As I reach for the diaper wipes, my husband's face contorts in anger, and he slaps me across the cheek. The sting of his hand leaves a burning sensation, but I remain calm, my expression unyielding. I take a deep breath, my eyes locked on his, and slowly stand up, my hand grasping the hairbrush from the nearby dresser. With a swift motion, I grab his wrist, holding it firm, and pull him across my lap. His eyes widen in shock as I lift his diapered bottom, exposing his bare skin. The first strike of the hairbrush lands with a loud crack, and he lets out a pained yelp. With each strike of the hairbrush, my husband's protests grow weaker, his body writhing in pain. After several minutes, I finally stop, my hand aching from the exertion. I gently lift him up and place him back on the changing table, his face a mask of shame and humiliation. I reach for the suppositories I had prepared earlier, and with a firm hand, I insert them into his bottom, ignoring his protests.Once I'm done, I pull up his diaper and fasten it securely with locking pants, ensuring that he won't be able to remove them on his own.
