Don’t Play with Matches (Raising Husbands)

Hi all! It’s been a while since I posted one of my Raising Husbands stories. If you like this kind of story, you can find more of them, some of them narrated by @Miss Jenn Davis, on my SubscribeStar: Alex Bridges on SubscribeStar.adult


The fourth of July means something different to the women of the new world, not a celebration of the end of colonial dominance but a celebration of the establishment of female superiority three centuries later and the start of the slow, decade-long process of putting men in their proper place. The customary celebrated was a neighborhood block party followed by fireworks, and even the men would be allowed to stay up late enough to watch them. That’s what excited them – a party, fireworks, and a later bedtime, not even understanding that it was their own subjugation they were celebrating.

With all the chaos of the block party – the long tables of food, the many barbecues tended by women grilling meats and smoking chickens, the desserts and jello molds, and the many men and dogs running around in a revelry, it was expected the day would include more than the usual day’s share of summer misbehavior. It was a day when most women, in their desire to celebrate, were almost permissive in allowing the men to act like little hooligans, but it wasn’t unusual to see even the most permissive, and tipsy, wife take her husband across her lap to spank his reset button if he became too wound up.

Michelle was one such wife, someone who looked forward to the day all year round when she felt the strength and solidarity of female control more than any other day, a day to celebrate that control and when the phrase it takes a village to raise a husband was even more true than most days. She wasn’t s strict wife, at least not as strict as some, but neither was she as lenient as others. Nonetheless, this was the one day a year where she let her husband Tyler run free around the neighborhood without insisting he be back before a given time or even knowing who he was with. She was confident there were enough women keeping a watchful eye that no serious misdemeanors would go unchastised, no thirsty mouths or hungry tummies would go unsated, and no diaper would go unchanged. Which isn’t to say she was surprised when Tyler showed up at her side, sniffling and holding his hand and needing his booboo tended.

“What happened,” she asked sympathetically as he tugged at her shirt.

Trying to hold back his tears, Tyler managed to tell her, “I (sob) got (sob) hurt (sniffle).” He held out his hand to show her the blister on his thumb.

“You got hurt? Let me see.” She looked at this thumb in the later afternoon light and saw he had a blister, narrow and half an inch long. “How did this happen,” she asked.

“I (sob) don’t (sob) know.”

“You don’t know, huh,” she asked rhetorically. It looked like it hurt a lot, and thought Tyler wasn’t especially bright even for a man, she knew she’d remember how it happened if the same thing had happened to her. It looked like a burn, and right away she had a pretty good idea how it happened, but first she needed to tend to his booboo.

She led him home, and once inside in the cool of the air conditioning, she made him a sippy cup of ice water and got out the first aid kit. To his credit, Tyler was very brave as Michelle held an ice cube against the blister, crying but not letting himself wail the way he often did when he was in trouble, which she expected he was in whether he knew it yet or not. When the ice had melted, she very gently washed his hand, applied a burn ointment, and wrapped his thumb.

“Feel better,” she asked him.

“Y-yes,” he said, his voice catching as he tried to keep being brave. She’d chosen him because he was comparatively docile. He got in share of trouble, and his mother had been honest about that, but he wasn’t in need of constant or very severe discipline, the way some men are. His was the kind of low-grade trouble that came from being a man and not too bright, not like the clever men of better breeding who were still smart enough to cause trouble. He had friends like that, and she didn’t envy their wives at all and the effort that went into keeping those men in line.

“How did it happen,” she asked asked again, standing in front of him as he sat on the bar stool that served as a place for him to sit for especially long time outs, and for her to sit when she needed to put him over her knee.

“I don’t know,” he said again.

“So it just happened,” she asked, giving him a chance to either tell the truth, or to dig his hole deeper.

He didn’t answer right away. He took a drink of his ice water, and she saw his eyes turn up and to the left, as if he was trying to think of a plausible story before she said, “That’s a burn.”

“I touched a barbecue,” he said. She as always telling him to stay away from those, so it seemed like a good answer, and better than the truth.

Of course Michelle knew better. No one left their barbecue untended with so many men running loose, and no one would’ve seen Tyler hurt himself and then send him home without coming with him to tell her what happened. She opted to not even follow up on his lie.

“Were you playing with matches,” she asked. She’d caught him playing with matches once before, trying and not succeeding in lighting one, and it occasioned a smacked hand and a very long talk about safety and never, never, ever playing with matches.

“No,” he said, having been caught but not knowing he was beat. She recognized the tell-tale blister right away, just barely wider than a match head, and likely the product of trying to light one with the flick of a finger. Her brother had done the same thing years ago, and Michelle had let him have it, and then her mother had done the same to him. It was one of the rare times she ever gave a harsh spanking, or at least harsh by her standards.

“Tyler, don’t lie to me.”

Tyler was familiar with the consequences of lying, like when he said he’d cleaned his room but really had just shoved everything into this closet. He also knew the difference between a fib and a lie, and he knew his wife disciplined him differently for a fib as opposed to a lie. That she had used the word lie wasn’t lost on him. But he wasn’t sure what was worse, playing with matches or lying, so he didn’t confess. It didn’t occur to him in his man mind that he’d be disciplined for both if he didn’t come clean, so he pleaded, “I’m not lying.”

“Up,” she ordered him. She wasn’t a shouter, but she had a firm voice when she gave orders. He complied, and as soon as he was on his feet, her hand was in his pocket. “We’ve talked about matches once,” she said, not shouting but clearly angry even as she was calm, “and I told you what would happen if you ever played with them.” She reached into his other pocket, and then his back pocket. “Tyler William,” she said as she withdrew the packet of matches. He swallowed hard, her use of both names underscoring just how much trouble he was in.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he pleaded as she put the matches away.

Michelle could believe that. He could come up with not doing his chores, throwing tantrums, and refusing to eat his veggies, but any higher order trouble was above him. When he found himself in that kind of trouble, it was always someone else’s idea that he just went along with, and he only had a few friends capable of coming up with ideas that naughty or plans so devious.

“Where did you get these,” she asked. He didn’t want to say. It was well known among men that tattling was bad, and if he tattled, he’d get picked on at daycare. “Where,” she barked as he sat quietly, not meeting her gaze.

“Billy,” he admitted.

“And where did Billy get them?” He shrugged. “If you know, you need to tell me right not, Tyler. Did he steal them?” Tyler shook his head. Michelle sighed, sensing he was telling the truth. “Did Lexy have something to do with this?” Lexy, Billy’s sister and instigator of most of the trouble Billy got into. Billy was bright for a man but not as bright as even the average woman, and his sister delighted in leading him into trouble. She usually got away with it, but Michelle was determined that Lexy be disciplined this time, at least as harshly as Billy. She couldn’t do anything about that other than plead her case with Lexy’s mother, who for some reason hadn’t married Billy off yet, but she could do something about Tyler, and she was about to.

“Stay,” she ordered him, and Tyler started sniffling all over again. He thought momentarily of pleading that his hand already hurt and that was punishment enough, or even that she couldn’t punish him until his booboo was all better, but instead he lapsed into sniffling silence as Michelle stepped around him toward the coat rack where his diaper bag hung.

It took her a moment, and from behind him, she whisked his shorts to his ankles and worked them off around his sandals. He cooperated as his tears started to run silently down his cheeks. Sensitive and most well-behaved man that he was, knowing he’d be bare bottomed over her lap in a moment set off his tears even if the now-throbbing burn on his thumb did not.

“Your diaper is soaked,” she told him as she untaped it. “Where were you,” she asked, knowing it was improbable that he could waddle around so many women without getting his diaper checked and changed by someone, but it was even more improbable he could play with matches matches and not get his butt spanked by the nearest women, unless than woman was Lexy, who enjoyed seeing men punished more than she enjoyed doing the deed herself.

“By the creek,” he sniffled.

“Lots of people are by the creek,” she said as the diaper fell to the floor with a plop.

“On the other side of the railroad tracks,” he confessed as the chill air caressed his bare butt.

“Where you’re not supposed to be. Where were Billy and Lexy when you left?”

“They ran home when I got hurt.”

“Figures.” Most women Lexy’s age were in college and could be trusted to look after men. Not Lexy; sometimes it seemed as though she liked getting treated like a naughty middle schooler. Michelle doubted she’d ever grow up but was too polite to ever say so. She roughly wiped the peepee from his diaper area.

“You don’t play with matches, Tyler, or any fire. You know that.” Not especially bright, but he had a good memory. Remembering is not the same as being wide enough in the moment to obey, and she knew that too. “You’re getting a big spanking.”

That triggered a sob, and Michelle threw away the wipe as she walked back over to the diaper bag and withdrew one of his diapers. She stepped around him again and took the spanking spoon off the wall. He feared it even more than the paddle his mother gave him as a wedding present, and she could see why. It left spoon-shaped welts everywhere it spanked him, though only those on the backs of his thighs could be singled out, the rest blending into one red, inflamed welt. The spoon only came off the wall a few times a year.

Michelle sat down and spread the diaper across her lap. He had a habit of piddling when he got the spoon. Sometimes he piddled even before she got him across her lap, but she didn’t worry about little man pee. It was just part of being a wife to Michelle.

No soon was she situated than she reached out and took Tyler by the wrist, tugging him close enough to lift over her knee, presenting his bare, hairless butt to her. She’d seen pictures of what men with big ones looked like, and she always thought if had one of those, maybe she’d feel it pressing stiffly against her thigh even through the diaper, but as it was, she didn’t feel a thing and began scolding him as she spanked.

“You. Do. Not. Play. With. Fire. Do you understand me? You. Do. Not. Play. With. Fire.” Each word was punctuated by another forceful swat of the spoon against his pale bottom as he earlier brave effort to not descend into tears broke down. He cried. He wailed. He kicked his feet. His nose ran. He piddled into the diaper, and Michelle felt it growing warm against her thigh, a familiar sensation almost anytime he was on her lap, whether for a spanking or to cuddle.

She spanked, and he promised he’d never play with fire again. She spanked, and he promised to never play with Billy again. She spanked, and he promised he’d never listen to Lexy again. She spanked, and he promised to be good always and never do wrong again. She spanked, and he cried and wet himself, and she spanked some more.

She knew he couldn’t hear her over the sound of his own carrying on, which she didn’t begrudge him one bit. She was really letting him have it, and he’d remember this spanking always, certainly long enough to for her to repeat the lecture again the next morning. She hadn’t decided if he’d get a second spanking, both to underscore the serious of the issue and for lying to her and being where he wasn’t supposed to be, before breakfast. She finished off his bare bottom spanking – as if there’s another way to chastise a misbehaving man – with a flourish of hard spanks, and across her knee, still sobbing but holding still.

“You are never going to play with matches again.” He didn’t respond. She sighed. “Okay,” she said, and lifted him to his feet, standing as she did and gently swatting his hands away from his bright red butt. “Open,” she said, and he opened his legs. He wasn’t spanked nearly as often as other man, but certainly often enough to know she was going to put that wet diaper on him as he stood there rubbing his eyes and wiping at his nose.

She got the diaper between his legs, folded it over him, and taped it tightly. That it held in the heat of his spanking was just a bonus; he needed to be in the diaper just like all men need to be in diapers, both because they can’t control their functions and because it reinforces their place in society – larger toddlers, if that. Once it was secure, he turned and buried his head in her breast, sobbing again as she rubbed his back and cooed at him. He apologized, and she told him she knew he was sorry.

“And your bottom is going to remind you you’re sorry, isn’t it?” She took his moan for agreement.

“Let’s go change your shirt and find some dinner.”

“Can I still stay up for fireworks,” he asked.

“It’s ‘may I,’ and yes, you may.” She wasn’t going to miss out on celebrating the domination of men just because her man couldn’t behave himself, and of course no one would think anything of seeing him the way he was, no shorts, damp diaper, eyes red and puffy, reddened thighs sticking out from under his diaper, and the few spoon-shaped welts plainly visible on the backs of his thighs. It wasn’t even likely he was the only man in the neighborhood sporting the same appearance. She’d keep him by her side the rest of the evening to make sure he stayed well behaved, though when he was as thoroughly punished as he’d just been, he usually stayed right by her side anyway, because she was his wife, and he felt safe with her even after such a harsh spanking.

Before dinner, though, Michelle intended to have a forceful word with Billy and Lexy’s mother.

1 Like

Yeah, I saw the formatting was all janked up. Figured I’d let you handle it yourself.

Unless you need a hand, then just flag it for formatting and I’ll sort it.

There’s actually a script for fixing this exact issue. It takes all of 3 seconds to run :slight_smile:

Thank you!

Thanks for letting me know. I didn’t check after I posted.

nice story. I havne’t looked at subscribe star, I hope it’s accessible with screen readers. that was one hell of a spanking though but it sounds like he deserved it.