If this story seems like a jumble of interwoven threads that are somewhat related but not really - if it sounds like the ramblings of a woman trying to express feelings she doesn't understand - well, that's about right.
If you find it difficult to follow and you get annoyed with me, just imagine borrowing the paddle from my husband and taking a few extra swats with it. You'll feel better, I promise.
It began when I asked Bill to give me something that needed to be done on a regular basis, and to punish me if I didn't do it.
The idea was to incorporate some real discipline into my life - not parental-style discipline, more like the old-fashioned husband/wife discipline from the days when husbands were in charge and wives obeyed.
I get spanked erotically and passionately and as an expression of anger - and I love all of that. But I wanted an occasional firm, loving, no-nonsense spanking - the kind with a taste of annoyance but not anger - the kind I never got growing up.
And I wanted to deserve it.
The exact chore or task involved would be up to Bill. As long as it was something that needed doing on a routine basis, my attention deficit would lead inevitably to my being punished. There wouldn't be any need for me to pretend or deliberately forget.
The chore also had to be something that would annoy Bill when I failed to do it, so there would be an edge to it. I wanted him to mean it when he spanked me. I wanted some emotion powering his hand.
He decided that I should take care of getting the recyclables out the curb. Our collection is once a week, on a rotating schedule that shifts with each holiday. It's exactly the kind of thing that Bill usually takes care of, because we both know that I would screw it up. ADD is like that.
For the first three weeks, I got it right. I got the containers to the curb on the right day and got them back in the garage evening. He even kissed me each time he arrived home and saw that it had been taken care of.
Then, the fourth week, I completely forgot. No change in schedule or anything to throw me off. I just plain forgot. In fact, I woke up at nine o'clock in the morning to the sound of the truck driving down the street. It was already too late.
The sound sent fear through my whole body. I had to get out of bed immediately in order to avoid touching myself to relieve the tension. I didn't want relief, I wanted to feel it.
All day, I worked on projects for my business and put it out of my mind as best I could, but a couple of times I remembered what was coming. I wanted to call him and ask him if he could hold off and not do it this time, but I didn't.
I was a good girl.
When he called and let me know he was on his way home, I didn't tell him and he didn't ask. It was a long half-hour. It felt just like one of those days when I was growing up and had a "bad" report card. I waited for Dad to come home, knowing that I would have to show it to him and he would punish me.
This would be different. I wasn't a little girl anymore, and Bill wasn't my father. But in one important way, it would be the same. I was powerless to stop it from happening. There would be no safeword. Bill knew how important that was, even though we hadn't discussed it in this case.
When I heard the garage door open. My heart sank. My fists clenched. My knees almost buckled. I forced myself to go to the kitchen and wait for him.
The car stopped. A moment later, the car door opened and closed. A few moments later, the garage door started to close and the door into the house opened.
"Hi honey," I said. My voiced warbled, I couldn't help it. I was afraid.
He said, "Hello," and I could hear the annoyance in his voice. Even if I thought that he was annoyed about something else, I knew I was in for it. He had to walk right past the pile of newspapers on his way into the kitchen. Even if he had forgotten about recycling day until that very moment, there was a reminder right in front of him.
As he entered the kitchen, I reached out my arms to get a hug. He held me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he wrapped his around my lower back, pressing my chest into him. He even kissed me tenderly. For the briefest moment, I thought maybe I would be let off the hook.
But then he broke the kiss, pointed to the kitchen table and said, "hands on the table". I rested my arm on his shoulder and looked at his chest, trying to summon the courage to say something. All I could do was breathe.
"Go on," he said. It was kind, not angry, not judgemental and not flirtatious nor erotic. I wondered if this was how it felt to be a wife before the 1960s or if this was a throwback to an even earlier time. Did my grandmother go through this? Did my great-grandmother?
Great-aunt Adelia once told my mom that my Dad should give her a good spanking when she needed it - that it would do her good. Mom boiled under her collar but said nothing. Husband/wife spankings were history in our family, but the tales of them weren't quite out of living memory.
We were about to re-start an old, almost-forgotten tradition. Aunt Addie was right, bless her soul. It would do me good.
Obediently, I turned and walked toward the table, like a condemned woman to the gallows. It took a lot of energy to keep my knees from buckling.
In moments like that, you hear the sounds - my husband walking to the living room and opening one of the drawers, followed by wood against wood as he took something out of it and the sound of the drawer closing.
About the time he returned to the kitchen, I was pushing my hair back behind my shoulders and putting my palms on the table. I kept my knees straight, so my bottom would be pert and ready.
He came up beside me and set the paddle on the table. We have several. This one is made of wood, painted black, shaped and sized like a ping-pong paddle but heavier, more solid - specifically designed for spanking.
His right hand touched my waist and gave me a soft back rub. I sighed. It was wonderful.
"I love you," I told him, without taking my eyes or hands off the table.
He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. "I love you too, sweetie."
His other hand slid under my breasts, scooping them through my white turtle-neck and the bra underneath. This was definitely not going to be a parental spanking - at least not the kind that either of my parents administered.
"You know I'm going to do this for real," he said. "I'm not going to role-play or call you 'Daddy's little girl' or anything".
I smiled, still not looking at him. "I know." Then I finally looked up. "We could do that some other time if you want." I couldn't repress a giggle.
He smiled back at me. Then, reaching into his pocket, he took out a hair clip. He must have found it in the living room on the coffee table.
"Put your hair into a ponytail," he said. "I want to see your face."
I bit my lip and stood up straight. Taking the clip from him, I gathered my hair together and clipped it so it would sweep to the back of my head and drape down just past my collar. I turned my head side to side then looked at him.
"That's fine," he confirmed.
With that, I put my hands back on the table and waited for him. He put his hand on my back again and slid his other arm underneath as before, but this time he kissed my neck instead of my cheek.
Gently, he whispered in my ear, "Did you forget on purpose?"
I shook my head slightly, not enough to interfere with his nuzzling. "No, I just forgot. Honestly."
"OK," he said.
His hand slid down to my bottom. I was wearing a white linen skirt, knee-length, not very thick. It was summer-weight and wouldn't provide much protection. I fully expected it to be lifted or even lowered.
He held his left arm underneath me, cupping my right breast but also supporting some of my weight.
I started to cry, mostly from fear, but partly because I felt so loved and cared for.
"I'm sorry, honey," I said. "I really am."
"I know," he whispered.
His right hand pulled back and swatted me full on the bottom, over the skirt. It was a strong spank. It set the tone. I gasped and said "Ow" or something, resisting the urge to try to avoid more.
His left hand slid down and around to my right side, giving more support and holding me tighter to him. Supporting me was more important to him than fondling.
The second spank was a little harder than the first. The paddle was still on the table. These were done with his bare hand over my skirt and underwear, but they still hurt. There was comfort in that. He wasn't toying with me nor teasing. There was no false hope that this would be mild.
He continued spanking in a slow rhythm - good hard spanks - firm husband-spanks. But the whole time I felt his love through the support and hugging of his other arm. I was able to cry right away. There was no need to hold back.
After a few spanks, once my tears started to hit the table, he began to scold me. "All you had to do was to take out the recyclables."
Three more spanks.
"I could have done it myself and had it out to the curb on the right day, but you agreed to handle this."
Four very hard spanks. I could feel him being annoyed with me.
It may seem silly, but it's the kind of thing that's important to Bill. He hates having stuff pile up and get messy. He doesn't mind a cluttered living room or a kitchen that doesn't get cleaned as often as it should, but it irks him to have piles of stuff laying around that aren't being taken care of.
.... There is more of this story ...