Chapter 3: The 'Short Talk'

Helen insisted on serving us breakfast in bed. "That's what mates are for," she said. But the way she pronounced the word, it sounded more like "maids". She was wearing once again the French maid's apron and nothing else.

This was the day when Cathy and I were scheduled to make our guest appearance at the ALT-conference. We felt tempted to ring the organizers and tell them we wouldn't be able to make it because of 'domestic problems', but Helen persuaded us to go. She said she was going to sit in the front row and lend moral support.

Luckily, our talk wasn't very early in the morning. We had enough time for some very hot kisses and other demonstrations of the affection we felt for each other. But we refrained from engaging in any full-scale lovemaking.

We got to the hotel with plenty of time to clarify any last-minute questions with the organizers. The room where our talk was going to take place was already half full when we arrived there, and was filling up quickly. We hadn't expected that our topic would generate so much interest.

Helen was wearing a see-through blouse and a micro skirt, and nothing else. That there was no bra covering her beautiful breasts was obvious to anyone who looked at her - and there were many who did. That she wasn't wearing any panties under her tiny skirt she told us as we were getting onto the podium to conduct our talk.

"Watch out when I cross and uncross my legs," she said. "You might get a look at my pussy." And that's what we did: watch her cross and uncross her long, slender legs, while one of the organizers introduced today's guest speakers.

The first time, I only had a slight suspicion that there might be something different about her pussy. But when she shifted in her seat the second time, I was sure: there was something inserted into her pussy. What could it be?

"A vibrator," Cathy whispered to me, while the organizer said many complimentary things about the dictionary Cathy and I had compiled. I had the impression that Cathy was catching on to this mind-reading business. She could probably see from my face that a question was tormenting me, and it wasn't too difficult to guess what that question was.

A vibrator! Helen had slipped a vibrator into her pussy. And she took something out of her handbag which looked distinctly like a remote control! She was going to stimulate herself while we were giving our talk! I wondered how obvious my hard-on was to the people in the audience.

I could tell from Helen's face that she considered the whole scenario hilarious. So, that was what she called 'lend moral support'! I felt like tanning her bottom there and then, right in front of this highly-respectable assembly of cunning linguists.

I had prepared some notes for the talk without really expecting that I would need them. Figurative language is a subject close to my heart. I can talk about it for hours and - according to Cathy - bore everybody to death.

But now my mind was a complete blank. I didn't know who or where I was. All I knew was that there was a woman sitting in front of me who was stimulating herself with a vibrator in her pussy.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her. I wanted to take her home, shove that vibrator as deep as possible into her pussy and switch it to the maximum speed. Then I would bend her over my knee and spank her naughty bottom until she'd beg me to forgive her. That was crystal clear to me. But I didn't have a clue what all those people in the audience expected from me.

I had to refer to my notes. I read them almost word for word. They talked about the difficulties in translating figurative language. Some metaphors were of a universal nature and didn't present any problems to the translator. But the vast majority only made sense within a certain cultural or geographic context and required a lot of attention and sensitivity.

"The phrase 'You are my sunshine' only makes sense in regions where the sun is a welcome visitor, where there isn't enough sunshine," it said in my notes. "In areas where the red hot sun castigates man and beast, destroys crops, turns the ground into a furnace, the phrase loses its romantic charm. 'You are my rain cloud, ' or maybe 'You are my shadow, ' might be more appropriate."

I had planned to elaborate on these ideas, cite further examples, talk about expressions containing references to sports which were practiced in some but not in other countries - but I had lost interest.

I didn't care about the red hot sun in faraway places. There was a red hot woman sitting less than twenty yards away, flashing her pussy at me. I wasn't interested in fucking metaphors. I was interested in fucking that devastating woman in the first row.

Cathy was just as distracted by Helen's antics as I was. She didn't seem to be able to string more than three words together. Those members of the audience who formulated carefully worded, elaborate questions only received monosyllabic answers.

Our 'short talk' turned out to be even shorter than had been expected. In other words: it was a disaster. There was polite applause as I removed myself and my erection from the podium. I was sure that they would never invite us back.

In a best-case scenario the organizers might conclude that Cathy and I were quite capable of compiling a useful dictionary in the seclusion of our ivory tower, but weren't articulate enough to talk about it in public. In the worst case they might think we were complete frauds and had published somebody else's work under our names.

As soon as we arrived home, I grabbed Helen and flung her over my knee. I pushed her miniscule skirt up and - this time being grateful that she wasn't wearing any panties - started to spank her brat-bottom. I was going to make her feel what I thought of her behavior. I was going to give her all the disciplining which she had apparently never received as a child.

Helen didn't offer any resistance. She didn't strain against my iron grip or try to wriggle her bottom out of my hand's line of fire. She had probably known for some time what my intention was, that she had a spanking coming her way, but she didn't do anything to avoid it.

I wanted Helen to tell us how sorry she was about her behavior. I wanted her to ask us to forgive her and to promise that she would never again do such a thing, maybe even beg for mercy. But she didn't say a word. She endured her punishment without as much as a whimper.

As her cheeks turned from pink to red, I decided to give Helen another chance for repentance. "Say you're sorry. Say you didn't mean any harm," I encouraged her, but she just shook her head and wiggled her bottom, inciting me to carry on.

Without me wanting it to, this had turned into a standoff between Helen and me. If I stopped without her apologizing, then I would lose all authority. On the other hand, I wasn't mad nor cruel enough to cause her serious pain, just to preserve my ego. I continued spanking her without much conviction.

When Helen's cheeks turned crimson, I stopped. "Okay, you win," I panted, realizing that my arm hurt from the exertion.

Helen raised herself off my knee and hugged me. "Thank you, Stan. That was fantastic," she said with tears in her eyes. "We've got to do this more often."

Then she took a step away from me. "Now you've got to fuck me just as hard as you've slapped my bottom," she said, as she took off her skirt and blouse. When I saw her remove the vibrator from her pussy, I remembered that it had been my intention to switch that device to maximums speed and push it as deep as possible inside her, but I had forgotten my plan in the heat of the moment.

"Don't worry, it was on maximum all the time," Helen said, once more responding to something I had only thought but never said.

'Maybe that's why my punishment had been so ineffective. The vibrator pleasured her pussy while I was thrashing her bottom, ' I thought to myself.

Helen was already lying on the carpet with her legs spread invitingly, when I came out of my contemplation. "Come on, caveman," she smiled at me. I flung my clothes in all directions and was on top of her in no time. It was a fast and furious fuck. As I entered her, her pussy offered as little resistance as her bottom had.

It didn't take me long to fill her welcoming hole with my spunk. This wasn't the first time that I wished I had a little more staying power, the ability to control myself a little longer. Helen didn't seem to mind. She kissed me and said, "Thank you, Sir. I promise that I'll be a good girl from now on."

But somehow it didn't sound very convincing. And maybe I didn't really want her to be a good girl.

"Have you ever spanked Cathy?" Helen asked as we were devouring the snack Cathy had prepared for the three of us.

I shook my head, my mouth full of turkey sandwich.

"Did you never feel like spanking her? Don't tell me she's never given you any reason." Helen stayed on the subject.

Of course, I had felt like spanking Cathy. Of course, I thought that she had given me reason to do it. But that reason had been the trigger for many of our past quarrels. And now we were at peace with each other. Our feelings for each other had probably never been as intense as they had become over the last two days. I didn't want to spoil that happiness by opening old wounds. On the other hand, I realized that the thought of giving Cathy a good spanking - with or without reason - attracted me. But not now, not today. My hand still felt sore after the walloping I had given Helen.

"Your hesitation tells me that there is a reason, but you don't want to talk about it. If you want, I can say it for you." Helen offered to read my mind out aloud.

That would have been even worse. I could tell the story as something which happened in the past, use a conciliatory tone of voice, imply that it didn't matter anymore. I was convinced that Helen's version would be much more confrontational. And I didn't want any confrontation with Cathy.

I could tell from Cathy's face that she knew exactly what I was thinking of. Should I come out with it?

My deliberations were interrupted by the doorbell. The three workmen from the home gym place had come to deliver and install the equipment for our torture-chamber. I felt relief that Helen would now have to dedicate herself to instructing the workmen where to put everything.

Cathy and I watched the laborers carry the equipment into our former storage room, unpack it and install it under Helen's supervision. The only thing I could clearly identify was a large, low table, made of polished wood, which was placed into the center of the room and fixed to the floor. Apart from this there were iron bars, weights, chains, ropes and a variety of other gadgets I couldn't even begin to describe.

Helen knew exactly what everything was and where she wanted it. Once more I admired the silent cooperation between the three Chinese. They went about their job quietly and efficiently. Although we were curious, Cathy and I watched from a distance in order not to get in the way. The room would have been too small for Helen, the three Chinese, and the two of us as well.

While I watched the transformation of our former storage room into a torture-chamber, I had some chance to reflect on the subject we had been talking about - or rather avoided talking about - before we were interrupted.

I felt relieved that the arrival of the Chinese trio had interrupted our conversation. But maybe now was the time to settle this score. It wasn't an old and forgotten story. It was still going on, every time it was my turn to host our weekly poker game. Maybe we could use Helen as the arbiter and let her decide who was right and who was behaving unreasonably. I was sure I knew in whose favor she would decide.

I don't know exactly when it started, but for as long as I can remember I have been getting together once a week with a few friends to play poker. I'm not an obsessive gambler; the stakes we play for are so low, they don't make any difference to our budget, no matter whether I win or lose. It's just a habit - Cathy calls it a ritual. We meet, play a few rounds of poker, have a few drinks, shoot the breeze, tell a few jokes, and then stagger home.

In the beginning we used to meet in a bar. We even had a fixed table that was reserved for us every Wednesday evening. As everybody settled down, got married and had their own home, we found it more comfortable to meet in each other's houses, taking turns in being the host.

At the moment, the group consists of Eddy, Hank, Bill and Timothy - and me, of course. Eddy is the only one who lives on his own; all the others are married. My friends' wives accept, more or less gracefully, that this is something we don't want to give up. And with five people taking turns, it happens less than once a month in each house.

Apart from Cathy, who I'll get to in a moment, Bill's wife, Sue, has shown the strongest opposition. She simply clears out of the house as soon as the first player arrives and spends the evening with Meg, Hank's wife. She only returns after everybody has gone. But even she leaves a whole bunch of sandwiches in the fridge so that we have something to munch when we get hungry.

Lucy, Tim's wife is the most welcoming of the four women. She sits in an armchair near the poker table. She seems to have a sixth sense which tells her when it's okay for her to join our conversation and when it's better to remain quiet. And she knows instinctively when someone needs another beer.

Cathy is dead set against me having my friends over when it's my turn to play the host. She refuses to answer the door when they arrive - even when I'm busy in the kitchen, making sandwiches, because she refuses to prepare anything for us. Needless to say, she also refuses to help me clean up after my friends have left. While they are in the house, she locks herself into one of the rooms upstairs and plays music - classical music - just to let us know what kind of morons she thinks we are.

Now, I'll admit freely that my friends and I don't exactly behave like one would at a vicar's tea party. We use language one wouldn't use in the presence of a ten year old girl, and we can get a little noisy when we get excited, particularly after we've had a few drinks. But Cathy's reaction is way over the top.

The morning after, Cathy talks about my infantile need for male bonding. She calls my friends cavemen and says she doesn't want them to set foot in her house ever again. When I'm in a good mood, I let her insults pass without response. I might even mouth some half-hearted apology. But usually I'm not in a good mood. Usually I have a hangover after having drunk more than I should, because I was furious about Cathy's behavior. Usually I don't accept any criticism of me or my friends. I remind Cathy that this is not her house, but ours, that I have as many rights as she has. I don't cede an inch and we have an almighty row.

These fights have become a permanent feature of our relationship. I could almost mark them in advance on the calendar. The day after I host the poker game is the day for an argument. It got to the point that I asked my friends a few times to skip me when it was my turn. I said something about problems with the plumbing and that the house wasn't in a condition to receive visitors. They smiled knowingly; I'm sure they have a very clear idea what the real problem is. Tim once took me aside, put his arm around my shoulders, and said, "I understand, Stan. There's a price to pay for keeping such a classy lady happy."

At this stage I owe them three, maybe four meetings at my house.

I was sure that any reasonable person would agree that I had been treated badly. I was sure that Helen would take my side. But Helen was a woman. Maybe she too had a hang-up about men getting together to play cards and tell dirty jokes?

Cathy watched with great interest as our torture-chamber started to take shape. Occasionally she would remark, to no one in particular, "I wonder what this is for," or exclaim, "Gee, that looks frightening." I wondered whether this was purely curiosity, whether she had ambitions to become a torture-master, or whether she was contemplating a first-hand experience of these gadgets.

I, too, was amazed to see the large variety of gismos we would have available to us. In spite of my sarcastic comment about gyms being like torture-chambers I had my doubts that any normal gym offered so many different ways of causing discomfort.