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But Honey, I Can Explain! Volume One

By: April Hill
Published By: Blushing Press
Copyright: Copyright 2013 Blushing Books and April Hill
Five stories / 36,000 words
Heat Level:
3.6 Out Of 5 (3.6 on 10)   |  Write a review
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From best-selling author April Hill comes the most delightful assortment of domestic discipline and spanking stories you will ever read. Thinking spanking can't be funny? You haven't read April Hill. Her unique blend of wry humor and realistic domestic discipline scenarios will have you coming back to this collection again and again! You will never meet a group of more deserving brats than in an April Hill collection.

In "Little Miss Hearts and Flowers," we meet Sam, Emma, and Emma's Mommy. Emma's Mommy takes four-year-old beauty pageants a bit too seriously, leading to a no-nonsense encounter between Sam, Emma's Mommy and a hairbrush.

In "A Work in Progress," a tolerant but no-nonsense husband finally says "enough" to his stay-at-home wife who just can't seem to get her art career moving.

In "Sextet for a Grand Piano," a woman gets exactly what she's wanted her WHOLE LIFE. A piano and piano lessons. And she learns - the hard way - what happens when she decides - after only a few days - that the piano wasn't really ever right for her.

And then there's "Puppy Love." Ever wonder what happens in a DD marriage when a patient and long-suffering husband who has said no to "puppies" finds out that the beloved St. Bernard is pregnant anyway?

In "On My Doctor's Advice," a young woman whose life is basically out of control meets a fine, upstanding young orthopedic surgeon. He's rich, handsome, and, oh yeah, a spanker. But who said life was fair?

You will love this "don't miss" collection from Blushing Books and April Hill!

Sample from "Little Miss Hearts and Flowers"

It began when my friend Vanessa came to visit. I use the word “friend” in the most generous and insincere sense, by the way. The truth is, I can’t stand Vanessa’s guts, but I also can’t afford to tell her to take a hike because she’s married to Sam’s wealthiest and most important client. Sam is a hard-working but not so wealthy building contractor, and as long as Vanessa’s husband continues to put up new condominiums and shopping malls like a kid who has way too many Legos, I’ll probably keep putting up with her.

“If you don’t like Vanessa, why don’t you just dump her?” asks Sam, innocent babe in the woods that he is. “It’s not going to change the business relationship I have with Harry.” Harry is Vanessa’s husband, and a tough businessman, but if she asked him to jump off the end of a pier into the waiting jaws of a great white shark, he’d do it�� with a silly little grin on his face the whole way down. My own plan is to simply bide my time until Sam lands a client with even more Legos.

�So, when Vanessa appeared on my doorstep that cold December morning just after Christmas, I welcomed her with the most genuine fake smile I could muster. I knew that she’d come for the usual reasons��to brag about her perfect life, her newest new car, and her perfect kid. And to make me feel like a completely inept and crappy mother, of course. Vanessa has a six-year-old daughter named Chloe, who’s truly gorgeous. She has incredibly blue eyes, long eyelashes that always stay mysteriously curled, and suspiciously golden blonde hair that falls in equally suspicious “natural” waves all the way down her back. Chloe’s spacious pink and lavender bedroom is festooned with award ribbons and trophies, and with the thirty-eight rhinestone crowns she’s won in beauty pageants all over the country. According to Vanessa, Chloe has been chosen Little Miss Hearts and Flowers for five years in a row, despite the fact that she has the personality of a baby scorpion. (I added the scorpion thing, and I know it’s petty. Try to ignore it, please.)

But today, Vanessa had some distressing news. Chloe had donned her last Little Miss Hearts and Flowers crown.

�“The new rule is that the Grande Supreme Little Miss Hearts and Flowers winner can’t be over six years old,” Vanessa lamented. “It’s terribly unfair, but I suppose the pageant people feel that after Chloe’s incredible record, they should give some deserving little girl� at least a chance to compete with out record. We’ll be going on to even more important pageants, of course, but we’ll both miss being Little Miss Hearts and Flowers. You won’t believe the fabulous new dresses I just ordered for the Tiny Miss Topeka event.”

At this precise moment, while Vanessa was displaying dozens of photographs of the fabulous new dresses she had purchased for her budding beauty queen, my own little Miss Lower Middle Class Suburbia clomped into the room, arrayed in an outfit of her own choosing. She was draped head to toe in a pair of old gingham curtains, one of my threadbare bras, and her brother’s discarded cowboy boots�on the wrong feet. (Emma still has a little trouble with left and right. I think it may be an inherited trait, since Sam says I have the same problem when he’s giving me driving directions.) She wore the battered straw hat I take to the beach, and had wrapped the belt from Sam’s bathrobe around her waist a couple of times. Tucked under the belt was a neon green water pistol, which was currently dripping all over her bare feet and the floor. The powdery smudges of blue eye shadow on both her cheeks told me she’d been in my makeup drawer, again. That and the red lipstick she’d applied more or less to her mouth, and to her chin.�

“Your Emma has always been�” There was a noticeable pause, during which Vanessa maintained a rigid, barely polite smile on her lips. “How shall I put it? Such a very interesting-looking child. Where do you have her hair done?”

Sample From "A Work in Progress"

"So, what did you do today?" Jeff asked, looking around the studio curiously. "Anything interesting?"

I had to think for a moment before answering. I had "done," of course, absolutely nothing since he left that morning, other than making a feeble pass at the fridge, feeding the goldfish, and consuming most of a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, but a confession of that nature could only cause trouble. I knew perfectly well that the situation wouldn’t be helped by a smart-ass answer, either. Unfortunately, smart-ass is what I do best, especially when my back is against the wall.

"Well," I yawned, leering suggestively. "After Antonio Banderas left, I was pretty worn out, of course, but I did manage to clean out the fridge."

Jeff didn’t smile. "That’s it?"

"Ha!" I cried. "You wouldn’t say that, my dear, if you knew Tony like I do! The man is a sexual dynamo! Insatiable! Now, let’s see what else. Well, I did clean the toilet, but I don’t put that in the interesting column, of course. The fridge is like some alien planet, though. I just never know what I’ll find back in there, mutating into complex new life forms. By the way, a few of the little devils managed to escape, so watch where you walk."�

Jeff leaned against the window frame, shaking his head. He still wasn’t smiling. If he was going to be this grumpy the rest of our lives, I was going to need better material.

"Cute," he said, his voice cool. "But you know damned well that’s not what I meant. Did you paint today, or not?"

I let my shoulders slump wearily. "I tried." I made a real effort to look worn out from a day’s creative effort at the easel. "I swear to you, Jeff, I tried my best, but nothing came. Nothing! Besides, you know Jerry Springer? Well, he was discussing this really kinky sex thing where people use vegetables. Eggplants and melons and�. It was absolutely fascinating, trust me! Zucchini, we can all understand, but you simply wouldn’t believe what you can do with a nice, firm butternut squash."

Jeff tossed his briefcase on the counter. I had definitely lost him. "I thought we’d had this out two weeks ago, Karen," he said. "These excuses are older than I am."

I stuck my tongue out at him. Okay, it was childish and stupid, but give me a break, here. I was desperate. "Oh, they are not. I make up most of them, you know that." I made a quick stab at changing the subject. "You want dinner? I found a couple of interesting leftovers at the back of the fridge. You get first choice�the furry green one, or the gray lumpy thing with little beady eyes? "

"What I want is an answer," Jeff said firmly. He looked at his watch. "And I want it in one minute flat, or we kick this up to the next level."

�Uh oh. I laughed, but the laugh sounded a little thin, even to me. I was very afraid that I knew what he meant.� "You’re not still harping on that? That dumbass idea you had about spanking me? You can’t be serious!"

Once again, Jeff didn’t smile. "Try me." He delivered these words in what I have come to think of as his "Clint Eastwood" voice.

Sample From "Sextet for a Grand Piano"

My husband, Mac, is a very nice guy�a virtual prince among men. If I hadn’t thought so, I wouldn’t have bedded him, wedded him (in exactly that order) or borne two of his cuddly offspring. If Mac has but one annoying trait, however, it is his insistence that I complete what I begin, which, coincidentally is the single thing that I do best�not finishing what I begin, that is. Our home is an always changing but never-ending collection of half-draped curtains, rooms painted half blue and half green, and more unwashed or unfolded laundry than a federal prison.

Despite his dislike of incomplete projects, Mac has always shown an admirable degree of� patience about my disinclination to finish things, and he often steps in to finalize most of my enthusiastically begun household projects with a minimum of grumbling�until recently, that is. Which is why my rear end is in the sore and painful condition it is, and why I am sitting on the aforementioned cushion, and why my rear end is likely to get vastly sorer when Mac returns home and discovers that the piano has...Well, in the interest of clarity, maybe I should start at the beginning.

As desperately as I wanted to play the piano, you see, it had simply never occurred to me that I would have to practice the piano. When this almost biological clock-like urge for piano lessons hit me, Mac and I went shopping, and I found the perfect piano�the piano of my dreams and the piano I was destined to own. A long, elegant, ebony Steinway whose satin finish seemed to glow with promise; Lincoln Center, Hollywood Bowl, “American Idol.” Who knew?

At this juncture, Mac suggested that maybe a somewhat less expensive piano would satisfy my musical hunger, until I had mastered the scales, at least. To which, I said, “But the children can take lessons, too!” To which Mac said, “Yeah, sure. Fat chance.” (This was an allusion to our children’s lack of motivation when it comes to activities more culturally challenging than “Sponge Bob, Square Pants.”) To which, I said, “I’ll get a part time job to help pay for it!” To which Mac said, “Oh, like you promised when we bought the_______?” (Fill in the blank.) 

Finally, I pouted and whined, and swore on my children’s heads that this piano was the very last� thing I would ever ask for again, as long as I lived, cross my heart, hope to die! Mac had a good laugh at that, but bought the piano� or promised his life’s blood for the piano, to be more accurate, because he is such a very, very nice guy, remember? 

We couldn’t afford the piano, of course, even used, and when I tell you how much the piano cost, you will probably not believe me, and wonder why I haven’t been committed to an institution for the extremely dim, or simply strangled in my sleep. In addition to the problem of its cost, it turned out that this specific piano would not fit into our small living room.� Mac and his brother spent three weekends removing a wall and incorporating our den and our living room into one, large “piano room.” 

About three weeks after the piano was comfortably installed in its own room, and only days before the first payment came due, I came to the conclusion that the piano was not as much fun as I had expected, and decided to quit my lessons.

Puppy Love

I adore Dan, but on occasion, he can be very close-minded.� Most of the time, he’s a generous, kind-hearted guy, willing to see my side of things, and we've always made important family decisions as absolute equals. On this issue, however, he was wrong, plain and simply wrong! Anyone who knows about these things will tell you what a healthy, heartwarming experience it is for children to nurture a newborn kitten or puppy. It’s a glorious opportunity to witness the miracle of birth, to learn responsibility and compassion, and to better understand their place in nature’s grand scheme. (Okay, I think I may have gotten all the above crap on "Little House on the Prairie."� It sure doesn’t sound like me.)�

And so, because I never listen, and because I'm sometimes about as bright as Beauty, I decided to overrule Dan and take matters into my own capable hands. The very next day, after Dan had left for work, I began looking for a doggie dating service. Even as I leafed through the phone book, though, a tiny little voice at the back of my very tiny little mind was reminding me of that unattractive sound a doubled belt makes when it makes contact with a bare butt, and what it feels like not to sit down for two days running. But, true to form, I didn’t listen. I’ve had discussions with my more intelligent self many times in the past, and the dumber self almost always wins.

 

Sample from "On My Doctor's Advice"

The unlikely love affair between Will and I began one summer morning when I was driving to work and had the bad luck to get broadsided by an eighteen-year-old drunk. The kid was arguing with his girlfriend on a cell phone and ran a stop sign. He walked away without a mark on him, whereas I ended up in the emergency room with a badly broken right wrist, a broken left toe, a cracked ankle bone, and a whole lot of aches, pains, and bruises. And a string of follow-up appointments with the orthopedic surgeon recommended by the hospital.

This turned out to be a Dr. William Morgan. Six-feet-four, a lean, hard 190 pounds, sandy brown hair, smoke-gray eyes, etc., etc. and so forth. Not that I noticed his appearance, of course. After all, the man was my doctor. Besides, the sad truth was that this guy was so out of my league it didn't even cross my mind that we would ever have anything but a professional relationship. And since my insurance company routinely rejects any claim that doesn't involve dismemberment, gross disfigurement, or permanent vegetative states, I knew he'd probably end up suing me.��

It did not escape my notice, however, that the handsome Dr. Morgan wasn't wearing a wedding ring. My first orthopedic appointment went without complication. I went home with a clumsy, light blue plaster cast on my wrist and arm, and with my foot wrapped in tape, bandaged and encased in a gigantic boot-type air-cast. Dr. Morgan explained to me that the healing process would take six to eight weeks, maybe more, with the possibility of future foot surgery a distinct possibility if I wasn't extremely careful. Perhaps already suspecting that he was dealing with one of the least cooperative patients he would ever meet, Doctor Morgan sent me on my way with a lot of very precise directions about how to wear and how to care for my new casts. Don't lift anything heavy. Don't walk on the foot unless absolutely necessary; keep everything elevated and iced, blah, blah, blah. I listened politely, and began plotting how to get around all of the ridiculous and totally unnecessary restrictions. After all, I told myself, I'd always been a fast healer.

After only three days off work, bored out of my mind and with my limbs entombed in the doctor's cumbersome devices, I'd had enough. On the afternoon of the fourth day, I decided to go to the movies. "Batman: The Dark Knight" had just opened to rave reviews. What was I supposed to do, miss a motion picture masterpiece? Just because I wasn't allowed to drive (even if I'd had a car) and because the nearest movie complex was three miles away? The theater was only four blocks from the bus stop. Surely, I could walk that far, right? Especially if I left the damned, oafish boot at home.

The good news is that the movie was great. The bad news is that by the time I got out of the theater, my bandaged foot was swollen and throbbing. When I couldn't get a shoe on, I'd simply pulled a heavy sock over the whole mess, then stuffed the injured foot into an old house-slipper. Not too attractive, but serviceable. Now, the wrapping had come undone, and the foot felt like someone had run over it with a cement truck. I limped over to a brick wall and sat down, groaning. It was four long, hot blocks to the bus stop, and I had just under twenty minutes to make it there, lumbering along like one of the creatures from "Night of the Living Dead." With only two bucks in my wallet, I started scrounging around in the bottom of my purse. Maybe I could scrape up enough change to get a cab home.� I was still counting, but about to lose hope, when a horn beeped just behind me. When I turned around to look, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a bright red Jeep Cherokee, bearing in its air-conditioned interior, Dr. William Morgan, M.D.� Oddly, Dr. Morgan seemed� somewhat displeased to see me out and about, which I could tell from his distinctly disapproving tone and the scowl on his otherwise remarkably handsome face.

"What�What the hell are you doing?" he fumed. You know, I've never understood why people go around asking stuff like that. It was perfectly obvious what I was doing. I was flagrantly disobeying the good doctor's orders. I had a very good reason, of course, and I was preparing to explain about the "Dark Knight" and how fabulous it had been when the doctor leaned over, opened the passenger-side door, and gestured for me to get in.

"Where do you live? I'll take you home."

"I don’t need a ride, thanks," I chirped brightly, lying through my clenched teeth. "It's just a couple of blocks. Really."

"I'll drive you," he repeated. "I told you not to put any weight on that foot for at least a week." I looked down at both my feet, as though I weren't sure which one he meant. "It feels fine. Really." "Get in the car." Since this sounded more like a direct order than a polite invitation, I hobbled over and climbed dutifully into the front seat. Actually, I was unbelievably relieved by the coincidence of his showing up. My wrist was aching, my bandaged foot was in agony, and� the leg attached to it hurt all the way up to my crotch.

"Do you live around here, Doctor?" I asked, trying to make idle conversation�and to change the subject. "Or are you with the Uncooperative Patient Police?"�

When he didn't smile, I should have known the drive home would not be a pleasant one. "Are you always such a pain-in-the-ass to your doctors?" he asked, finally.

"I haven't had all that many, " I answered, truthfully. "I've always been a very healthy person, actually."

"Oh, yeah? How long have you been a heavy smoker?"

"And what makes you think I smoke?" I countered.

He only chuckled. "Take a wild guess."

"Is that a polite way of saying I smell?" I inquired huffily.

"I didn’t think it was all that polite, actually. You need to stop�now. At your age, maybe it’s not too late."

"Well, that's a cheerful thought. Thanks, Doc."

"It's not my job to be cheerful. If you need help with stopping, I can recommend�"

"I can stop any time I want to," I said. "I just don’t want to, right now. Anyway, I don’t need help."

The doctor shook his head, obviously annoyed. "What you need is to have your backside paddled next time you light up. And every time you act like an idiot and ignore good medical advice. Do you think physicians enjoy seeing their work undone by stubbornness and plain, arrogant stupidity?"

Cindy on 03/12/2015 11:08am
Good stories. Funny.
Cindy on 03/12/2015 11:08am
Good stories. Funny.
on 03/02/2014 02:23pm
I was not too impressed with this book of multiple stories. They seemed long and drawn out.
on 03/02/2014 02:23pm
I was not too impressed with this book of multiple stories. They seemed long and drawn out.
Laurel Lasky on 02/09/2014 05:29pm
Great stories. The one about the piano had me laughing out loud. My husband gave me some funny looks.
Laurel Lasky on 02/09/2014 05:29pm
Great stories. The one about the piano had me laughing out loud. My husband gave me some funny looks.
Connie on 12/15/2013 06:53pm
A collection of short stories about irreverent brats in the men who love them. I found them funny and fun to read. Especially loved the one about the piano. I loved all the stories and a couple of teasers for new books at the end. Now I have to buy more books.
Connie on 12/15/2013 06:53pm
A collection of short stories about irreverent brats in the men who love them. I found them funny and fun to read. Especially loved the one about the piano. I loved all the stories and a couple of teasers for new books at the end. Now I have to buy more books.
SL on 12/02/2013 09:46am
snarky. That is what I will call the heroine in these shorts. They were cute. The heroine is always with bad habits, including foul mouthed, snarky....maybe even a bit quirky. They are humorous though. She describes the ultimate spanking experience and implements with a flare...and a bit of sarcasm. I enjoyed the book, but the stores are very similar....So although the names were slightly different, they were basically a continuation of the same theme...only different circumstances. If you read them a few at a time, and then put the book away you can get through them and enjoy them. If you read them all in one sitting, they are just too similar. Anyway, the heroine is always one well spanked bottom.
SL on 12/02/2013 09:46am
snarky. That is what I will call the heroine in these shorts. They were cute. The heroine is always with bad habits, including foul mouthed, snarky....maybe even a bit quirky. They are humorous though. She describes the ultimate spanking experience and implements with a flare...and a bit of sarcasm. I enjoyed the book, but the stores are very similar....So although the names were slightly different, they were basically a continuation of the same theme...only different circumstances. If you read them a few at a time, and then put the book away you can get through them and enjoy them. If you read them all in one sitting, they are just too similar. Anyway, the heroine is always one well spanked bottom.

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