The first time I spanked my Sweetheart as a form of punishment was the day after we had agreed to practice domestic discipline. We had joked that we might not notice much of a difference–unbeknownst to me, my wife had been working towards a more submissive role for some time, both in our love life and outside the bedroom. I expressed doubt about punishment being necessary, as I couldn’t recall the last time she had done something that would warrant one under this new dynamic.
Fast forward twenty-four hours.
Sweetheart was resting in the den, on her way to recovery from some health trouble. I stood in the kitchen, paused in the process of making lunch for us. The transgression was such a minor thing. Trivial. Laughable. However, she had asked what I thought we should do about this little thing and then she had done the exact opposite. Is she testing me? I wondered. It was more likely that her disobedience was the result of some distraction and not an act of defiance. Does something this small and silly deserve a punishment? I realized that I was trying to convince myself that it did not, but we had agreed–just the day prior–that my say would be final.
“Here we go,” I said, placing lunch on the table in front of her. Soup, I think. I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. She smelled clean and fresh, like soap and coconut. “But before we eat there is one thing we need to take care of.” She looked at me, her brow furrowed.
“Please stand up and bend over the back of the chair.” She obeyed without hesitation, unfolding her legs from within the long skirt she was wearing and rising from her seat. I wanted her over my knee, but the health troubles made that impossible.
“I’m being punished.” It was a statement, not a question, and her tone gave little indication about what she was feeling. She said it the way a person says “I’m going to the store.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Do you know why?” Her response was prompt. “Because I disobeyed you.”
“That’s right. You asked me to make a decision and immediately did the opposite.”
She nodded and bent over the chair.
“Lift your skirt, please.” She reached back with one hand and raised the thin cloth over her ass. She had no underwear on–the band irritated her skin while she was recovering.
Her skin was paler than pale, and there was plenty of skin to see. The firm roundness of her ass. The sleek suppleness of her thighs. Normally, just being near my wife is enough to stoke my fire. The scent of her under soap and perfume makes my blood race. The sight of her soft curves and flesh fill me with wild desire. I felt no joy at the prospect of punishing her, but something sent a jolt through me. My cock stirred.
It was the fact of her submission that thrilled me. There she stood, my Sweetheart, bent over a chair, exposed and vulnerable, offering herself to me without reservation. The image of it was breathtaking. I’m yours, it said, and the stirring became a hard throb pressing against my jeans. It wasn’t appropriate to be aroused, but I felt no shame. Her feet shifted back and forth, back and forth. It was a small gesture, and the only hint that she was not entirely at ease. I stood at her side, my left hand resting on the small of her back.
The first slap came suddenly. It wasn’t hard but the shock of it made her jump. The next blow hit her other cheek.
“Count.”
“One,” she whispered.
The next few strokes came more quickly and with greater force. “Two, three….” She continued, counting every other slap. By the time she reached four my hand was stinging and red blossoms had appeared on her ass. They reminded me of the way her face and neck and breasts flushed when she was aroused. Or angry.
“Five.” I paused and reached for the thin wooden spoon I had placed nearby. I had tested the spoon on myself–it stung. I brought it against her rear with a soft crack. She hissed, a sharp intake of breath. Another crack brought the same reaction.
“Six.” Another, and another. “Seven.” She winced involuntarily each time.
“Eight. Nine.” She bit the words off. The last few blows were just harder than a tap. “Ten.”
I blew against her bright red skin and rubbed it with the soft skin on the back of my hand. “It’s over,” I said.
She rose from the chair and let the skirt fall back into place. She looked at me with wide eyes and I took her into my arms. She tucked her arms inside our embrace and placed her face against my neck as I kissed her cheeks and forehead and stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I know. I forgive you,” I replied. “It’s over.”
She raised her head and looked around, her eyes still wide and a little wild. She pointed to the spoon. “That thing is the devil!” I laughed. She laughed. She sat down, a bit gingerly, and normal life resumed. We ate lunch, enjoyed each other’s company, and silently wondered about this new road we had started on.
Laughing Knave 