99.99% sure he’s told me everything as well.

There was just that .001% of mine that I had never told Chris. Something I had kept to myself for so many years, except for websites, blogs, and chat-rooms where you could hide behind a screen name.

“So. Spanking?”

He said the word as a question, almost like someone who had a new haircut would get the question: ‘So, sideburns?’ Or ‘So, Mohawk?’
I started to chew on my lower lip trying to decide how to answer his one-word question.

As I sat there thinking, I could hear Chris moving behind me. He appeared beside me with the coffee carafe in his hand, poured some into my cup to top it off, disappeared to put it back (I could hear the telltale sounds), then he was back in my peripheral, then regular vision as he took the other chair off to the left of me.

Chris set his cup down and reached across the table to pick up the legal pad with the handwritten stories scrawled all over.

His green eyes gazed down at the writing, as he scanned the words he finally spoke. “Please. Answer me. I want to know what’s… what this is all about.”
I began to shake my head again. “It’s not really about anything, Chris.”
He raised his eyes from the legal pad to look levelly at me. “That’s not true. And you know that. Explain it to me, please. I would truly like to know.”
I shook my head a bit harder. Why was this so difficult to say to my husband? That I found spanking interesting? That I wanted what I had written down in black or blue ink.

He spoke again. “You… like this?” He gestured to the papers again.
I slowly nodded. “Yes. I do.”
His eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. “To be hit?”

I couldn't help but laugh out loud. “No. Not hit.” I swallowed a lump in my throat, I always had a terrible time saying the word, but managed this time fairly easily. “It’s not hitting, Chris, it’s spanking.”

Now Chris was shaking his head. “I don’t know if I understand this at all.”
I gave a small sigh. “Some people just…” I shrugged. “Like it.”
“To be… spanked?”
An odd tingle went through my stomach as Chris said the word, I gazed at him for a moment thinking about the times when I would fantasize about him saying that word to me. Threatening and promising the outcome due to some sort of misbehavior.

I was nodding now. “Yes.” Slowly warming into the conversation even though a small voice was telling me that this was a very weird conversation.

I told the voice to shut up or I would hogtie it and gag it.
“These stories,” Chris tapped on the paper again. “the husband or boyfriend, or whatever is doing that to the woman. Is that what you want?”
I could still see the confusion in Chris’s eyes, but I must say the fact that he was asking these questions, trying to understand the how and why of it all, made me love him so much more.

I slowly nodded again. “Yes, Chris. I do. More than you could ever know.”

“What if… what if I am not able to do that?”
I stared at my husband again, not quite sure how to take that question. “Chris, we've been together for fifteen years. I've never asked you before. I love you now, and I’ll love you no matter what. It’s hard sometimes for a vanilla…”
“Vanilla?” An eyebrow quirked up as Chris interrupted me.

“Sorry. Yes. That’s what someone who isn't in the… uh… lifestyle is called.”

“Lifestyle? Do people do this? A lot?”

I shook my head again. My brain was starting to feel rattled from all the head shaking. “A lot? I have no idea. There’s a good amount of people in certain aspects of it.” I started counting on my fingers as I listed some, “There’s BDSM, there’s D. S., which is short for Dominant and Submissive. There’s H O H, that’s head of household.” I stopped and peeked at Chris. “That’s, that’s the one I want.”
His head titled sideways like a dog hearing an odd sound. “Head of household. And that would be…. Me?”

I nodded. My mouth was getting dry so I picked up the coffee cup and took a long sip. It also kept me from talking any more, and let Chris chew on this new insight to his wife.

Finally, he spoke again. “I have two questions.”

I gestured for him to continue and he did.

“First. Why haven’t you told me before? Why hide this?” He tapped the legal pad again.

I didn’t point out that his first question was two questions.

“It’s not quite that easy to explain. And I didn't exactly hide it.” The first was completely true, the second slightly true.

I had it in a drawer we keep locked. It holds the few handwritten manuscripts Chris has kept, which is why it’s locked. It also holds some loose-leaf paper and a sheaf or two of legal pads, like the one that now lay innocently on the kitchen table.
This innocent little note pad was also underneath everything. But since we both had a key and the drawer mostly held his novels… well…
Chris agreed. “No. I guess it wasn’t exactly hidden.” He was quiet again and I waited for him to speak, he did after another long pause.

“How does this exactly work?”

My head raised so fast I heard a crack as my neck popped. “Excuse me?”
“How… does… this… work?” He said the words slower as if just that would make it easier for me to get.

It didn’t.

I gazed, I stared, I peered at my husband. Looking to see where this new person came from, not at first realizing that Chris was probably looking at me with the same intensity, wondering where I had materialized from and what exactly I had done with his ‘normal’ wife.

Finally, I answered the only way I knew how. I shook my head, for the one-hundredth time it seemed. “I can’t exactly answer that. You should probably look into it yourself, Chris. I’m not asking you to do this. But… well, if you would really like to know.” I breathed a very long breath, then said. “I’ll try to help in any way that I know how.”

During my short monologue, Chris was quiet again. After I finished he sat there, still for a very long time. I wasn't. I picked up my coffee, sipped, put it down. Picked up my coffee, sipped put it down. I shuffled my feet underneath me. I tapped on the handle of my coffee cup and the top of the table. I even picked up the legal pad, that evil, tattletale of a legal pad, and leafed through it a little bit, but then got annoyed and went back to picking up the coffee cup, sipping and placing it back down.

I had just placed it back down when Chris spoke. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I looked at him, my eyes matching up with his green.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

Okay.

That’s a short word with many definitions, but it fit. Perfectly for this.

Chris was… okay with learning about it, if not doing it just yet. Over the next few months, I introduced my husband to the lifestyle that I had fantasized over for years. I showed him the differences in certain aspects, different names, different ways of things. I showed him the few controversies that are out there.

We even played around with it a little bit in our bedroom.

He was slowly getting the hang of it I thought, but It was a lot for one man to take in, and once or twice I was afraid, if that was the right word, that he would just throw up his hands and say ‘Nope. Forget it. I am done.’, but he didn't. At all.

In fact, after about three months later of looking into this Chris came to me and told me, yes, told me, to write out a list of rules I thought I should have.

When I tried to tell him I had no idea what I should write I was told that I ‘better get to thinking.’.

It wasn't until one day about six months in.

Chris had been working very hard on his latest novel, we had taken a sort of hiatus in the research of HOH and DD for him, we were about five and a half months in so I suppose he deserved some sort of vacation from all this newness.

I was feeling lonely. Nothing huge, but I work full-time as a manager and it takes up a lot of my own time, and of course, he stays home to work as he can, but just because he is home, it doesn't mean I see him a whole lot. Truth be told, within the last six months was more than I had seen Chris in a very long time.

I don’t begrudge my husband of his occupation, I love the way he works and the why of it. I don’t mind really that he sometimes holes up in our den for literally days at a time where I never see him.

But, I had gotten used to being with him so much. I was spoiled already and I wanted to keep that.

So, I did what I usually never did even before our voyaging together into the DD world, while Chris was still typing away I, in a small black dress, by the way, sauntered into his den and went towards his computer, a laptop that never sat on his lap nor did it ever move much.

Chris glanced up at me, gave a small smile, then went back to the computer screen and went back to typing away furiously.

“Chris?”
“Mm… gimme a sec, babe.” He didn't even look up.
I waited literally a second, all but saying it aloud. One... Mis..ah…sip..pii.

“Chriis!” I was striking the best pose I knew.

This time he glanced up, but he didn't smile. “Izzy, please. You know I don’t like to be interrupted while writing.”

I was getting annoyed, and hurt, even though I knew this. I had known this for fifteen years.

I tried to pout playfully. “I miss you, Chris.”
The smile returned. “I miss you, too, love, but I need to keep going. I have a deadline and I have to finish it.”

“Just a couple minutes, please?”
Chris shook his head, that smile fading just a touch. “No. Izz, please, go back upstairs. I’ll be done in a little bit.”

I huffed finally mad enough. “No, you won’t!” I stomped my foot, and when I did I managed (don’t ask me how because I will NEVER be able to tell you how for as long as I may live. But I was standing near Chris’s desk, underneath, rather too close if you ask me, is the power strip that powers the lamp, one of those coasters to keep your coffee warm, and… of course… his laptop.) I managed to step on that, and the power switch to turn everything off.

We stood there a minute in the dark trying to figure out what had just happened when I hear Chris speak in the darkness. He doesn't sound mad, not in the least, just…disappointed, and I can hear him getting closer as he speaks. “Oh, Izz, you hit the power strip.”
And as his sentence ends the room is lightened again, and I can see the laptop popping back into life.

I should feel sorry for doing that. I know I should, but I’m not. I’m glad, now there’s a moment we can share. I try again.

“Okay, now it’ll take a moment for it to come back up. Please, Chris, come upstairs with me.”
Chris looks from the booting computer up to me, he is not smiling and he shakes his head. “No.”
That’s it. “Dammit, Chris! I hope… I hope this book sucks!”
Anger flashes through my husbands’ Irish green eyes as he stares at me. “Excuse me?”
I’m not done. Not by a long shot. “You heard me! I hope that that drivel is nothing but dried up prose….” I take a breath, and let out. “Fuck you!”
Chris stares at me a moment, then calmly speaks. “Isabella Rose,” Where the **HELL* did he learn that one?* “Go upstairs to our room. Wait for me there.”
I hesitated - even though I’d been told exactly what to do I was at a loss of what to do.
Chris rectified that with a simple. “Now.”