piteously, while she had slapped, and even kicked, ineffectually and comically at Dr. Ben.
Had either of them been able to see inside her mind, they would have been treated to a journey back through time to another doctor’s office — one in which a tiny, defenseless girl was held facedown across her mother’s lap while warm hands divested her bottom of protection and something cold and sharp delivered a searing trail of long-lasting, stinging pain she would never forget and would always dread with everything in her.
Oblivious to such background knowledge and focused only on a cure, however, her troubled husband had simply raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his workout buddy, who held all medical knowledge.
Ben had shrugged. “It will get into her system much quicker this way. If she won’t take it, I can’t force her, but you may end up in the hospital with her before it’s over, otherwise.”
It had been all he needed to hear. He had forcefully pulled the weeping sick girl back into her former fetal curl on his lap, secured her hands as he knew how from long practice and forestalled her kicks by simply scooping her legs up beneath her knees with his right arm.
Thus restrained, Vallie had had no defense but her sobs and unladylike threats, which he was finally moved to silence by a simple approach he would have hesitated to use in most instances but which seemed called for under the circumstances.
“Hush that right now and be still, or I promise you I will spank your bare bottom here and now in front of Dr. Ben and then I’ll have him give you two shots,” he had promised in exasperation.
“And I’ll make sure they sting a lot,” the physician had added for good measure, with a wink at her protector-turned-threat.
She had compressed herself into a tense ball of resistant flesh then, despite the warning that clenching would only make the needle’s bite sharper, and had wailed like a five-year-old even after the miracle-working drug had been delivered, a cleansing final cotton dab had removed a tiny drop of blood and a flesh-colored band-aid had been applied to the site.
In fact, she had still been crying real hicccuping tears and rubbing frantically at her throbbing hip with a gesture she usually employed surreptitiously slightly further down when he had replaced her clothes, stood up with her still in his arms, and edged out the clinic’s back door. With Dr. Ben’s help, he had gently laid her down on the back seat and tucked a blanket from the clinic’s treatment room around her while she snuffled, sounding remarkably just as she usually did from her place in the corner about fifteen minutes after an unhappy encounter with his belt.
On the drive home, with her piteous, damp sniffles as accompaniment to his thought processes, he had reviewed her response to the injection with interest.
As promised, the injection did its work beautifully. But Vallie had pouted and complained for days following and tried to make him promise he would never again subject her to such medical treatment.
He had promised nothing of the sort. Instead, with Dr. Ben’s assistance, he had purchased a large supply of sterile syringes and large gauge needles, along with sterile saline solution — his own version of truth serum. Then, with careful tutoring from his physician friend, he had studied anatomy charts, while envisioning his own beloved’s very familiar plump backside, and mapped a plan.
Such careful preparation was necessary so that he could make his future lessons about lies stick a little farther down the cheek than usual under ordinary circumstances without risk to her sciatic nerve. He estimated there would be ample space for several doses, if necessary, in the area of her oh-so-vulnerable spank spot, which would probably be just as sensitive to sticks as to smacks.
Because Vallie had, of course, written her own prescription for a liar’s cure. And he was dedicated to healing her of that particular
Had either of them been able to see inside her mind, they would have been treated to a journey back through time to another doctor’s office — one in which a tiny, defenseless girl was held facedown across her mother’s lap while warm hands divested her bottom of protection and something cold and sharp delivered a searing trail of long-lasting, stinging pain she would never forget and would always dread with everything in her.
Oblivious to such background knowledge and focused only on a cure, however, her troubled husband had simply raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his workout buddy, who held all medical knowledge.
Ben had shrugged. “It will get into her system much quicker this way. If she won’t take it, I can’t force her, but you may end up in the hospital with her before it’s over, otherwise.”
It had been all he needed to hear. He had forcefully pulled the weeping sick girl back into her former fetal curl on his lap, secured her hands as he knew how from long practice and forestalled her kicks by simply scooping her legs up beneath her knees with his right arm.
Thus restrained, Vallie had had no defense but her sobs and unladylike threats, which he was finally moved to silence by a simple approach he would have hesitated to use in most instances but which seemed called for under the circumstances.
“Hush that right now and be still, or I promise you I will spank your bare bottom here and now in front of Dr. Ben and then I’ll have him give you two shots,” he had promised in exasperation.
“And I’ll make sure they sting a lot,” the physician had added for good measure, with a wink at her protector-turned-threat.
She had compressed herself into a tense ball of resistant flesh then, despite the warning that clenching would only make the needle’s bite sharper, and had wailed like a five-year-old even after the miracle-working drug had been delivered, a cleansing final cotton dab had removed a tiny drop of blood and a flesh-colored band-aid had been applied to the site.
In fact, she had still been crying real hicccuping tears and rubbing frantically at her throbbing hip with a gesture she usually employed surreptitiously slightly further down when he had replaced her clothes, stood up with her still in his arms, and edged out the clinic’s back door. With Dr. Ben’s help, he had gently laid her down on the back seat and tucked a blanket from the clinic’s treatment room around her while she snuffled, sounding remarkably just as she usually did from her place in the corner about fifteen minutes after an unhappy encounter with his belt.
On the drive home, with her piteous, damp sniffles as accompaniment to his thought processes, he had reviewed her response to the injection with interest.
As promised, the injection did its work beautifully. But Vallie had pouted and complained for days following and tried to make him promise he would never again subject her to such medical treatment.
He had promised nothing of the sort. Instead, with Dr. Ben’s assistance, he had purchased a large supply of sterile syringes and large gauge needles, along with sterile saline solution — his own version of truth serum. Then, with careful tutoring from his physician friend, he had studied anatomy charts, while envisioning his own beloved’s very familiar plump backside, and mapped a plan.
Such careful preparation was necessary so that he could make his future lessons about lies stick a little farther down the cheek than usual under ordinary circumstances without risk to her sciatic nerve. He estimated there would be ample space for several doses, if necessary, in the area of her oh-so-vulnerable spank spot, which would probably be just as sensitive to sticks as to smacks.
Because Vallie had, of course, written her own prescription for a liar’s cure. And he was dedicated to healing her of that particular
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