"No."

Greg's firmness startled me into a second of silence. I had been happily prattling about what I wanted to get my best friend, Jenna, for Christmas while cleaning up the lasagna pan. It was still a pleasure: making dinner, cleaning up, doing the domestic thing. After all, we'd only been married for three months, and living in our new house for two. Life was everything I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. Right down to the picket fence Greg had promised to put up in the spring.

My contented mood, however, faded at his interruption. My first instinct was to ignore it. If I hadn't heard what he had said, then I wouldn't have to take his 'no' into consideration, right? So I turned on the water to soak one of the pans, and kept talking.

"It turns any normal tub into a bath full of bubbles, just like a Jacuzzi." Damn. My deaf act was shaky at best; the nervousness in my voice was so thick I feared it was visible. I bubbled on, hoping. "It's a mat that lays at the bottom of the tub and--"

"I said, 'no.'" His voice was too calm, too relaxed, and much too confident.

I whirled around to face him, the dishrag dripping on the floor. "What do you mean, 'no'?!" I bent down to wipe up dirty water, using the moment to get control over my emotions. I hate confrontation. I'd rather avoid it for weeks on end than face a disagreement. Tears were already brimming and my lips were just a hair's breadth away from trembling.

"You heard me. We agreed on a budget so that we can meet our financial goals. Those bath things cost over a hundred dollars. You don't have that much left in your Christmas budget." Greg's most annoying habit was being logical in a disagreement. Even worse, he was reasonable, and, worst of all, he was almost always right. It irked me to no end sometimes.

"But it's Christmas! Budgets don't count!" My voice was creeping higher; it did that when I was upset or nervous.

Greg laughed good-naturedly, even gave me that smile that said he thought I was the most adorable creature on Earth. I usually love that smile.

"Bills don't stop just because it's Christmas, Sherry Anne." He made to come hug me, but I pouted.

He always used my first and middle name together. Ever since I told him my Grandma called me that, and that I preferred "Sherry Anne" to the "Sherry" my mom called me, and the "Anne" my father and friends called me.

"I can put it on my credit card, and then pay it off in January." It sounded reasonable to me.

"No."

I tried to stare him down for a few seconds, but my talent is the cold shoulder. When I looked down, he explained.

"Sweetie, you know that's the kind of thinking that we've been trying to pay off for the last year ... and will be paying off for another six months." See how annoying he is? Too reasonable, too right.

"So what's another month? The credit card's in my name, buster. I'll do what I want." I meant to sass in a teasing way, to lighten the mood and my words, but the surprised anger I felt at being told 'no' made me sound bitchy. I turned around and busied my hands with the dishes, pretending that he wouldn't really consider telling me no ... not again, not in all seriousness. I focused on projecting dismissive confidence.

The only problem: my heart was beating a million miles a minute. Greg came up behind me, breathed softly in my ear. "Put the dishes down."

My hair stood on end. We'd only been married a couple months, and he could turn me on at the drop of a hat. He knew how I loved it when he got ... well ... dominant ... in the bedroom. It both embarrassed me and thrilled him that I'd blush head to toe with pleasure at the simplest of orders. Only a few weeks ago, he had come in right as I was ready to crawl into bed. He had grabbed my shoulder tightly, standing behind me.

"Someone didn't make the bed this morning."

I know I had blushed, and a second later I jumped and squealed. He had done something he had never done before: he had swatted my bottom! I had jumped around then, crying indignantly, "That hurt!"

His response had been a small smile, and a "Make the bed" command with arms folded on his chest. He leaned against the dresser, making himself comfortable so he could watch the war going on within me.

Eventually, obedience had won out. It was my chore to do, and we had split the chores fifty-fifty. Besides, that adorable grin had been peeking out under his serious demeanor, and his hair had been tousled in that adorable boy sort of way--except he was the manliest man I had ever met. It was an absolutely irresistible mix. I had only started to make the bed though, when he had smiled and scooped me up in his arms, showering me with kisses. It was only a matter of seconds before his hand had found evidence of my arousal, much to my mortification.

At this moment, however, I didn't think it was my arousal he was seeking. I spent a long time putting the dishes down, and slowly rinsed my hands, dried them off, and then hung up the rag on the spigot. Finally turning to face him, I crossed my arms on my chest and tried to keep the belligerence off my face.

"Come sit with me in front of the fire." Greg put his arm around me and led me into the living room just like he would lead an errant child to the principal's office for discipline. You see, Greg is actually Mr. Henderson, the assistant principal of our local elementary school. Give him two more years, and he'll be the principal. That was Greg; he always rose to the top.

I could still beat him at any computer game, though. I took great comfort in that.

He took me on his lap and wrapped his arms around me, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Remember when you told me you were an old-fashioned kind of girl? That you expected to be cherished and courted, as you so cutely put it, for the rest of your life?" He pushed my nose as if it was a button, and I couldn't stifle a giggle.

"Yeah." It had been the night he proposed. How could I forget? Bended knee and everything. I smiled at him.

He smiled back, like a boy proud he had just scored his first goal. "Remember what I told you after that?"

I squirmed a little at that. It struck my memory, what he was referring to, but it made me blush. I didn't feel like admitting I remembered. I shrugged, studying the design on his shirt.

"Sherry Anne," he growled in a voice full of warning of--something. Of what, precisely, I didn't know.

I shrugged again and said, "I dunno." I fiddled with one of his buttons and shrugged a third time. "Maybe you said that you were old-fashioned, too." I stopped there, hoping that'd be enough.

Greg just growled again.

I bit my lip, and managed to prevent myself from shrugging this time. "You may have said that you expected obedience from your wife..." I was blushing again, and he took my hand gently away from his button; one more twist and it would surely pop off. My voice dropped to a whisper. "...that you would be head of your house..." I looked up at him for approval.

Not yet. "And..." he prompted.

I went on reluctantly, whispering. "That there would be consequences for disobedience." I gnawed my lip. That conversation had been sexy; it had given me all sorts of warm fuzzies and tingles at the time. The repetition of it, though, gave me nervous butterflies in my stomach.

"And the consequences?" he asked.

I looked at him in surprise. "You didn't say."

"Yes, I'm sure I did."

"No! You didn't! You stood me up and patted me on the bottom like a child--" I said this a little bitterly, because it had annoyed me at the time, "--and then told me to go get the champagne in the fridge!"

It was the first time I ever saw him bewildered in the two and a half years I'd known him. "Those weren't pats, those were a few warning spanks. To let you know what would happen, if you disobeyed me." The expression in his face had become unreadable, and he stared down at me.

But my mouth had gone dry. "Spanks?" was all I could ask.

"Yes," he said. "Spanks."

Greg looked at me as if waiting for me to speak, but my brain was in a state of shock. "Spank?" I asked again, and my voice was pretty squeaky. There are times I've gotten so nervous that my voice squeaked too high to make an audible sound. It wasn't that high ... yet.

"Was I unclear?" He said it as if it were a rhetorical question, as if the thought of him being unclear was impossible.

My shock finally found voice, though. "Hell yes, you were unclear!" He flinched a bit at my language, but my voice got even shriller. "What the fuck--you're a fucking wife-beater?!" Then the tears started pouring out, and I started sobbing. Was my safe, perfect world ending? Had it all been just a dream, an act he put on until he got the wedding ring on my finger? My sobs became broken-hearted cries. In retrospect, it may have been a bit histrionic, but ... I'm pretty emotional.

Through the haze of my cries, I heard him reassuring me, hugging me close. "Nononononono, sweetie." Greg rocked me, kissing me all over my face, trying to dry off the downpour of tears. "I'd never hurt you, not for the world. Not ever." He pushed my face into his chest--it was comforting, despite the fact I could barely breathe. "You're my baby, my precious. I will never hit you; I'd never even spank you, not without your consent."

I looked up at him, then asked a bit tremulously, "So you won't hit me? If I say I won't consent?"

Greg looked disturbed when I said the word, 'hit,' but he shook his head. "I'd never spank you without your consent."

And that was that.

Or so I thought.

He held me until we went to bed, and before he turned out the light, he said, "Just so I'm not unclear again." He looked at me steadily. "As I see it, you have three choices. The first is to obey me on this. I hope you will honor your marriage vows and obey your husband."

I didn't say anything. I was terrified he was already going to use the 'd' word.

Greg sighed, and went on. "Second. You buy it, you get a switching. Simple as that."

My mouth dropped open, and I started to object, to remind him of his promise about consent.

He held up a hand. "Let me finish. Third Scenario: You decide to disobey, and not to consent to the spanking you deserve." He frowned at the ceiling. "Then we'll have an alternative consequence." He thought for a moment, then looked directly at me. "What happens to naughty little girls at Christmas?"

He did NOT just ask me that question. I clamped my mouth shut in rebellion.

Sighing, he answered his own question. "They get switches and stones in their stockings."

I humphed and rolled to the edge of my bed, feigning sleep despite the tear trickling down my face. "You're mean."

Then, for the first time since we had been married, we fell asleep in an uncomfortable silence. Of course, he had the audacity to fall asleep before me, snoring softly and peacefully. Annoying. But the lines had been drawn, the boundaries set. My pride wouldn't let me back down, so it looked to be a disappointing first Christmas together.

Why then, in the middle of the night, did I find myself kissing him passionately before I was fully cognizant, making love to him with a hunger that surpassed even the desire I had felt on my honeymoon?

Greg didn't mention it again. In fact, all seemed to be forgiven, and we kissed and made love just like the enthusiastic newlyweds that we were. So when I went shopping on Saturday, I easily ignored the nagging guilt while I purchased the over-budget gift for Jenna. I put it in the front closet, still in the bag--though it was a bit transparent--and he would see it when he came in and hung his coat up. I wasn't sneaking around behind his back. Really.

He always hung his coat up. Greg was that kind of guy. He did his part, followed through with his promises. Usually, such reliable men were nerds. I really lucked out with Greg. He had that me-big-and-strong-and-safe aura that children loved to latch on to. It was why he was promoted to assistant principal at such a young age. He also had that tall, dark and handsome strength, as well as that edge of dangerous that made single mothers at the school drool over him.

Why he picked me, I don't know. If it wasn't my squeaky voice or my tied tongue, it was my blushing. It's one thing to be embarrassed. It's another thing to be so embarrassed that you're embarrassed about being embarrassed. Ridiculous, crazy even. There were probably people out there that thought I had a permanently red face. Maybe they wouldn't know I was blushing. It could be rosacea.

Greg's favorite dish was baked rigatoni, and I had picked up his favorite garlic bread at the bakery after my shopping trip. He'd like that. Maybe I'd make some eggnog, since it was a Saturday night. We could get drunk and giddy and make love in front of the fireplace. And cookies. Chocolate chip oatmeal. It had been awhile since I had made him cookies, and he did love the smell of the house after baking.

Tonight was no different. He came in the kitchen, giving me a big hug and kiss, telling me how yummy everything smelled. Including me, he said, and I giggled, though for some inexplicable reason, I almost started crying.

"How was golfing?" I asked.

I listened to him talk of the game and his buddies while stirring the sauce. He caught me frowning.

"Doesn't it taste good?" he was looking at me funny--or was I just imagining it?

And when dinner was cleared, and we were relaxing with eggnog and cookies, he grabbed me and tickled me, until I was crying mercy and his big form was looming over me. He kissed my nose, and I begged him to let me go.

"No," he said, "I like your body underneath mine." He put on his dark and dangerous smile, the one that made me melt. Greg's face grew serious, though. "I love your generous spirit, Sherry Anne. You are such a treasure, and I thank God every day that you totaled my car that day with your absent-minded driving."

I cringed. It was so clich, that there was no chance I'd ever live that down. I squirmed to get up, wrapping my legs around his, but he just lay down on top of me, resting his elbows on either side of my head. Making love right then sounded like a good idea to me.

"But I will not tolerate disobedience." Now I struggled to get away, but he pulled my chin gently until I was looking at him again. "Ever."