~FAILING IN REVERSE~ (spanking story)

Chapter 2: Blah Blah. Rules and such

Ben shakes his head and sighs. "We'll have to work on that listening thing." He mumbles that under his breath. "I asked you if you needed another love tap." Sarcasm is this guy's middle name. That's his one good quality, you assume. Something you two have in common.

However, it's still another one of his catchphrases that make no sense.

You blink away the confusion and give him a straightforward answer, nothing smart-assy this time. Once again, to save your ass. "Uh, no sir. Guess not." You can't believe he's already beating your bold sense of strength down. But you decide to just give him this one small victory. To trick him into a sense of security. You will win this battle. You always do.

"Okay, thank you. Now, wall, mister." He swats you gently to get you going. And you actually obey for once. This is all new territory for you. And he didn't even need a taser or pepper spray to subdue you, unlike those cops. He does have a very odd and intimidating way about him that you envy but also despise.

Thankfully, It only takes about ten neck pops and back twists for "that man" to call you out. When you get bored, you tend to move your body. And you prefer the name "that man" to Ben. First name basis just isn't in your comfort zone at the moment. You're not sure it ever will be with this couple.

"Okay, Y/N." He gestures to the gray and boxy couch (another good word is boring). Once again, you comply without a word. The couch is hard and modern (sun-burnt concrete to your freshly spanked posterior), both descriptives you find off putting, and you realize that "that man" is hard like this couch but definitely the far opposite of modern.

You expect "that man" to begin his lecture, but rather his lovely wife enters the scene and offers you a "cup of the finest tea in Britain," and you wonder if she knows what country this actually is. You don't bother correcting her. (It's America, by the way.)

Not wanting to hurt her feelings or break her sweet composure, you take the cup without complaint. You even say thank you. Manners, huh. You're not practiced in them, but you may have to get used to using them here. At least the tiny while you're here.

"That man" gives you a sort of polite, tolerant, squinty grin when you know he's really totally done with you, already. It makes you queasy. "Young man," he says, in a lighter tone. "I hope we can settle a few things for you and smooth these bumps out. Because believe it or not, we actually do want you here, and you really may not believe this, but we actually want to get along with you. So..." He claps and does this little hop thing. "You may be wondering what all your stuff is doing on this table in front of you."

It's a nice table actually. More your taste. A wooden one carved with intricate swirls and such. And some words that look elvish. You can even smell the fresh wood wafting up, making you wish you could get lost in a forest somewhere, snacking on some Doritos you fought out of a chipmunk's grip. You table that thought. Enough daydreaming. This is serious. These people have your stuff.

Your stuff.

He sighs. "You will find this unpleasant. Probably much so. But we need to make sure you didn't bring anything unfitting or dangerous into this household. Understood?"

You glance at the floor, unsure of how to phrase your seething anger politely. It's terribly difficult.

"Hey, I require a bit of participation. Understood?"

A grunted sigh escapes your lips, brimming with unsettled frustration. "Yes. Sir," you say through clenched teeth.

"Honey," Kamila tweets. "Your daddy just wants to make sure you understand what he is saying, not that he wants to control you."