The shopping bag was a disaster zone—visible even from the outside. Redhead stared into it with disbelief (though not as much as she might have wished) and frustration: the vase—which had cost big money and been bought just 20’ ago—was shattered into pieces, ranging from large shards to fragments too tiny to see. To top it all off, a shard had pierced the plastic soap bottle... which was now ruining the newly purchased cleaning cloths. From bad to worse. She had known it the moment she saw Curly Boy—her boyfriend—give the bag his trademark careless whack, followed by a CRACK from behind her. She had prayed it wasn't the glass, yet she had no doubt it had fallen victim to her boyfriend once again. It had happened thousands of times before; she had told him thousands of times, too. This wasn't the 1st or 2nd item that failed to make it home in one piece because he thought he could handle anything. Clearly, he couldn't—and never could—but he wouldn't listen. The vase and its price tag were the least of her worries; that careless attitude had to stop. And it was going to. Besides, the nonsensical excuses Curly Boy offered only made her angrier. There was no doubt about it: it was time to put a stop to that attitude.

Curly Boy got a tad nervous listening to his girlfriend decide on a punishment, even though he knew full well he didn't have much of a case against it. He had smashed the vase—that was a fact: there was a witness (his girlfriend), evidence (the vase—or what was left of it, anyway), and a record (the many other things he’d broken on previous occasions). That didn't stop him from trying to plead his case as Redhead told him they’d be going back for another vase—promising he was for sure to be extra carefully this time—all while she opened the bathroom cabinet and grabbed some Vicks and a brand-new pack of glycerine suppositories. Yes, he’d already received a couple that week, though for a different reason. He and Redhead had agreed that adopting the disciplinary methods used in her household—at least between two consenting adults—was an effective way to deal with little offenses. They didn't use them often, but... if it came down to a choice, he was far more likely to be on the receiving end than she was. It wasn't exactly the best moment for them, though: they’d just eaten, and he was running on caffeine—straight into his gut... Plus, he hadn't gone to the bathroom that morning. They were sure to be effective that evening.

Redhead sat in the “punishment chair”—as they called it—which served equally well for meting out punishment or for sitting to receive it, should the occasion arise; she adjusted her blue bell-bottoms and pointed to her lap. She wore a firm, resolute look—the kind her boyfriend never wanted to meet. Curly Boy returned her gaze with the look of a doomed lamb, hoping to negotiate his sentence a bit, but such looks rarely worked once Redhead had firmly decided the punishment was just & necessary. And it was. “Babe, lap. NOW.” An unyielding verdict. The boy huffed, cursed his luck, and pulled down his black shorts and underwear, bunching his pale green polo shirt slightly around his waist. Gently, he lowered himself onto his girlfriend. Once Curly Boy was properly positioned, she generously coated her fingers from the Vicks jar. Curly Boy tried to argue that these things happen—that accidents occur—but he was met with a blunt response: a combination of his girlfriend’s vehement tone and her finger—thick with green gel—sliding slowly but steadily into his rectum. Curly Boy didn't mind Vicks too much, but both of them—he in his exposed position, she in the role of punisher—knew it would make enduring the subsequent suppositories a little (or a lot) harder. After swirling her finger a few times to ensure Curly Boy’s anus was well-lubricated, she opened the jar of suppositories; while her boyfriend protested the quantity, Redhead gently inserted the 1st one, pushing it as deep as her fingers would allow. This process, copied from her mother, was slow, allowing her boyfriend to savour every second as the glycerine bullet slid inside him. Once again, Curly’s buttocks parted, and she inserted 2 more glycerine suppositories into his exposed opening—the last one at an extra-slow pace to make up for how much he had complained earlier. There were a few extra moments of discomfort, as the first 2 invaders in his anus were already causing trouble with that characteristic glycerine itch. A couple of finger-pushes ensured all 3 suppositories were properly positioned for maximum effect. "OH," her boyfriend reacted. That little whimper was exactly what Redhead was looking for: confirmation that the laxatives were perfectly primed to melt during the drive back to the mall. And sure enough, they were going to work wonders; Curly Boy stood up and immediately signalled—both verbally and physically—the first of several cramps to come. Just in case—though it was highly, HIGHLY unlikely—Redhead grabbed a spare pair of underwear. They both got back into the car, with her driving, and headed back to the mall. A fifteen-minute ride awaited them... a far worse one for him than for her.

As expected, the suppositories Curly Boy had shoved up his rear began to melt from his body heat sooner rather than later—much sooner than the boy would have liked. He spent the entire 15’-minute drive battling a growing burning sensation in his anus, along with an increasingly intense urge to use the restroom. All the while, he had to listen to a long lecture about the value of money and possessions—and the importance of taking care of them. If Redhead wanted to drive the point home, the combination of her persistence and the boy’s mounting urgency made it all but inevitable. Upon arriving at the mall, Curly Boy knew he had to make a beeline for either the restroom or a store to buy new underwear. Redhead obviously knew this too and accompanied him to the restroom—though, to his embarrassment, she marched him into the ladies' room, which was, admittedly, empty. Once inside the stall, and under his girlfriend’s watchful eye, Curly Boy pulled his pants down to his knees and tried to get comfortable, all while struggling to hold back the urge to relieve himself. When asked if his attitude was going to change, Curly Boy knew the answer: he’d better make sure it did. “Yes, babe... OH...” ...PPRT... There was no turning back now... “I won’t break anything again. I promise... OH...” Resistance gave way, just in time. It was loud and stinking, but—PHEW—so necessary. Relieved and remorseful... would he really never break anything again? That remained to be seen. At least not for a while.