As any man in The Life will tell you, it can’t be ALL punishment and pain for your woman. If it was she’d soon go crazy.
But that same man will explain as well, and there will be no cognitive dissonance as he does, that if it doesn’t hurt and she doesn’t cry, it’s not truly a spanking.
And now it was Thursday and Thursday night, at 7:22 p.m., she would get her weekly Maintenance Spanking.
Work was more of the same. Grant applications and planning reports and trying, for, oh, the bazillionth time or so, to explain to junior plans that in formal writing we try to make things interesting and readable, but we do follow the conventions and never split a damn infinite or dangle a participle. We were preparing the annual report right then and I had a pretty good idea of what the Board wanted to see.
But, okay, I was distracted. Thursday is a very special intimacy and we both look forward to it.
She greeted me, as she always did on Thursday night, looking her absolute best. Today she was in a long, one-piece jumpsuit in a red satin fabric, something we chose together a couple of years ago for our anniversary. The crispy red color, so red that if you stared at it for several seconds and then looked away things were surrounded by a green halo, set off her hair and the pale skin that was on display. There was a wide collar with a single big button, and then another button Below her belly button with the expansion of skin between very much showing. Below that, though, she was covered completely by the material that spread so much that at her feet it looked like she had on a long, floor-length skirt.
Her hair was done up, her expensive hairdresser had done his usual impeccable job, and her makeup was a bit heavy. If we’re being honest here, it looked like I was going to have dinner with a high-priced call girl. Bright green eyeshadow completed the red of the material. Heavy gold hoop earnings and a gold collar were the accesSories along with the leather restraints, the thick sheep’s wool lining obvious along with the heavy straps and buckles and “D rings” that would allow her to be restrained made their use obvious. I knew that a similar pair of restraints would peek out if she crossed her legs and showed her ankles.
“Stunning as always,” I said, kissing my fingertips and patting her forehead. This was part of our Thursday Evening ritual as well. I didn’t want to mess up her hair or makeup.
Dinner that evening was at a restaurant we both enjoyed. I had the “surf and turf,” a petit filet ghoston with crab legs, split in the kitchen so I wouldn’t have to wrestle the sweet meat out of the hard shell. Red Snapper for her, with a loaded twice-baked potato on the side and a house salad, heavy on the Creamy Italian dressing.
As was always the case at Thursday dinner we kept the dinner conversation casual and, okay, mundane. I told her of my day and how poorly today’s college graduates seemed to write. She told me of her latest paper, she writes papers for lazy college students. I had two beers, whatever was dark and on tap, I’m not really a beer connoisseur, while she had a couple of glasses of wine. We smiled and watched the other patrons, making up stories about them.
It was early, by dinner standards, but correct for our Thursday nights, when I paid the bill, leaving a $50 tip on a $100 tab.
We got home a little before 7:00, as I always try to do on Thursday night.
“Go up and get ready,” I said, smiling and giving her another of those fingertip-pat kisses. She smiled and went upstairs, looking positively regular in that red outfit.
I moved that heavy chair we had purchased together at a flea market and then re-upholstered in a heavy patterned material so that it looked like it should be in a 19th-century Victorian home’s parlor, into the middle of the room.
I got our “Music to Make Love By” compilation CD loaded into the player, checked volume levels, and then sat, used the remote to turn on Fox News, and watched to see if we were at war with anyone new while I passed a few minutes.
At 7:22 exactly she came into the front room.
I just looked, as I do every week, admiring her. The transition was complete, as it always was. Her hair was flat and brushed. Her face was scrubbed clean of all makeup. She had stripped the Polish from her nails, removed her jewelry and the wrist and ankle restraints, and, of course, was completely naked.
She came and stood at the right of the “Discipline Chair,” her hands folded in front of her, head hanging, eyes downcast.
There was something about this instant, when she stood like that, so utterly feminine and completely female, that got to me as it always did. Her submission was complete and I accepted it gladly.
“I love you,” I said, pushing the button on the remote and hearing Billie Holliday’s incomparable version of Stormy Weather start playing.
She said, “I love you, too, baby,” as she bent slowly, laying across my knees.
I know how to administrator a proper spanking. Between study and practice, I like to think I have it down to an art.
When done properly, with a nice slow warmup, it can last an hour or more. As each stroke gets harder drawing blood and heat to the skin, I can almost feel the spanking with her. By stroke 25 she’ll be crying and by 50 she’ll be screaming and begging me to stop. Usually, by around 60 or 70 she starts cumming although sometimes she can hold out longer.
Once she starts, well, it gets pretty spectacular after that. She gets going, her pussy running like a runny nose first, but then as it builds up for her…
Well, let’s put it this way. The first time it happened I Thought she had lost bladder control. But there was no scent of urine at all. It was pure womanscent.
When she reaches that point, and she always does eventually, I keep at her until she just collapses, spent and exhausted.
A few minutes rest and, well, she’s pretty desperate by then.
The conclusion of her Maintenance Spanking is her squirming off of my lap onto her knees before me, getting my belt undone, my pants unbuttoned and unzipped, and taking me into her mouth.
I don’t do anything to help her. I make her do all of the work. And when I finish, the look on her face as she accepts the facial and hair conditioner is something you expect from a very devout Baptist who is in the midst of her ecstatic testing of her acceptance of her Saviour.
And, okay, I won’t deny it.
At that moment, I feel like a God.
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