I wake up with my throat feeling like sandpaper and my head feeling like cotton-candy. You have already awoken and I can hear you pottering around in the kitchen with the smells of coffee and toast wafting up the stairs. I lay there, snuggled up in my duvet, wondering how I am going to swallow toast when all I want is ice-cream.
I roll over and look out of the window. It’s snowing again. Flakes brushing the window as they fall like fairies swirling and dancing in the wind. I don’t like snow. It’s cold and wet. Sure it looks pretty when I’m looking out at it from my nice warm bed but I have no intention of venturing out in it.
I know I have to get up. You never let me eat in bed. Groggily I push the duvet off my body and slide my feet out from under the covers. Rising to a sitting position I wait for my head to stop spinning before putting on my glasses and standing up. My feet slide automatically into my slippers as I stand. I walk out of the bedroom without my dressing gown, I’m too hot anyway.
At the top of the stairs I pause as a wave of dizziness hits me, is it my height problem or am I sicker than I thought? Slowly I navigate the stairs leaning heavily on the handrail and breathe a sigh of relief as I reach the bottom without falling. The puppy knows I’m sick she doesn’t jump on me as she normally does, just wags her tail in greeting and follows me into the kitchen.
The kitchen door gives an audible click as I close it behind me and you turn, marmalade in hand, and smile at me in that way that I love.
“Morning, subbie,” you say as you move to kiss my cheek. You always do that in the mornings and I love it. I return the gesture with a croaky rasp and your face wrinkles in concern. As you put down the marmalade and move towards me I step to the side and make my way to the table. Sitting at my place I rest one elbow on the table and let my aching head fall on my palm.
“It’s nothing,” I say, “just a sore throat and fuzzy head.” You don’t buy it for a second. Taking the toast from the grill you walk over to me and place a cool hand on my forehead. I shiver at the touch and push your hand away. ”Don’t!” I snap. I hate being sick, I hate being touched when I’m sick but you know this. You hover over me for a few seconds before moving to the medicine cabinet. I can’t see what you are doing now, but I hear you open the door and hear the tell-tale shake of the paracetamol box.
I jump as you put a cup of coffee in front of me, did I lose a few minutes then? I see the paracetamol by my cup and move to pick them up. Your hand lands firmly on top of mine and I look up to see you frowning at me.
“I said after you have eaten something. Now wait.” Your tone is low but warning. I’m confused, when did you say that? I move my hand away and wrap it around my coffee cup instead. I watch as you move back to the kitchen. I could take the pills now, what would it matter? My hand goes out again and I start to flick the pills around with one finger. I won’t take them yet. I pick up my coffee and take a sip, wincing as I swallow what feels like an apple. I hear you coming back and watch numbly as you place a bowl in front of me. Yoghurt, that I can manage.
As I move my hand to lift the spoon I notice that the pills are gone. Uh oh. Stupidly I lift up my bowl to see if they are underneath, no. They must be here somewhere. I start to look around the table top and lift pieces of crockery as if the pills will be under one of those. You come back to the table and I can feel you watching me. I freeze and turn my head to look up at you. You do not look happy. I swallow and wince.
“I can’t find the pills,” I croak. You frown down at me. I hate when you frown.
“That is because I picked them up when I gave you your yoghurt. Just a sore throat I think you said.” Uh oh. There’s that tone, the one that rings alarm bells in my head.
“And a fuzzy head. It’s nothing, I’m fine. Stop babying me!” Now there are different alarm bells going off in my head. The ones that scream and tell me to run. I watch you as you frown down at me, I think you are debating whether to lecture me or spank me. I don’t want either, my head hurts and you are annoying me now. You sit down and drum your fingers on the table top. That’s different. I look down at my yoghurt and tentively pick up my spoon and start to eat. The coolness soothes my throat but it hits my stomach like lead.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble through mouthfuls. It never surprises me how one minute I can be a total brat and the next a repentant subbie. Probably because it’s part of who I am. I don’t know why you stand for it though. It must be very confusing at times.
I only manage to eat half my yoghurt before putting my spoon down and reaching for my tobacco tin.
I look up at you. I always have a fag after breakfast. I continue to pull the tin towards me.
“I want a fag,” I whine. I hate whining but it always happens when I don’t feel well. You glare at me. The kind that says ‘do it and your bottom will pay’. I do it. I want a fag. Opening the tin I pull out the papers and quickly roll before you can stop me again. I put the finished rolly between my lips and reach for the lighter. You don’t stop me. I know that I am disobeying you, you know that I know. I light the fag, inhale and wince as my throat screams in protest. I won’t put it out though, I’m too stubborn.
It doesn’t take long for me to get to the last drag, I only roll thin. As I stub out the rolly I turn to you and without knowing why I blow the smoke in your face. You close your eyes and cough. I stand up quickly I know I’ve gone too far. You stand up just as quickly and take a firm hold on my elbow. I try to wriggle free as you firmly lead me out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.
“Up!” You growl as you push me gently. I turn to you and push back harder. I shouldn’t have been surprised when you turned me back to the stairs and landed a firm smack to my pyjama covered bottom but I was. Just a small yelp and tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I stumbled up the stairs ahead of you. At the top of the stairs I turn toward the bedroom not bothering to see if you are following because I know that you are.
In the bedroom I stand by the bed and start to cry quietly as you sit on the bed. I know what comes next but I can’t do it, I won’t pull my pyjama bottoms down. You know that though, that’s why you take my wrist and guide me to your side. When your hands move to my waist to pull my bottoms down I whimper and try to stop you. It doesn’t work though, you just brush my hands away and with one tug my bottoms are pooled around my ankles.
Naked from the waist down you pull me swiftly over your knees. I automatically put one hand on the floor and the other grasp’s your ankle. I don’t have to wait long for the first smack. My body jolts and I cry out in pain as your hand connects firmly with my right cheek. Just as fast, you land an equally firm smack to my left, alternating between cheeks. You are talking to me as you smack my bottom but I am crying too much to concentrate on your words. I am obviously supposed to answer but when I don’t you pause and call my name to get my attention.
“I asked why you are getting this spanking?” You rub my cheeks as you wait for me to answer. I don’t have to think, I know why.
“Because I blew smoke in your face.” I sob. You start smacking my bottom again and this time I listen to your words.
“You do not blow smoke at me. You will learn to do as I say. I didn’t want you to smoke because you said your throat was sore. I let you have your smoke and you disrespected my kindness by blowing it in my face.” You are more sad than angry; I can tell this by your tone. It makes me cry harder, I hate making you sad. You continue to spank me and lecture me for a further 5 minutes before you stop and rub my cheeks again.
“You said you had a sore throat and a fuzzy head. My job as your Sir is to take care of you but you are so stubborn that you won’t let me.”
I listen through my tears and pain, feeling horrible inside. You were only trying to help and I acted like a brat. I can’t remember anyone taking care of me when I was sick but you did it without question and I threw it back in your face. Before I can say that I’m sorry you drop one knee forcing my torso down and my bottom up so that you can smack that soft part where thigh meets bottom. These smacks are harder because you want me to remember this spanking for a while. I sob as you light a fire on my bottom. I can’t help kicking, the same as you can’t help smacking the back of my thighs when I kick.
I’m still sobbing so I don’t notice when you stop. You just rub circles on my back and wait for me to calm down. I feel you reach down and remove my pyjama bottoms from my ankles. I know I won’t be seeing those again today. I let go of your ankle and you help me to stand. But I’m only standing for a few moments while you stand up and help me back into bed. Sliding in I roll onto my tummy, reaching out an arm for the duvet you stop me. I don’t know why you did that but now all I want to do is go back to sleep.
“Don’t go to sleep yet. I’ll be right back with your paracetamol.”
I watch through sleepy eyes as you leave the room. There’s no way I will be awake when you come back.
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