Heart Song Anthology Carolyn Faulkner (rooftoppers txt) 📖

one had any fun, or any sex, of course. It wasn’t the best Valentine’s Day I’d ever spent, but it was certainly the most boring – until Monday morning, when the snow stopped and the sun came out. We had all started packing and quarreling over who had to take Janet home. I argued that Neil and I had brought her, so someone else could damned well take her back – or leave her there for the wolves, for all I cared. We’d take Charlie. We were still in a heated discussion about Janet when several piercing screams came from Janet’s room at the back of the cabin. The shrieking was punctuated by shouts in a loud, gruff voice bearing a thick, Italian accent – Dominic, the furnace guy, with whom I’d already spent two nights in close, garlic-scented proximity, under a handmade quilt. Dominic weighed in at around three hundred and fifty pounds, but it was mostly muscle, except for a truly phenomenal beer belly.

Neil was the first one down the hall, and he took out the door like a true street cop, with one solid kick. We all piled into the room in back of him and looked inside the bathroom, where Dominic had been working on a pipe. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, now, with his great knees parted and his prodigious stomach trying to burst out of his flannel work shirt. Janet was sprawled across his widespread knees, with her hair hopelessly tangled and black mascara running down her cheeks. She was stark naked except for a pair of satin thong panties that drooped around her ankles, and there’s really no polite way of saying this, but Janet’s ample butt was the color of a big, ripe tomato – two ripe tomatoes, actually. And although Janet was still screeching, it was obvious that Dominic the furnace guy had already finished his work. He had just done a workmanlike job of setting Janet’s ass on fire – with his big, callused hand.

“All I come in here for was to check the pipes,” Dominic explained, dumping Janet unceremoniously into the bathtub. “But this one here starts in smackin’ me over the head with her pocketbook and callin’ me a pig and yellin’ to get the fuck out. She ain’t got no respect, is what it is. A good husband woulda fixed that kinda crap real quick. One of you fellas her husband?”

All the fellas lucky enough to not be Janet’s husband shook their heads and backed out of the bathroom politely. Like the gentlemen they were, they all averted their eyes as they left, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to grab a look at Janet’s flaming buttocks. All except Charlie, who stood in the doorway and studied the scene for a full minute, ignoring Janet’s shrieks to get the fuck out and close the fucking door. Janet had always had a way with words.

The ride home was quiet. Neil drove, Charlie slept most of the way, and I pretended to sleep. I was wondering what it was like for Joe and Sandy, having to drive Janet all the way back to the city. And then I began wondering how long it would be before Neil and I had our own little discussion about the hideous weekend.

It took just under nine minutes. Three minutes to park in the garage and close the garage door. Three minutes to haul our bags inside, and three minutes for Neil to take off his coat and settle himself comfortably on the side of the bed. At that point, I began backing up. Maybe I was hoping to get to the door and make a run for it, and maybe I was just trying to put off the inevitable for as long as possible. But the truth is, I never actually run from being spanked. In the first place, there’s not much point. It’s not so much that Neil can outrun me, which he can, of course. He’s just extremely patient. And if he has to sit there and wait for me to come back and face the medicine, he will, for as long as it takes. And I’ve always figured that while he’s waiting, he’s gaining strength, and probably thinking about adding a few more swats to the grand total he originally had in mind. So, that night, I wasn’t trying to run away from a spanking. I was trying to summon the courage to stay there and face what I knew without one tiny little shred of a doubt was going to be a hard spanking. A very hard spanking. A monumental spanking. A spanking for the ages, maybe.

And guess what? I was absolutely right.

You see, most of the time, my spankings are on the symbolic side. Embarrassing and unpleasant, and always painful enough to get my complete attention, but by no means unbearable. Even my yelps are more for Neil’s benefit than anything else, not that he’s ever been fooled. We both know the rules, though. Just about the time I reach the point of squirming and yelping for real, Neil usually delivers one or two really serious smacks, and then stops. The lingering sting in my rear is sufficient to get his point across, and to make me not risk a repeat performance right away.

But occasionally, the rules change. And on these occasions, we both know it. I usually know it because Neil starts to remove his belt, or finds himself a weapon – usually my wooden hairbrush.

These spankings are different. They’re longer, harder, and there’s very little discussion during them. No joking around or smart aleck remarks on my part. Because it’s not funny, and it hurts. We both know our parts in this little domestic drama. Neil is genuinely upset, and I’m genuinely sorry about whatever it is I’ve done. When it’s over, I believe that in some way, we both feel better – or maybe just emotionally exhausted.

In a few seconds,