A Trip to the Woodshed

Which of those spankos among us haven’t given at least some thought to a woodshed spanking? I know I read books when I was younger, and there was a certain phrase, “a trip to the woodshed,” the age old classic line. If you got a trip to the woodshed, you got a spanking, whether you actually went to the woodshed or not. 

Jason and I seem to have come full circle, then, it seems. 

He suggested I build “an office shed,” a private place where I could work uninterrupted. With a large family like ours, privacy is scarce and quiet nearly nonexistent. So I leapt at this chance. I needed that quiet space. So I researched. I bought a shed. I hired someone to build it, and decided if we were going to do this, we were going to do it right. We live in a place where the changes of seasons are fierce—cold, snowy winters and hot, humid summers. So I needed something insulated, with electricity, heat, and lighting. 

Jason hinted about the shed serving a dual purpose.

It’s done. We joke that it’s my “she shed,” and I set about decorating it a few weeks ago. The walls are a light, beachy off-white, the flooring a light gray. I bought a rug and chairs with a decidedly feminine pink paisley pattern. I’ve got a little table with a mini Keurig, white and pink wall art, and a little shelving unit with framed prints. And between the paisley chairs, an ottoman. Covered in charcoal gray fabric, in the center of the room, sits a tufted circular ottoman. 

Jason put that to good use this week. 

We decided last weekend that it was time to get back to regular, thorough check-in’s. Between sickness and travel, we’d gotten out of the routine. I was dying, a little, inside. He knew this. He missed it, too. 

So out to the woodshed we went. He had me strip and kneel. I was a little nervous—would anyone overhear us? We’re remote…it’s deep in my back yard, but still, there are houses around us. The shed is insulated, though. And I tested it. No, you can’t hear a thing. 

“Take ‘em down,” he said. I gulped. “I want you on your knees in front of the ottoman. Bend over it and grab the other side.” So I knelt. I’m short, so it was an easy matter to bend over it, the tufted fabric pressed up against my belly like a pillow. 

And then I heard it, the telltale sign of him taking off his belt. I cringed and waited. The belt is loud, so it’s been a while. He loves it. I have a love/hate relationship with it myself. 

“What are your rules?” he asked, and as we went through them, one at a time, he strapped me. “Your ‘be nice’ rules.” 

I repeated them. No yelling or swearing. 

Thwap. 

“Your health rules.” 

Thwap.

And on we went, going over his expectations for obedience and respect, until my ass was good and well striped. He threaded his belt back through the loops and lifted me to my feet, kissed me and told me to be a good girl. 

This went on for three days in a row this week. 

Then last night, I lost my temper. He got serious and raised an eyebrow at me. “We’ll talk about this later, young lady.” At bed, I was quiet and reserved. I knew I deserved to be punished. I knew I crossed a line. But I wanted a chance to regroup. 

“Tomorrow, I’m taking you to the shed, and you’re getting a spanking. Now be a good girl and get some sleep.” 

So I did. And today, we’ll pay a trip to the shed. And though a part of me dreads it… I suppose I have to admit, deep down inside…a part of me likes it.