The bag

During dinner we maintained normalcy. An observer would never have guessed that I was about to be spanked. I knew it, although it remained unspoken.

Throughout our warm conversation, our intermittent hand-holding, my mind would drift to our inevitable return home. I would be spanked hard with an unnamed implement, an implement, perhaps two or three, that I would not like.

The empty backseat held no clues. I craned my neck to peer under the seats as he parked in my driveway, dinner having passed too quickly. I could see nothing peeking out, nothing that would indicate what he'd brought for me, to use on me.

And then he popped the trunk.

Calmly, as if retrieving groceries, he stepped out of the car and matter-of-factly withdrew an unremarkable black bag to sling over his shoulder. He could not know the effect that casual gesture had on me; or perhaps he did.

The premeditation required to pack a bag with items to discipline me, and then placing it in the trunk, out of sight, set off alarms deep within. Yes, this was serious. Yes, he had meticulously planned my punishment, thought about it throughout dinner, and had yet to make mention of it.

With my insides twisting, bursting, and then liquefying, I forced my shaky legs to carry me up the steps to the front door to let us in.

And then he placed it, that little black bag, contents still unknown, on the sofa and beckoned me near.