Feel the Burn

Exercise happens first thing in the morning or otherwise Ella blows it off.  I think I have exercised pretty consistently, though, for most of my adult life.  Don't go to a gym usually, but since I am getting rid of my treadmill to make space for a nice guest room, I just may join one next winter.  When I was working, I almost always put in 10,000 steps a day.  The medical facility and campus was massive.  All I had to do was walk instead of taking the shuttle, and I made my goal.
  

On top of walking, though, I still do a routine that takes me about 30 minutes before getting into the shower.  Now that I am retired, I still strive to exercise daily but do not have to rise and shine quite so early.  There is some cardio, some weights, core-strengthening, resistance, and agility/stretching.  There are also some exercises that I learned from physical therapists that target an injury or condition.

My routine starts in the kitchen with some old ballet stretches on the counter and several others that utilize stretchy resistance bands.  Then on to the living room with

something to drink and the television news or weather.  I keep weights in a copper fireplace bin intended for logs.  Besides some lifts, I also use them to stretch the muscles in my upper back to alleviate fibromyalgia pain.  Next I bring out a large blue core ball for exercises designed to strengthen the core muscles.

I was right at this point in my routine last week, sitting on the core ball, when Sam walked in with his coffee and a smile on his face.  He set the mug on the end table and came toward me.  

"I feel like I have been remiss in my husbandly duties this week.  Think I need to address some attention to your bottom before our day starts." 

Sam always likes to take my hand when there is a spanking imminent, just like he is asking me to dance.  Later, some dancing on my part is possible, depending on the implement in his hand.  This particular morning, he had nothing in his hand, so I was hoping for some happy spanks.  

  

I do not own  any fancy yoga wear; old gray, baggy sweatpants and a big tee shirt are fine for me.  Sam led me to a chair and pulled me across his knee.  From his voice, I could tell that he was in a fine mood.  He likes an elastic waistband when he is spanking me.  Easy and quick.  He started to spank, and I wondered again how he can make his hand hurt as much as it does.  When asked, he will always expound on how it is all in the wrist.

"Sorry to interrupt your exercising, but it was time for me to give your bottom some love."

"This isn't in my regular routine, but I feel like you are giving my ass a workout as well," I said breathlessly.
 
"It's good for my arm, too," he laughed.  

When Sam was sure that my bottom was the perfect shade of pink, he pulled me up to sit on his lap.  Some nice kissing, but this spanking was not going to turn into sex.  In a minute, he pushed me off and stood up.  He had to be somewhere by 8:00 am. 

 With a swat to my glowing behind, he told me to get back to my exercises.  I could definitely feel the burn as I sat back down on the core ball.  It is such a wonder to me how that kind of spanking can make me smile.  Usually I am only fond of exercising when I am done and feel good about putting in the effort.  That day, however, I was conscious of the warmth in my bottom through the rest of my routine and again when I stepped under a hot shower.  I really don't have any exercises that target the gluteus maximus, but I would love to add Sam's workout to my daily efforts.  It was a lot more fun.

Diary of a Spanked Housewife

It seems to me that several posts I have written in the last 6 months all start out with me busy cleaning.  As I have explained before, one of my goals upon retirement was to turn this house upside down.  To purge all our belongings, large and small.  To discard and donate.  To polish every piece of furniture.  To empty, wash down, and organize every closet and cabinet.  I can see a light at the end of the tunnel, and my spirits seem to lift with every corner I finish.

Right now, I am working in the middle of the living room.  Sam has been by my side to move pieces of furniture out from the wall.  Doctor's orders after my last surgery cautioned me not to lift more than 10-12 pounds.  That's really not very much.  A gallon of milk is 8 pounds.  I remember Sam's words as I was recuperating over 3 years ago.


                       "There's a new sheriff in town, little lady, 
               and he better not catch you lifting anything heavy."

I laughed at the time, but he meant what he said.  Besides, you know how much I appreciate a dominant cowboy story, badge and all.

  

Sam Elliott Has Always Done It For Me

When I was still working, I had a rolling cart to carry medical supplies that needed to transported for patient procedures.  At home Sam has always been attentive, no matter what task or project I am tackling.  In the garden, I leave bags of debris and weeds on the pathways for Sam to tote to the bins.  If I purchase a heavy item such as wild birdseed, I have a store employee put it in the truck and leave it there until a time when the sheriff can bring it in the house or garage.



But I do cheat occasionally when not under the watchful eyes of the law.  Sometime last week, Sam realized I had moved his big leather armchair in the living room.  His eyebrows came together and he gave me a good talking-to.  I kept telling him I just pushed and swiveled the chair out of the way.  I did not lift.


"Don't care," he said emphatically.    He reminded me of what the doctors had said after the surgery.  That he would move or lift  whatever I wanted.  That if I screwed up, all our plans could come to a halt.  There was not to be ANY lifting, pushing, pulling, dragging, and so on.  He made me promise, and I did.

Then yesterday I was marching on with the cleaning pogrom, and Sam wasn't due home for several hours.  I decided that it was OK if I sat down on the floor and pushed the bookcases back into place using my leg muscles.  When he got home later in the afternoon, he was hanging up his coat in the hall closet.  When he looked up and glanced into the living room, he erupted like a volcano.

                            "What did I say?!  
                     What did you promise me?!  
               I told you specifically what not to do, 
                          and you did it anyway.  
                    You deliberately disobeyed me!" 

                          Oh, he was on a roll, for sure.  And loud.


Disobeyed? I thought.  I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say.  My mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.  Sam, though, had plenty more to say as he took me by the wrist toward the kitchen. 


"Did you think I didn't mean what I said?  Is there a reason you misinterpreted when I explained my wishes last week?   Mmmm, Ella?  You are not answering me."

And I was still not talking.  Don't think I have ever seen him like that.  Think I was in awe.  Sam was doing plenty of talking by now as he made me face him while he undid my belt and jeans.  Once he had me over the counter, he started to spank with no holding back.  He stopped once to lower my jeans a bit more, but it didn't break his rhythm one bit.
  

                              Who was this dominant man?

                     Was this the sheriff he joked about long ago?

                    Why couldn't I think of one damn thing to say?


When he was finished with the spanking, he let me pull up my pants.  Although his "little lady" apologized, Sam kept giving me that "look" the whole evening and warned me several times more.

OK, now for the strangest thing of all.  Don't think I have ever seen Sam so dominant, and to be blatantly honest, I was so turned on that I couldn't think of anything else.  When he came to bed, I curled in next to him, and tried to explain how this whole incident had left me feeling quite horny.  He wasn't having any of it.  Just went back to warning me about ever disobeying him again and what would happen.  He did give me a kiss and one more smack on the bottom and told me to go to sleep. 

                 
                      Ella was hoping for a little more "Ever After."

Slap Happy

Sam not only likes to spank now, he likes to swat my behind at least 10 times a day lately.  He is totally unrecognizable from the Sam of just a few years ago who looked at me perplexed when I asked him for a ttwd relationship.  That man who maintained that

he was brought up to never hit a girl, no matter what.  Gone is the guy who gave a weak, pitiful spanking because he didn't really want it to hurt.  Picture instead, a confident, in-charge sort of fellow that walks through the house with just a bit of a swagger.  Who can give me the "look" without hesitation.  A man who has graduated from HOH Academy magna cum laude.
 

Most of these slaps to my behind are given in the privacy of our own home.  On my way out of the room.  Reaching over Sam to put away a coffee mug.  The ever popular bending over to load the dishwasher.  Searching for an item in the vegetable bins in the fridge.  Pulling clean clothes from the dryer.  Setting down bowls of kibble for the dogs.  Most of these are good natured spanks, a way to say hello, a way to say "I love you."



I just smile as I catch Sam out of the corner of my eye.  Oh, I love this man.  I love his touch on my bottom.  

"Love taps," he says.

Sometimes I even say, "Thank you, mister."

But my guy has also learned to deliver his swats with an element of surprise.  Totally loves it if he catches me off guard.  He practically chortles to hear me squeak or protest with an, "Oh, you!"

"Gotcha," he will laugh and head out to the garage.  Completely reinventing the concept of a "hit and run."  Whether he is cooking inside or out on the grill, I am suspicious of spatulas and big wooden spoons in his hand.  Beware the Spanky Chef.

But there are times when Sam goes over to the Dark Side.  

Suddenly the slaps aren't so happy.  Like several weeks ago when I

decided to take over preparing Sunday dinner.  The eyebrows went together and bam!  A swat to remind me that he can cook pasta as well as I can.  It actually caught me off guard, and I quickly scanned the family sitting at the table to see if they had noticed.


 
It also seems that lately these meetings of Sam's hand and my ass can happen not only at home but out and about and on our travels.  Always a surprise.  

"Sam, what are you doing!?  Someone might see!"

He shrugs, smiles, and takes my hand as we head into the hardware store.  Just a touch at the movie theater.  Just a little tap in a parking lot.  A brush of his palm while we wait for a table at a restaurant.  See what I mean?  A very slap happy man lives here!

But I will honestly confess that the little sense of danger becomes a bit titillating when it comes to company over for a visit.  Sam has become a master at seizing the moment when family or friends are over.  Instead of "carpe diem," it has become more like "carpe derriere."  He can be chatting away with a visitor about the pros and cons of the newest version of Turbo Tax, and his hand will find its way to my caboose without anyone the wiser.  I smile as if Turbo Tax is the most fascinating topic ever.  

I smile again and think to myself, "I can't wait for everyone to go home."

And he knows I am thinking that, and it makes him so happy.

And then there are always those good night taps on my cheeks as we spoon.  These are accompanied by whispers in my ear and kisses on my neck.  I answer in whispers, too, and maybe a tiny giggle.

                           "I love your hand on my bottom, Sam."

                                   "I love my hand on your bottom, too, Ella."