"It's Your Job"

                                   Let's start at the beginning.  
          You need to understand something before this story is told.

                                            "I Hate Winter."


I say it several times a day.  As far as I am concerned, there should only be 3½ seasons in a year.  Early Spring - Lots of Summer - Extended Fall - and a very abbreviated Christmas Season.  As soon as the Christmas tree comes down, Spring should start poking up in the garden the very next day.
 

Sam had a gas fireplace insert with a blower installed in our living room - with a remote control.  He figured that would fix the problem.  I could keep one room in the house as warm as I wanted.  He could retreat to the study when he couldn't stand the heat any longer.

 

 Must confess to have once melted the rubber soles of my slippers  while trying to warm up my feet by the fireplace.  Sam came running in because he smelled something burning.  

                             "Not to worry, honey!  I'm just fine."
  
Then there's the electric mattress pad on the bed.  Dual controls so there are no fights.  Sam has never turned on his side.  Mine is set for "High" about an hour before bedtime, although I turn it down when I am done with my Kindle and ready to sleep.


Coldest of all are my hands and feet.  Ten little icy fingers and ten little icy toes.  One of the best ways to warm them up again is on Sam.  He is not fond of this at all, but I tell him,

                     "It's your job.  It's your job to keep me warm."

So......that is where this winter story really begins.  Sam was home from work, and happy hour had just began.  We were talking about company coming and a busy weekend.  Sam suggested I meet him for lunch the next day at a place that has my favorite soup on the menu in the colder months.  Mmm.., that sounded like a wonderful idea.

Like most nights I soon arranged myself on Sam's lap for a more extensive welcome home.  He was nice and warm, and I wasn't.  When my cold fingers touched his face and neck, he didn't cringe, but there was a minor complaint.
  
"Geez, Ells." 


But I distracted him by turning to straddle his lap.  As soon as he relaxed again, I slipped my hands up his shirt ready to soak up his warmth.  Sam's survival reflex kicked in, and he grabbed my wrists to pull my hands back out.  

"Nope.  No way.  Your hands are like ice!"

I was not about to give up.

"It's your job.  It's your job to keep me warm."

"Who says?" he grumbled.

"Me.  I'm cold and you're warm.  It's your job.  So quit your bitchin'," I laughed and moved my fingers back under his shirt.  After a short wrestling match, he collapsed his knee in an effort to dump me on the floor, but I held on.  We were both laughing by now.  

"So, it's my job to keep you warm, huh?  he grinned.

"Yep, it is, so don't be a wuss about it, mister," I teased.

"Oh, I'll get you warm, if that's what you want."

As he pushed me off his lap, he caught me around my waist and hauled me up and over the kitchen counter.  

"Ha!  Let me help you with these jeans."  He popped open the button of my pants and then deftly reached over me to the crock for a wooden spoon.

"Warm?  You want warm?  I'll show you warm," he laughed and the spoon went to work.

"Ow!  Stop, Sam.  It's my hands that are cold.  Not my butt."

"Well, you just tell me when the warmth spreads to your fingers.  Then I'll know I've done my job."

I absolutely love spankings like this!  Laughing so hard and yelling, too.  Sam was laughing, as well, with one hand on my back to keep me still and the other hand whaling away on my ass with that damn spoon.

"Are you warm yet," he asked.

"Sa-a-am!  Ouch!"
 
"Just doing my job, ma'am."

Whack! Whack! Whack!

"How 'bout now?  Are those fingers warm yet?"

I was squealing and wiggling and laughing.

"Yes!  Yessir, I'm warmed up.   Ow!  Please!  I'm warm.  Honest, Sam."

"Let me check, Ells.  Be still," and Sam ran his hand gently over my very warm ass.  That felt lovely.  Then he pulled me up and took my hands.

"I do believe your fingers are warmer," he smiled and took me in his arms.

"You are right.  It is my job.  And my work is done here."

 

I really couldn't argue with that.  My hands were warmer, and Sam didn't seem to mind at all when they started to roam below his belt.