About a year or two ago, I tried using this lawn service I’d never heard of before because they charged less than the one I usually used. They did a good job, except that while they were edging or blowing my patio area they shot a rock into my sliding glass door and shattered it. Naturally, I wrote a spanking story about it. Since I don’t really have a way to include it in Holiday Heat, I decided I’d let you read it for free. So here you go.

***

Broken Glass, Whooped Ass

I never planned to be mowing lawns at thirty, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Oh, it’s not my only job, but my husband’s business is lawn care and landscaping, and since I only work part time at the salon, I come help him when I’m not on.

Today Eli has a client way out in the suburbs. We live down in the city, but he’s willing to make the drive. We quoted the guy two hundred bucks, and when he accepted we headed up that way. At least the ride was comfortable; Eli hooks his trailer with his equipment up to our Jeep and tows it along.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but this guy’s house isn’t it. Up this way people usually have those big two-story houses with half a basement above-ground; this house, though, is just a one-story with a carport and a big yard. Still, a job’s a job.

While I meet with the client, Eli unloads the mower and hooks up the grass catcher. Someday he wants to get one of those riding ones, but they’re expensive, and a regular push mower gets the job done. Plus it keeps him in shape; Eli’s a good-looking man, all dark and muscular, and I’m a little selfish because I want him to stay that way and if it means he has to work a little harder, then he has to work a little harder.

The guy is pretty nice — your average white dude, but he walks with a limp, so maybe that’s why he can’t do his lawn himself. He has a push mower in the carport, but it’s covered with pollen and cobwebs. He shows me around the property and asks me to make sure to check that the gates are shut before we leave so his dog doesn’t get out.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“Half lab, half pit. She’ll probably come to the window while you’re in the back.”

“Cool.” I like dogs. We have a pitbull of our own, rescued from a dog fighting operation, and he’s a super sweet boy. I don’t know why people want to fight dogs; all they want is our love. “We’ll get started.”

“Thank you,” the guy says, and goes back in his house.

Eli starts up the mower and wheels it over to the grass near the driveway. “Tanisha!” he shouts over the motor. “You start with the edging?”

“Yeah, one minute!” I take out my phone and do up an invoice and text it over to the client so he can pay us, and then trudge over to the trailer and take out the electric edger. I don’t like doing lawn work, especially in the summer heat, but if I don’t do anything then I’m just standing around and that’s mean to Eli. At least edging isn’t hard — slip the blade between the grass and the pavement, and walk slow. The only real danger is kicking up rocks, but if you don’t stand in front of the thing then you’re usually safe.

Still, I probably should’ve worn pants, instead of shorts and a tank-top. Just in case.

*

There’s a lot of front yard to edge — the guy has a sidewalk, and then some more grass between it and the street, so I have to go around all of that, as well as both sides of the driveway. By the time Eli finishes mowing the front, I’m already done, so I drag the bags of clippings over to the trailer so he can put them on it. Some lawn companies will leave the clippings, but that seems dumb to me; we made the mess, so we should clean it up.

“Go ahead and blow off the driveway,” Eli says as he wheels the mower around to the back gate. He opens the door and adds, “there’s some patio out here you need to edge too.”

“I’ll get it when you’re done so I’m not in your way.”

He nods and goes through the gate, which swings shut behind him, and I hear the mower start up again. I swap out the edger for the blower — it’s electric too, but uses a lot more power; we have some spare batteries, and it’s usually enough — and start up by the guy’s front door. I blow off his sidewalk, his carport, and his driveway, and then swing the blower in wide arcs as I blow the rest of the clippings out into the street.

While I wait for Eli to finish with the mowing, I check my phone and return some texts. Also, the guy has paid me with one of the online apps, so that’s nice to see. When Eli finishes, I take the edger into the back and start work on the patio.

And that’s when I hit a rock. It flies up and smashes into the guy’s sliding glass back door. It looks like someone shot a gun at it — there’s a little hole, and a loud noise, and then, as I watch, the cracks begin to spider out.

“Oh, shit.”

Quickly I finish edging and then go back to the trailer to put the tool back. Eli goes and knocks on the guy’s door, to let him know we’re done, and they both do a quick walk around to check out our work. “It looks good,” the guy says, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then they go through the back gate and my heart drops into my sneakers.

I hear them talking, but can’t make out what all they’re saying, but when they come back out the guy looks unhappy and so does Eli.

“Get in the car, Tanisha.”

Oh, I do not like that tone of voice. I climb into the front seat of the Jeep and wait for Eli to come around and start it up. The air conditioning is nice and cold, and he cracks the windows to let the heat out as we drive off the guy’s property.

“What happened?” Eli asks.

“With what?”

“You know with what.”

I feel my cheeks get hot. “There was a rock, and I guess it hit the door.”

“You guess?” He glares at me quickly, then puts his eyes back on the road. “When I got back there the whole door was covered in cracks. If he’s lucky it won’t shatter before he can get it replaced. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want you to get in trouble–“

“We got insurance!” Eli snaps. “It’s for this exact reason!”

“I know,” I shoot back, “but I don’t want our premiums to go up just because some stupid rock got in my way!”

“It’s not right, T,” he says, shaking his head. “You broke that man’s window.”

“I know, Eli. I’m sorry.”

“Not yet you’re not.”

*

The rest of the ride is mostly silent, except for occasional swears from Eli at the traffic on the way back into the city. I’m squirming in my seat; I know I’m in for it now, and it won’t be fun. Eli’s a good guy, but he’s pretty old-fashioned when it comes to dealing with screw-ups.

We get home and Eli sends me to our bedroom. “Take off your clothes,” he says, “and put your nose in the corner.”

“Yes, sir.” I wish I could shower, but he told me to do something, and I’m going to do it. I’m not going to make things worse.

Eli, however, does take a shower, leaving me to stew, shifting from foot to foot, staring at the tan paint of the wall. I can feel the cool air all over my body, and the change from hot outside to cold in the Jeep to hot in the garage to cold in the house is making my head hurt. My nipples are also hard, but I’m not turned on.

I’ve been in this situation before. It is the farthest thing from turned on I could possibly be.

Eli comes out of the bathroom after maybe ten minutes and messes around in the dresser. I hear him putting something on. Then: “get over here and bend over this bed.”

I turn — he’s just got on a pair of shorts, but what makes me start to see stars is the belt in his hand. It’s a big, thick, black leather one that he doesn’t wear; he only uses it to whoop my ass.

And I am in for one hell of a whooping.

I bend over the bed like he told me to, my ass up in the air, legs a little apart to keep from tipping one way or the other.

“What are we here for?” he asks me.

Shit, I hate when he does this. But if I don’t answer, it’ll only make it worse. “I broke that man’s window.”

“That’s right.” He swings the belt — it whistles through the air and rips across my ass with a loud CRACK!, and the burning pain sets in almost instantly. “And what else?”

“I didn’t own up to it.”

“That’s right,” he says again, and CRACK! lands another shot with the belt. I push my lips together hard to fight back any noise. “You think he’s going to call us again?”

“No, sir.”

“No, he isn’t!” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! and I feel my nose start to tingle. I’m going to cry — I always cry when Eli whoops me, because I always deserve it. I knew what I was getting into when I married him; he told me one time when we were dating that if I did something he was going to take his belt off, so I did the thing and he did the thing. He never does it when I don’t deserve it, though, and he’s not mean. He just wants to make sure I know the consequences are real when I mess up.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

The tears come and I sniff hard, choking on a sob. “That’s right, T, you better cry,” he says. “You earned this.”

“Yes, sir.”

CRACK!

“And I’m going to whoop your ass–” CRACK! “Until you get it through your head–” CRACK! “That you have to do the right thing!” CRACK!

“Yes, sir!” I shout through my tears. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry!”

“You’re not sorry yet, but you will be.”

*

I don’t know how long the whooping goes on for, but I do know that when Eli’s done, my whole ass is on fire and throbbing every time my heart beats. He even got some licks on my thighs, which sting like crazy. He tosses the belt on the bed and puts his big hand on my ass, and I jump. “Damn, do you have to?”

“Excuse me?” He smacks my ass a couple of times. “You want me to give you some more?”

“No, sir!” I say quickly. 

“That’s what I thought.” He rubs my ass a little bit, and even that hurts. “You going to own up next time you break someone’s window?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Or else this whooping’s going to feel like a gentle pat on your ass. Clear?”

“Clear, sir.”

“Good girl.” He smacks me one more time. “Go on, get up.”

I push up on my hands, and then stand, wiping tears off my face. “I’m really sorry,” I tell him.

“I know, baby.” Eli pulls me into a hug. He’s tall, and I’m short, so he can tuck me under his chin. I like when he makes me feel small like that. “You earned it, though.”

“I did.” I hate that I agree with him. “If you want me to text the guy, I will.”

I feel him shake his head. “Too late now. Damage is already done.”

To both the window and my ass. But I don’t say that part out loud.

“Go take a shower,” he says. “I’ll make some dinner.”

I nod and he lets go, stepping back out of my way so I can head into the bathroom.

Of course, the first thing I’m going to do is check out my ass in the mirror. My skin is brown — not as dark as Eli’s — but he whooped me so good that there’s red showing through, and I bet I’m going to be bruised tomorrow. Still, he’s right. I deserved it.

I turn on the shower and wait for it to heat up. Not as hot as I normally like it, because that’ll hurt my ass more, but pretty warm. The shower feels good after sweating outside for so long this afternoon. Once I’m dry, I lay down on the bed on my front side, not daring to put clothes on. I don’t want anything touching my ass for a little while yet.

Eli comes in to get me. He checks out my ass and whistles. “I got you good.”

“Yeah you did.”

“You’re lucky you have me to take care of you,” he says, but not in an egotistical or mean way. He says it like he really means it, and I know he does, and on top of that I know he’s right. I’m lucky to have a man as good as Eli, and if having him means getting my ass beat when I screw up, I’ll bend over the bed every time.

*** THE END ***