Taking One for the Team

Here's a fun story from my treasury.

My husband Randy is an enthusiastic football fan. He loves the game in every form and at every level. Therefore, it came as no surprise when he announced that we were invited to join a small gathering to watch the big game. The site was the home of Frank and Joan, a couple we’ve known for many years. The game pitted our alma mater against their arch-rivals. It promised to be a fun afternoon, as long as the right team prevailed.

We’ve shared various activities with Frank and Joan since our respective kids were small. This occasion was a little bit special because Frank was showing off his brand new basement sports bar. I had heard about this huge construction project from Joan for months. This game was to be the grand unveiling.

The game started at noon, but Randy was up bright and early to watch ESPN and get psyched. I’m not quite certain how he expected to help the team by sitting in a basement and yelling at a television, but I do know that nothing good would come from asking so impertinent a question.

Around ten thirty, he wandered upstairs and into the bedroom where I was folding sheets. He was clad in school colors from head to toe. As he reminds me, fan is short for fanatic. It’s especially true in his case.

“How about a good luck spanking?” I just stared at him, unsure how best to respond.

“No, really. It’s for the team.” OK, now I was genuinely amused. He’s issued spankings based upon fragmentary logic before, but this was, by far, the goofiest concept ever. I simply had to hear the full explanation.

“Now, let me get this straight. You want to use my bottom to make a ritual sacrifice to the football gods? Is that what I just heard?”

“Um, yeah! That’s right.” By this time, we are both laughing. The sheer lunacy was somehow oddly appealing.

For lack of a better idea, I pulled off my jeans and positioned myself across Randy’s lap. I was looking forward to a playful spanking, but those hopes dimmed when Randy stretched to retrieve our dogleg hairbrush from the drawer of his bedside table. At that moment, it occurred to me that the mighty gods of the gridiron may not be so easily sated.

For the first minute or so, my dear husband rubbed the back of the wooden brush in a circular motion against my lower curves. It felt cool and smooth against my skin. Were it a different object, I might even have found the sensation to be relaxing. When the first blow struck, it was quick, though not harsh. I felt the sting rise as succeeding swats gradually increased in intensity. To his credit, Randy warmed me up slowly rather than whacking away with his usual abandon. However, within a couple of minutes, he was briskly slapping my seat and snapping his wrist to maximize the force of each impact.

By the time Randy declared the task complete, my poor bottom felt as though it was glowing. As I regained my composure, I realized how thorough this spanking had been. I vigorously rubbed my punished globes in a fruitless effort to stem the relentless pain. This was an ache that was destined to stay with me all day long.

Randy mentioned something about getting to the party and I shot him a look that strongly suggested that he wasn’t finished yet. A well executed spanking supercharges my libido as nothing else can. After so many years together, he should know this. Fortunately for both of us, he got my drift. Quickly, he was out of his authorized team logo apparel and on top of me. What transpired next was not sweet, tender, slow lovemaking. This was raunchy, hot, fast sex. I loved it. He pounded me with a quick pace and deep thrusts. Successive climaxes left me breathless. Just about the time I was ready to announce I could handle no more, my lover unleashed a shuddering completion deep within me. Wow!

We embraced on the bed for several minutes before Randy spied his clock radio. The digital display read 11:25AM. He sprang from the bed obviously concerned that we might be late. He grimaced when I told him that I wanted a shower, but allowed that it was probably not a bad idea. We took quick, efficient, separate showers. We got dressed and headed to the party.

When we arrived at Joan and Frank’s house, it was already quarter after noon. Joan answered the door. She looked harried, but was glad to see us. She said the game was just starting and directed us down the basement stairs. Frank’s home sports bar was every bit as colossal as the stories we had been hearing. It featured a semi-circular bar that faced a giant flat screen TV. It had the customary beer tap built into the bar and lots of sports memorabilia displayed on the walls. Frank welcomed us and then returned his attention to the screen for the next play. Another couple was there. We had met them before, but we didn’t know them well.

“Pull up a stool and join us,” Frank bellowed during a commercial break. He was a tall barrel-chested man with a booming voice and a thick salt-and-pepper beard. “The beer is cold and the nachos are hot. Help yourself.”

Randy was interested in the game, but almost as intrigued by the sports bar room. He complimented Frank on various aspects of the design. “What I think I like best, though, are these hardwood barstools.” He looked right at me when he said it. Sure enough, the barstools were the only seating in the room with a view of the television. They weren’t padded in any way. The top was a flat, round, hard piece of wood. These stools definitely were not designed for use by anyone whose posterior had been recently spanked with a hairbrush. When I looked back at Randy, he was grinning. I rolled my eyes and sat on a stool.

I was uncomfortable immediately upon making contact with the stool and it just became worse over time. The diameter of stool seat was considerably less than the width of my bottom. Consequently, my full weight rested directly on the sorest regions. Shifting in place didn’t help at all. A couple of times, Randy looked over at me. He may not have been snickering at my predicament, but it sure seemed as though he was.

At the beginning of the second quarter, I announced my intention to go assist Joan in the kitchen. Frank assured me that she had everything well under control, but I went upstairs anyway. In the kitchen, I discovered that Joan had just finished assembling sandwiches on a tray. She asked me if I would be willing to carry them downstairs. That wasn’t quite what I had planned, but I couldn’t decline. I ended back downstairs and again atop that infernal stool.

During the course of the game, I found numerous reasons to be anywhere but perched atop one of those hardwood barstools. I’m quite certain that Joan had more offers of assistance than she needed. The game turned out to be an exciting one. In fact, the outcome was decided on the final play. Before that play, Randy came over and whispered in my ear that he would bet me another spanking that our team would stop their opponents and win the game. I started to inquire about what I could expect if it went the other way, but I didn’t get the words out in time. Our team prevented their rivals from scoring and won the game. All three (grown) men cheered and whooped.

Later, after we returned home, we were watching some television. I was lying on the couch on my tummy. Randy was seated in the King’s chair. He looked over at me and said, “Are you ready to pay off on your bet yet?” I almost screamed “What bet?” Good sense prevailed for a change and I merely mumbled, “Yeah, right.” When he came over and sat on the floor next to couch, I wondered if he truly intended to administer a second spanking. To my relief, he merely rubbed my throbbing bottom. This felt great, despite the unavoidable soreness.

“So you don’t like Frank’s hardwood stools?”

“No, I do not.” I said with a pout.

“I’ll bet I could get him to tell me where he bought them…”

“Not interested.”

“You know, Hon, in a close game, every bit of positive karma helps.”

I was beginning to detect the genesis of a problematic tradition. “You can watch your games. Just leave my backside out of it, OK?”

“What about the really big games?”

“OK, if your team makes it to the Super Bowl, I’ll take a spanking on their behalf.”

“But they’re a college team. They can’t play in the Super Bowl.”

“Well then,” I bravely announced, “I believe we have an agreement!”

“...Until the next time you need a spanking, that is.”

All I can say is that it’s a good thing I enjoy my spankings. Otherwise, this routine might grow tedious.

Keywords: spanking, hairbrush spanking, spanking stories