The Wife's Night

“Naked, caged, plugged, and bath drawn” the text read.

A pretty curt message from my wife which further led me to suspect something was wrong. There had been a strange tension between us since going out to a work dinner with her two nights ago. Over the last several months we had experimented with a D/S relationship and, although it was slow to evolve, we were at a place that I must admit, was thoroughly enjoyable. This text was both exciting and concerning to me on many levels.

Holding professional responsibility for my career, I was in need of submission to another. She, growing in her own professional responsibility, was ripe to develop control and authority. Now, we were finally in agreement and at a comfortable level for us both to really enjoy and expand our roles and personal satisfaction.

I began to prepare. Dinner, bath, suds, and a cocktail of her choice which was standard for our evenings together. Nights we did not play were an enjoyable sharing of days while sipping a libation and sitting on our back deck and venting stress and opinion. I brainstormed what I thought was everything the night needed as I tried to alleviate the edges between us. With dinner readied I needed to focus on the bathroom now. The bath, very hot and ready with overflowing suds. Candles in the bathroom and a bit of fragment for the topping.

The dog started barking which told me she was here. Fully naked and ready, I kneeled on the wood floor of the kitchen and awaited her arrival. I heard the front door close and our dog met her as usual while her footsteps walking through the dining room. She nearly…

Without looking up I remained in the middle of the kitchen as I watched her flats walk right past me.

“An Aviation in twenty minutes,” she said as she broke the threshold of the bedroom.

Her favorite cocktail, The Aviation. A 1930s drink that is meant to remind one of a sunset at altitude. Two parts gin, 1 part cherry liquor, 1/2 partlemon juice, and 1/4 part Crème de Violette. One teaspoon of cherry juice and three cherries. She likes it extra cold with ice floating on top, the trick is to shake the hell out of it and time the pour perfectly.

I heard her declothes and work her way into the bathroom. Her bath ready with candles, I now had to judge and predict when she would emerge for the evening. I prepared the recipe and waited to mix until Just the right time, measured off of when I thought I could hear her dress in the bedroom, hanging on every noise.

She walked in and I returned to my knees. Stepping up to the counter she lifted the coupe and sipped the drink… “Not bad.” She was dressed in a long, striped nightshirt, one of my favorites. It had buttons from top to bottom in the front and I especially enjoyed the access and the teasing they provided.

“Stand,” were her next words. I stood keeping my eyes lowered.

“Turn,” inspection was about to ensure.

“Bend,” she wanted to ensure Ihad followed her instructions. I bent and allowed her to see my plug, a silver one which had a single, fake gem on the handle.

“Is that the small one?” she asked.

“No, the medium,” I replied.

“Recover.” With that, she went into the living room. “Start dinner” as she walked away.

I began to put dinner together, assembling the ingredients and working the process of the menu. Putting dinner Together in the nude didn’t both me, I almost took joy in it. I would have liked it better if she had been in the kitchen with me but that was beside the point now. Dinner was a meat ragu with a hint of pepperoncini oil for spice, one my favorites and specialties. Once I finally put the pasta in the sauce to mix and see, I said loud enough for her to hear me in the living room, “Dinner in five minutes.” I heard Her stir and move into the dining room and she sat at the head of the table. I dished her plate setting it down from her left side as protocol demanded and then returned to the kitchen.

I plated my own dish and before I could decide I heard “You may sit in here,” just as I was in final comprehension of where I was to go. I looked up at her but abused my gaze instantly as she looked back.

“Yes Ma’am,” I answered.

I walked into the dining room and laid a dishtowel on the chair before returning for my plate. When I wear a chatity cage, I ooze precum constantly, it never stops. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the awareness in the loss of will and choice. Maybe it’s the constant pressure on my dick. I don’t know why, but I know that I love it.

We ate dinner mostly in silence. Besides the occasional “May I have the butter,” or “Pass the oil” it was unremarkable and unreadable. At the finish of the meal, I moved to clear plates first and then the table. She moved to the couch and sipped her cognac placing her feet up and crossed on the coffee table turning on the television.

“Come here,” she said.

I walked around and saton the far edge of the couch.

“My feet need attention while I enjoy this movie,” she stated.

I knew what this means. Honestly, one of my most delicious acts, to enjoy her feet fully. I pushed off of the couch and took a place on the floor. Slowly grazing her left ankle, I lifted it and began slow, loving kisses of her foot. Starting at her toes and working down her feet with the attention of a psychologist. Kissing and then a slow, small lapping of her skin. I admit a foot fetish and hers have always been more than beautiful.

She looked at me, her cognac in hand, body laying along the couch with her bare legs leading to my face. “Not good enough,” she stated.

Thank you. This is what I hoped for but I wasn’t sure if she did. This set me free, allowed the worship I wanted. Whatever was between us I now wanted to dilute with the proper respect.

I took her foot in my hand and nearly lost control. Immediately taking her large toe in my mouth and suckling it like a newborn. Softly, gently, respectfully. After due course I began to lick and clean her toes. Each toe individually, their length, their separation, their depth in between. Each with due respect and attention.

The best, my favorite part was bathing her feet, especially the arch. There is just something about the arch of a woman’s foot. The way it draws up, or the way it sits in sandals or is accentuated in heels. It is soft, long, concave, and inviting. May be the most intimate of spaces of the foot.

I lapped it incessantly. The softness, the delicateness, the delicacy driving me to want more. Across the ball of the foot, around the outside edge, and onto the ever more subtle roughness of the heel. First one foot, then the other.

After about five minutes she stated “I’m going to do what you can’t right now” and she produced one her favorite toys, The Penguin. “You will watch” she commanded.

The Penguin is a palm sized vibrator for women, it puffs air for a constant sensing and when my wife gets it to the right place, I am envious of the pleasure it gives her. She swung it in between her legs and already wet she slide it to just above her cliporis as I watched. Slowly she moved it downward as her breathing increased and turned The Penguin just slightly allowing the aim to just where she wanted it. Her head leaned back just a bit, it was quick, it almost Always was. She knew exactly what she liked.

I continued serving her right foot as I enjoyed the show. The sound of The Penguin began a faster pace as she had honed into the final pleasure. Her breathing increased, she moaned slightly, and her hips raised as it brought her the satisfaction she wanted. It was a wonderful show.

“Enough.” I heard. “Stand and follow me,” she commanded.

We walked over to the parlor where I saw that she had prestaged an eye straws over the door, wearing them in with anchors. She grabbed my wrists and pushed them up and connected the snaps tothe rings.

“I have been angry for two days and now I will have my frustration and patience,” she started.

“What…why?” I replied.

“At dinner Thursday you blatantly spoke and flirted with Chris while we all sat together. Even when I kicked you several times under the table you never stopped, you continued talking, each of you turned towards the other,” she stated. “I sat there and watched you carry on a conversation with another woman.”

“Bullshit!” she stated. “I was jealous and when I tried to communicate my concern you ignored me — completely!”

I could hear the emotion in her voice and I knew that tonight might be different than ever before. She turned and picked something up from behind the chair…

“Turn! I need to get my distance and angle!” She demanded.

I turned to the right slightly and submitted to her order with my hands shackled above my head.

“I am going to do this methodically, but to my wants. We will start with the flog, not to warm you up but to warm me up.” She stated with a cold firmness.

She stepped back slightly and wielded the flog, with a single swing it came across my back with both thuds and stings. Perfectly targeted for the first strike. She found her mark and then a slow, repetitive swinging began. Flogging was new for us and having tried it only once or twice I still wrestled with how it felt.

The mixture of sensing seems to act alone but directed by a rhythmic hand just hoping to aim in general regions. I could smell the suede leather as it struck and passed, each swing swinging the ends for the best effect. I think my wife had practiced this beforehand.

“Enough of that, it is time to get serious,” I heard.

She turned again, dropping the flog onto the chair and reaching back again to produce our cane, the mighty cane. One we had been working on for weeks to gain the right length and whip for just an event. It started as a post for tomato plants in our garden until I realized what it could be. After some deep cleaning of the bamboo and then multiple coats of mineral oil it turned into a tool that could not be bought.

“I must admit I have come to love this thing…I was a little appreciate at the length at first but after I shortened my choke on it made swings in close quarters much easier.”

I heard the first strike before I felt it, although the pain caught up with me. The cane never fails to impress but tonight it had emotion behind it. The hit was high across the back surely leaving the first welt of many in this evening.

Then a second, the third, and the fourth. She took her time between swings and tried to surprise me with every lash but I could hear the bamboo slice through the air just before every hit…time existed between each keeping me off balance without a rhythm. Five, six…

By this point I was drunk. The pain had gone to my head, endorphins running me now as if on drugs. Intense. The pain, it hurt. It hurt so good. I loved every strike, every swing, every hit.

“I am going to take hide right off of you,” my wife stated. “I have been wanting this and I have been waiting for this for two days.”

Another strike, then another…I felt a bead of sweat roll off my back as I the heat ran through me.

“That is a drop of blood,” as if reading my mind. “That is not sweat.”

Bleeding, that is a first. I did not care. I took pleasure in it. She continued…

It was at this point that I knew, it wasn’t rage, it was release. The burden of responsibility, politics, stress and work led us to this moment. She needed to vent but unlike most people, unlike most women. I was her sounding board.

Eight or nine strikes, I lost count. At this point they ran together in ecstasy age. She then dropped her aim to my buttocks. Her swings continued in ferocity but on a new part of my body stopping at four as well as I could keep up.

“We are not done yet…that I promise you.”

I heard her sit the cane in the corner and bend over to pick up something else. The Paddle. The Mother. When we started D/S we started with a thick wood kitchen spoon then tried a long metal hamburger flipper. After that we ordered a crop which too had its own personality but when this tiny, thick, holed paddle arrived we bought from a small business website we almost laughed in amusement, until it struck the first time. Ever since that first try, we both agreed it reigned supreme among our tools.

“Bend further!” She stated. “I want the most to hit.”

I bent as commanded and waited for it, the cane whelps were still singing as I stretched but I knew in my mind they would not compare to the pure pain of the paddle. She paused as if to survey and decide her targeting…

“One.” She stated just after it landed flat on the right chef. The strike nearly lifted me up and I knew that she had put her whole body into that swing and with following through. That chef seared with fire and the heat had just been turned up to full. “Two.” Left chef, we always joked about how German I was and wanting everything symmetrical and balanced…I wish she hadn’t recalled that right now.

“Three.” Right cheese, the pain actually increased, something I had hope against with the total number of strikes I had received up to now. “Four” Left cheese, no better, tears now formed in my eyes and my head was spinning in both pain and pleasure.

“Five.” Right cheese.

“Six.” Left cheese.

“Seven.” Right cheese still increasing in intensity…when will she stop?

“Eight. Left cheese. I now had tears streaming down my face as I had flashbacks to being paddled by both my father and in school. Admittedly, I earned them back then but that expThe margin was nothing compared to the force of my wife.

“Nine. Right cheese. She had to be getting tired by now…

“Ten.” This was the worst one, it landed perfectly on that left cheese and I could almost feel blood vessels break.

“Okay, I think we are finished for now.” As those notes fell to my ears, I could only weep a little more in joy. I heard her drop the paddle on the chair and almost comically it bounced off the cushion and landed perfectly on the wood floor with a bang. She left it there.

My wife approached me, “Are you alright?” Her tone and had completely changed, I took this as we had shifted gears out of play and now, we would start downshifting to recovery.

“Yes,” I stated, “but that one was for the books.” I replied.

“Come with me now.” She said and we shuffled into our bedroom.

She laid me down on my chest and lifted my feet onto the bed. I heard her walk into the bathroom and return with a cool clothes and aloe vera rub. She wiped me clean with the washrag which felt both cool and painful as they passed over the tears and the swelling. Then, slowly, she poured aloe in her palm, warmed it, and caressed my back with it. Gently without dominance, kindness and contentment over ferocity.

As she cared for me, I heard someone say… “I think for the first time I enjoyed this as much as you do.”

Finis.