Discipline In The Cairngorms

Stephanie bounded up the trail and her husband, Ian, followed. Followed with joy, as the all-weather mountaineering pants that Stephanie wore managed to hug the heart-shape of her bottom and hips so tightly, that Ian could see the outline of the cotton tanga panties his wife wore underneath.

I wonder what color those panties are, Ian pondered, having not seen his wife dress that morning.

"Quiet on the trail this morning," Ian remarked to his wife. "I don't think we've passed one other person since we started."

"Yep, and I'm still going to beat you to the top," Stephanie called back, without stopping.

"Cheeky," Ian said out loud, not stopping, either.

They rounded a bend and surmounted another hillock on their endless ascent, and then, down a sharp and precipitous drop, a broad and brutally open glen stretched out below them and away for miles and leagues; vast and raw.

"God that's so amazing," Stephanie said. "I never get over how wide open it looks. Like it's wide enough to hold fifty Londons."

But as his wife was feasting her eyes on the view to the rocky, mountainous horizon, Ian was feasting his eyes on his wife's broad bottom. He could not get over how good she looked this morning!

"True, but can it hold this," Ian said, grabbing his wife's bottom through her pants and holding on.

Stephanie let out a shriek of surprise and pulled away at the shock, and then let out a giggle of joy.

"Sneaky!" she said. "Hey, before we go, can I get some water?"

"Sure thing," Ian said. They had met mountaineering years ago and through their many bounding adventures, had developed a simple division of labor: Ian brought the water reserves (as well as any alcoholic refreshments); Stephanie brought lunch and snacks.

Ian produced a bottle from his pack. Stephanie posed with her head back and her lips parted; she let her husband squeeze the soft plastic of the bottle, pouring a mouthful of water directly into his wife's mouth. He stopped with practiced timing and she swallowed. "Thanks, honey," Stephanie said.

"You're welcome," Ian said, then took a drink of water himself.

"Let's picnic lunch at the summit," Stephanie said. "I'm getting hungry, but I think I can wait until we're at the top."

"Oh, I'm hungry for something," Ian said, leering at his wife.

Stephanie smiled. "Down boy," she said, and resumed leading the way up the mountain.

It was another thirty minutes until they reached the summit. The air getting colder, but fresher and purer, the entire way.

"God, I love this Scottish air," Stephanie said, who was born in America and met Ian, a born Scot, in Edinburgh when he was beginning his doctorate studies and she was an American college student, studying abroad in Scotland.

Ian filled his lungs with his native air and looked with pride at his foreign bride. The endorphins from having summited this peak, the arousal from spending the morning watching his wife's posterior moving just out of reach—he felt a kinship with all those who had climbed these hills for millennia before him, felt the joy they took in fine-bottomed foreign brides brought back to these impregnable Highlands . . .

"Ahem," said Stephanie, trying to get Ian's attention from his patriotic reverie.

"Yes?" Ian asked.

"Ready, Ian the Bruce?" Stephanie asked her husband, using one of her ancient pet names for him. "Shall we toast?"

"Ah, yes," Ian said, and produced the small bottle of Drambuie and two shot glasses. She held the glasses while he poured, and once poured, they clinked their glasses, looking into each other's eyes the entire time, and drank the draught off quick.

"Mmmmmmmm," Stephanie said, enjoying the mix of honey and fire.

"Congratulations, m'wee wife," Ian said. "Another pinnacle you've surmounted," he said to her, smiling and leering, teasing her with one of his ancient, joking double-entendres for her mountaineering accomplishments.

Stephanie curtsied, but Ian interjected—"oh, fine, but do it facing the other direction," meaning for her to curtsy facing away so her could see her bottom—but Stephanie just smiled and laughed back.

"I think someone's hungry," Stephanie said.

"Oh, aye," her husband agreed.

"Someone is just too much," Stephanie said. "Here, let's have lunch then we can get back to the inn and you can . . . have your way with me," she said in her simple, sweet way.

"But we're alonesome now, me bonny," Ian said.

"It's cold," Stephanie said. "And c'mon. I'm starving." She dug in her backpack, pulled out a loaf of bread, but, with an increasingly quizzical look on her face, kept foraging around in her bag.

Ian took the bread from her as she kept digging. She stopped talking and Ian watched her, waiting for her to pull out the meat and cheese that, along with the bread, made their simple, mountaineers' lunch.

"Oh, bugger," Stephanie cursed.

"What's the matter?"

"I think I left the rest of our lunch in the refrigerator at the inn."

"You think?"

"Well, it's not here . . . so . . . mostly likely back at the inn," she said, re-shouldering her pack.

"Oh, so that's fine. It's only ten miles that away," Ian said, pointing. "Let me call an Uber Eats and they'll door dash it right over." He pretended to take out a cell phone. "Look at that? Zero bars, no service? Well, shit."

"You're not helping," Stephanie said. "I'm already starving and you're not helping."

"Oh?" Ian asked. "I thought the bread might go down better if you had some crow to spread over it.'

Stephanie stuck her tongue out at him.

"And you sass me?" Ian asked again. "Your own husband? You forgot to pack your husband's lunch, and then you sass him when we calls you on it." He shook his head. "Tsk tsk tsk. What is to be done?"

"I remembered the bread."

"And you're to be commended for that, my dear. But where, pray tell, is the dried meat and the cheese? The protein so necessary after such a strenuous climb?"

Stephanie said nothing for a long beat, and then in a quiet, high-pitched voice:

"I meant to not forget it."

"Aye, but didja forget it?"

A long pause, then, Stephanie responded, with an upturned ending, questioning:

"Aye?"

"Aye," agreed her husband. "Ye did." Then he paused. "Very well," he took the bread and bit off a large chunk, "we'll luncheon on this bread and then you'll make amends and then back down the mountain we'll go."

"Make amends?" Stephanie asked.

"Yes, my dear wife," Ian said. "It's time for a bit o' discipline for you, to help your memory na' be so forgetting in the future."

"What—what kind of discipline?"

Ian put his arm around her waist, holding her tight to him. He looked at her and smiled.

He looked around for a rock the right size and shape and found one. He part-led, part-dragged Stephanie over towards it, and once there, he tucked the loaf of bread back into her pack. He settled their bags down off their shoulders, settled himself onto the boulder, and, pulled his wife over his lap.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, getting the picture.

But her husband's arm around her waist, holding her in place over his lap, made any struggle on her part, quite futile.

He began her punishment immediately.

"Focus, young lady! Focus! You must be much more focused where your husband is concerned! Focus and attentiveness! Focus and attentiveness! Being focused, being attentive, not forgetting things, not forgetting your husband's lunch, not forgetting your lunch, not forgetting our lunch!"

Ian's lecturing of his wife was relentless, and he punctuated his words with regular spanks to her pant-clad bottom, highlighting every third word with the sharp spanks from his palm across alternating cheeks of her voluptuous bottom, so ideally presented to him over his knee.

"You have a sacred responsibility!" his lecturing continued. "Your husband fulfilled his responsibility, to keep you and he from dying of thirst, why could you no fulfill your duty to him, not only as his wife and helpmate, but as his friend and best friend? Your husband takes you to the Highlands on a climbing and trekking getaway, and you will starve him to death! Really, Stephanie! Really! Stephanie Allyson Mancini MacTavish, really now? This is what sort of wife you are, Stephanie Allyson Mancini MacTavish? Really?"

Even through the all-weather fabric of her pants, Stephanie could feel her bottom reddening quickly under her husband's righteous assault. All Stephanie could muster amidst the truth of his words and the truth of his hand were cries of "Ouch!" and "Hey!" and "Ow!" and "Hey that hurts!"

But by the time Ian was calling his wife by every word in her legal name, Stephanie was reduced to the beginnings of tears and sincere-sounding cries of "I'm sorry, I'm sor-rr-rrry, Ian, I'm sorrrrryyyyyyyy, I love you, Ian."

Ian was glad his message was reaching Stephanie, but knew he was far from finished.

"Stand up for a moment, my wife," Ian instructed, holding her by the waist still while she balanced herself up onto the balls of her feet. He touched the button-fly of her pants. "Down they go," he instructed.

"But—but—" Stephanie protested.

"Make me do it myself, and I won't have room left for mercy," Ian cautioned her.

"It's cold—"

"And greater is my hunger, little wife," Ian reminded her. "And there's a long, hungry march ahead after this discipline."

Her fingers undid the button, and then lowered the short zip. Stephanie rolled her hips as she worked the tight pants over hips and down to the bottom of her bottom, and paused.

Ian, watching, reached out at his wife's hesitancy and tugged her pants down to her knees, then pulled her quickly back across his lap.

Green, he saw. The cheeky tanga panties his wife had worn under her hiking pants that morning were forest green, and looked elegant and timeless against her pale thighs and the pinkening cheeks of her bottom.

"It's cold," Stephanie complained.

"This will help you warm up," Ian said, and the first spank into the open air, of skin on skin, made a sound pure and clean, and Stephanie let out a yip, delicate and adorable, and reminded Ian why he loved her so much.

Ian held his wife close and tight on his lap, and reddened Stephanie's bottom with casual, alternating strokes.

"Sweet, darling wife," he said to her, going from cheek to cheek, from cheek to thigh, finding places high on her sit-spots and low on her sit-spots. "Sweet forgetful wife. Sweet darling wife. Sweet forgetful wife," cooing and soothing her with the loving repetitions of his words, while the painful repetitions of his palms bruised and shamed her, while at the same time, arousing her and allowing her to forget all shame by this atonement for her inobservance.

Stephanie enjoyed the embrace and closeness of Ian, the warmth and smell of him, the safety of him. She enjoyed the pain and the exposure, even though as the tears came more fiercely, as her husband spanked her with ever more ferocity, Stephanie kept her eyes clasped tightly shut, the better to focus on this special way her husband was loving her, and the better to focus on how with every stroke of his loving hands, she was going further and further into that wonderful mind space that the penitent submissive knows and loves.

Ian had picked a fine boulder to use as a throne for disciplining his forgetful wife. While the view of Stephanie's nearly-bare bottom was epic and awe-inspiring enough, as Ian spanked her he looked out onto the vast view here of the Cairngorms.

For tens of miles, the untouchable wilderness stretched out before and below him, raw and untamable; while here directly at his hand was the wildness of this woman, settling into his body, docile and tame, receiving his pain and his correction with whimpers and tears and loving trust and obedience.

Ian listened to the sounds his wife's bottom made as he spanked it. Listened to the soft cries his wife made while he spanked her. Listened to the winds and the breath of Scotland; he breathed in the pure air of the Highlands and smelt the lotions and hair products his wife used that morning, and he inhaled and listened and exhaled and spanked his wife without remorse or reserve, turning her plump, finely-shaped bottom from a warm pink to a searing red.

When Ian needed a break, he held his wife there for awhile, letting her adjust to the stinging and the ache.

"On your feet again," Ian commanded softly after a long awhile.

"Wha—wha—"

"C'mon, girl. You know we're not done. Can't be done with a spanking until it's bare-bottomed."

Stephanie stiffens over his lap. "But—but—"

"No excuses. Less excuses, faster it's over."

Stephanie only needed to put her weight on her feet for an instant, and it was enough for Stephanie to pull her green panties down to her knees, and then prostrate herself back down over his lap.

Stephanie moaned at the next feeling of violation by her husband's hands.

"Yes, I thought this would be the case," Ian said, gently exploring his finger tips between her labia, between her folds, up into her tight woman-part.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Stephanie said, feeling herself stretch around his finger.

"Loving this," Ian said to her, about herself. "She's absolutely loving this. Takes me in so easily. Grips so tight. Loving this," he said.

Stephanie's breathing was short and fine.

"Mmmmmmmmm," he cooed, cupping his hand over her, feeing all of her in his touch and caress. "Waxed smooth. Did you see your aesthetician before we left London? Naughty, naughty," he said. "Waxing herself bare before the dirty weekend away with her beau. Naughty . . . naughty . . . naughty," finding wonderfully intimate and invasive places to touch her and she squirmed again, but holding her so tightly, all her contortions were futile.

She could not escape his touch or his justice. She was loving his touch and his justice.

"Naughty American slut," he called her, dipping fingers into her, then withdrawing and using his fingertips to rub her wetness over her clitoris, then inside again, then calling her a "naughty slut" again, then slick circles again around Stephanie's clit, and then repeating beyond count and beyond words, as Ian amused himself by taking his wife from pain to pleasure in silence.

But only teasingly, pointedly not to the point of satisfaction, and when he was sufficiently amused by her, Ian removed his fingers from inside her for a final time, and commented, with a chuckle, as if she were not there, bent over his lap:

"What a slut." Comment which he punctuated by resuming his spanking of her, now bare, bottom.

But this phase of her punishment produced no more tears and cries from Stephanie, but moans and low-sounds of arousal and of a woman slipping into a realm of pleasure, submission, and sensation.

After a thorough peppering of her bottom, Ian asked her:

"Not hungry any more, are you?"

She shook her head side to side in his lap. "No, Sir," she said.

He chuckled. "Meanwhile, I've just worked up even more of an appetite." Another, single spank on her bottom, extra-hard, to reinforce his point.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"I know you are, darling. But now we must finish up."

"Sir—" she could feel him getting up now, moving out from under her.

"Stay here, stay like that," Ian told her, settling her into a new position, "hands on the rock, arch your back like this, make it pretty for me . . . that's right keep your bottom stuck out."

"Sir?" she asked again. She heard him undo his belt, the clink of the buckle.

"Come now," Ian said, "you forget something important like this, then it has to be a whipping. Only five stripes with the belt, because I'm merciful, to help it sink in."

"Yes, Sir." Two words, but two words Ian could hear that were full of her fear.

"Say thank you after each," Ian said, but before Stephanie could get out her Yes, Sir, the first stripe landed and Stephanie screamed!

She screamed out sharp and feminine, and Ian felt he could watch the sound waves of his wife's loving pain as they spread out across the glen, filling the massive void with her delicious notes.

"One! Thank you, Sir."

Then another, just as hard, getting a reaction just as sharp, and of course, "Two. Thank you, Sir."

A third, getting less of a reaction because she was used to it. "Three. Thank you, Sir."

Then a fourth, as the brown leather of Ian's belt kissed that soft, red flesh of Stephanie's ample posterior, and another thank you, and then a fifth, the hardest of all and low on her bottom, right across her sit spots, and Ian knowing as he lays it on that he will be seeing her wince as she sits down for the next few days, all from this stripe of his belt.

After her fifth thank you, Ian cradles and kisses her and lets his bare-bottomed wife hold him and cry, the two of them entirely alone here atop a small mountain, on the edge of the undeniable immensity of the pristine Scottish wilderness.

"I'm not hungry any more, my darling," Ian tells her, as they cuddle together for quite awhile, neither in any hurry to run back down the trail to the inn.

"Me neither," Stephanie says back to him.

They finish the loaf of bread together, then climb back down the mountain, following the trail back how they came. On the descent, they pass no one, but even if they did, they would not have noticed them, for they walk together down the mountain, alone together, completely within their own separate world.