The Surrender To Win Outcome

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

{Note:  This story is a follow-on to “The Surrender to Win Ploy.”  It may be read as a standalone, but will read much better if you first read its antecedent.  To do so, click on: The Surrender to Win Ploy and enjoy.}

We had a plan.

I plotted with my secretary Jane to trick my wife Mary into being more reasonable when she and I disagreed.  We are both, to be honest, spring-loaded to argue when either of us proposes something to the other.  Our marriage was unlikely to survive if we did not change the dynamic.  So, Jane sketched out a process for me to follow which would result in me getting my way, without Mary even realizing it.  Problem solved; everyone happy; marriage saved.

Jane and I agreed on this plan.  The first part of which was to lull Mary into thinking I was surrendering all decisions to her.  That would make her less combative, which would open the door for me to execute the second part of the plan in which I would cleverly persuade her into doing what I wanted.  To be honest, I was a little weak on the details of this crucial, second part, but Jane had it all worked out.

To execute the plan, Jane invited herself over for coffee Saturday morning, and began the discussion just the way we agreed.  We got the first part down on paper—my giving in to Mary—when Jane recommended we, “take the time to make what we have so far official, then we can have further discussions as you both might require.”  I signed off on it, as did Mary.  Jane signed as witness.

There was no doubt in my mind there would be further discussions as Jane and I choreographed it, because the paper we signed—the contract—gave full control over me to Mary, complete with punishments for non-compliance.  That was the first part of the master plan.  There was supposed to be more.  Prior to the meeting, we agreed, Jane and I, that there would be more!

Instead, my jaw dropped as Jane gave Mary a high-five, said, “I sent a copy to your lawyer.  He’s all yours,” wheeled around and walked out the door, leaving me sitting there with my mouth agape, wondering, What the hell just happened?!

When I turned from the closing door—the unexpected and premature end to our negotiations—Mary was gazing back at me, sitting across the table, wearing a pleasant, self-satisfied smile.

“I thought we were going to have further discussions,” I said.  “Jane said we were.  Why did she leave, and what was that high-five and lawyer stuff all about?”

Mary’s smile became more motherly.  Then she said, “Jane said ‘further negotiations as we both might agree.’  I see no need for further negotiations.  As for the high-five, Jane gets a little exuberant when a plan comes together.  And the lawyer…  Let’s just say, like you, I did not think our marriage could last the way it was going, and I looked into legal counsel.  I met a very capable, female, divorce attorney who suggested this plan to Jane and I as an alternative to us calling it quits.”

“You mean you and Jane, and this lawyer person I’ve never met plotted against me?  You tricked me?  How could you do that?!  Jane said she would help me get you to be more reasonable.”  Jane said a lot of things, I thought, but I missed the part where she said, “I’m going to screw you over, John, and make sure Mary holds all the cards from now on.”

“Oh, I intend to be reasonable, John.  Well, at least what I consider reasonable.  Jane was not lying when she said this was just the beginning of your new life.  From now on, I will decide for both you and I, and there will be consequences whenever you do not comply with those decisions.”  Mary’s smile became more calculating, then she added, “Actually, in agreement with what you just signed, there will be consequences whenever I feel like invoking consequences.  That will certainly be the case when you defy me, but I’m not limited to those instances.  It’s all down on the paper you signed.  You really should take the time to read it.

“Regarding the lawyer you have yet to meet,” Mary said, losing the smile, “she will drop by this evening to discuss your options going forward.  In the meantime, the yard needs mowing.  Go do that, and trim the edges.  That will give you some alone time to consider your new position in our marriage.  Take your time and do a good job.  I’ll be checking your work when you are done.”

“Wait a damned minute!  You can’t just order me around!”

“Actually, John, I can.  Do you really want to enter the penalty phase of our contract already?  Remember what is called out in the signed document on the table before you.”

There was no talk of spanking, corner time or any of the other embarrassing punishments in the original plan Jane and I put together, but they were prominent in the document I just signed.  I wanted to argue.  I wanted to yell and scream and launch an all-out battle, but I clamped my jaws tight together and went out to mow the lawn.  We’ll just see who runs what, I thought.  I’ll take that damned woman lawyer apart.  Nobody tells me what I have to do.  I’m the husband in this marriage.  I set the rules.  And consequences?  You better believe there will be consequences.

I took my time on the lawn, mowing and edging.  It looked like part of a well-cared-for golf course when I was done.  I put the mower and edger away and was just passing Mary coming out as I was on my way in.  We didn’t speak in passing.  I knew what she was doing, and it was not going to work.  She could do all the “inspecting” she liked.  I was saving my ammunition for when the attorney showed up.

I went upstairs and took a leisurely shower.  It was a sultry day, and the cool water felt great and helped me to relax.  I was going to keep my cool and not let Mary think she was getting to me.  Spanking?  Corner time?  What a joke.

I spent what was left of the day at my desk in the family room, playing Civilization on my computer (one of the all-time best ways to lose track of a few hours).  We ate leftovers for dinner; neither one of us felt like cooking, and Chicken Rice Roger holds up well in the fridge.  Mary complemented me on the job I did on the lawn, which I acknowledged with a nod.  Silence reigned after that.

As I put my dishes in the sink, the doorbell rang.  “That will be Cynthia,” Mary said.  “Would you like to invite her in?”

My immediate thought was, Not only no, but hell no! but I kept it to myself, wiped my wet hands on a kitchen towel and strode to the front door.  I opened the door and was face to face with a tall brunette, casually dressed in faded blue jeans, a glittery red blouse and heeled boots that gave her an extra three inches.  I noted the boots, because I’m average height for a man, and in those boots, she stood an inch or so taller.  I’d guess she was a few years older than Mary and I, but not an old lady by any measure.

“You must be John,” she said, and held out her hand.  “I’m Cynthia Masters.”

I took her offered hand, but that’s as far as I got.  I was expecting someone a lot shorter, and plane looking, probably with a Napoleon Complex, who went into law to compensate for her stature and her figure.  Oh, and she should be older, much older with wrinkles and the smattering of gray hair.

“Are you going to invite me in, John?  I thought you’d be expecting me.  Mary did tell you I was coming, didn’t she?”

“Oh, um, yes.  Please come in.  We were just finishing dinner.  Mary’s in the kitchen.”

“Not doing the dishes, I hope,” Cynthia said and breezed by me like she owned the place.

I followed her into the kitchen—as a gentleman, being careful not to notice she had a really nice ass—where she hugged Mary, then they both turned to watch me enter the room.  I noticed in passing that Mary had stacked her dishes on mine in the sink.

“So, John,” Cynthia said, “you’ve had an interesting day.  Let’s all sit at the table, and we can discuss the situation as it now stands.”

“Yeah, right.  I got screwed over bigtime in my last discussion with two women.  That’s how it now stands, and it’s time we did some serious unscrewing to set matters straight.  I have no intention of…”

“Sit down, John,” Cynthia interrupted.  She’d adopted what must be her court-room manner—the one she’d use as she told some poor sod his wife was getting the house, the car and ninety percent of his paycheck.

I pulled out a chair and sat.  The women sat across the table from me.

“Let’s start by reviewing the document you signed,” Cynthia said.

“The document, right.  I refuse to even acknowledge that scrap of paper.  No one can compel me to be obedient to another person.  If they think they can, they are seriously deluded.”

“Actually,” Cynthia responded, “obedience is not uncommon in marriage contracts, although it is less common than in years past.  You know the words, Love, Honor and Obey?  Fortunately, Mary did not make that vow when the two of you married, so we did not have to abrogate it in the document you signed.  What we did, is place that obligation wholly and explicitly on your shoulders.”

Mary was sitting back in her chair, happy to let her attorney do the talking.

“And what if I decide to tear up that ‘document’?  I was tricked into signing it.  No court would hold me to it.”

“Oh?  You were ‘tricked’?”

“That’s right,” I said, as I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest.

“So, neither Mary nor the witness, Jane described what was being put on paper as it was written?”

I didn’t answer, remembering Jane’s description of what she was writing and my reactions at the time (I’m sure I blushed at some of the more explicit language).

“And you were not permitted to read the document before you signed it?  You did read it, didn’t you, John?  I advise my clients to always read any contract before they sign it.”

“Yeah, I read it,” I said.  Mostly true, I did scan it, but my mind was occupied with moving on to the second phase of the discussion.  In retrospect, Jane could have written, “and John will, at Mary’s direction, catch and eat a dozen wild rats for dinner,” and I would have thought it strange, but not much stranger than what she actually did write.  Because, I knew that the tables would turn in phase two.

“Then how, exactly, were you ‘tricked’?”

“I’ll tell you how, Jane was supposed to help me get Mary to give up her control to me, not the other way around.”

“So, you and Jane were in collusion to defraud my client?”

“Yes.  No, not defraud, it wasn’t anything like that.  And besides, Jane is Mary’s best friend.  Nothing she wrote could be binding, given their relationship.  That’s undue influence, or something.  It would never stand up in court.”

Cynthia grinned at me.  “I see someone has been watching courtroom dramas on TV.  Undue Influence would not apply, since Jane, as a witness, is not a party to the contract.  Plus, the argument could be made that you, as Jane’s superior at work, would have more influence over her actions than would her friend, no matter how close that friendship might be.

“You mentioned the agreement’s standing in court.  It is because Mary is trying to avoid a court action that she asked you to sign this document modifying your marriage agreement.  Now, you can, if you wish, refuse to comply with its terms, in which case, we will go to court and my client will—partly with the aid of this signed and witnessed agreement—win a very favorable settlement.  In the vernacular, John, you’ll lose your ass.”

We stared at each other for a minute.  That outcome frightened me.  With the way courts support the wife, any thinking husband would be frightened, at least a little.  Finally, I said, “Mary said you were coming over to discuss our options.”

“The decision is yours, John, and your options are simple.  You may choose to abide by the agreement and live under the rule of your loving wife, or you may refuse the agreement and lose the things you now enjoy—your home, your standing in the community, much of your income and your wife—and essentially live as a pauper for the rest of your life.”

My mouth had gone dry.  I could picture this woman making Mary’s case before a judge (in my imagination it was a female judge, with a sour expression every time she looked at me), and the prospect of loss was overwhelming.  Not just the loss of property.  It was finally coming home to me.  I could lose Mary.  In the heat of our past arguments, I knew we might be headed for divorce, but it had never been so clear to me what that meant.  I could do without things.  I lived through some difficult times while I worked my way through college.  At times, subsisting on rice and a quarter can of soup (whatever was on sale) as a sauce.  I wouldn’t enjoy it, but I could do it.  What I could not do is live without the love of my life, my soulmate.

It took me a moment to come to terms with this realization, but when I did, I looked at Mary and said, “You win.  I do not want to live life without you.”

“It’s not about winning and losing,” Mary said, paused, then grinned, “although, you’re right, I did win.”  Then more soberly, “It’s really about our ability to continue to live together.  One of us had to take the leadership role, we could not continue butting heads over every little decision, and I’m just not made to be a follower.  In some ways I’m sorry, John, but that’s the way it has to be.”

“Are we agreed, then?” Cynthia asked.

“Yes,” I said, reluctantly.  “We are,” Mary said at the same time.

“Very well,” Cynthia said, “then I suggest you, Mary, levy your first penalty upon John as a consequence of his initial intransigence.  It is essential you two get past that first hurdle, to remove any doubt in either party’s mind what the consequences of failure to perform might be.  In addition, it will mark the point and the manner in which the relationship has changed.”

“I agree,” said Mary.  “John, stand up and strip.”

“What?  Now?  In front of…”

“Now, John.  What was the wording in the agreement?  Oh yes, ‘John will accept without objection…’ etc. and in the penalty clause: ‘he will at Mary’s direction remove all clothing…’ well, you know the rest.  I need not quote the entire document.  So, the moment of truth.  Are we in agreement, John?  If so, lose the clothes.  Stand up and strip.”

Seeing no way around it, I rose from my chair, turned my back on the two women, and stripped, placing my clothing on the kitchen counter in front of me.  When I turned back around, my left hand was casually covering my groin.  (Little Johnny was rising to attention.  Both Mary and Cynthia are fine looking women, and Johnny can be a little scamp when pretty ladies are present.)  Mary had turned her chair out away from the table, and was holding her flat-backed, wooden hairbrush.

“Drop the modesty act, little boy,” Mary ordered. “Hands at your sides.”

Cynthia chuckled when my enlarged member was revealed, and said, “I think somebody is going to like the new arrangement.”

“I expect that opinion will change about three spanks into what I plan to give him,” Mary responded.

“Over my knee, John,” Mary ordered, patting her left thigh.

I was quick to comply.  I could feel my face turn bright red at Cynthia’s comment and was eager to get Johnny out of sight.

Mary put her right leg over both of mine, and hooked that foot behind her left ankle, locking me in place.  “Since this is the first of what I expect will be many spankings, John, I have decided it should be memorable.  Hopefully, it will provide the lesson that makes frequent repetitions unnecessary.  I have to tell you, however, if it does not, that will also be fine with me.  This is a solid brush, and will not wear out no matter how many times I have to apply it.”

With that warning, I tightened up in anticipation of the first smack.  How hard will Mary spank?  How much will it hurt?  Those were just two of the panicked thoughts flashing through my brain.

“Loosen up back here,” Mary ordered, slapping my ass with her hand.  “If you tighten your glutes, you’ll bruise more.  Relax, John, it’s going to happen no matter what, but don’t make it more painful than it needs be.”

I started to relax the muscles of my ass when, WHAP! the first stroke fell.  “Ow,” I exclaimed, realizing my first question was answered.  Mary spanks hard.

The first was followed by a second, then a third, at a slow but steady pace.  I was already reacting, though I did not cry out after the first one caught me by surprise.  Still, I grunted and kicked my feet to the limits allowed by Mary’s legs.  I did not notice if Mary’s prediction was right about my cock deflating by the third spank.  With the first spank, all my attention was instantly on my backside and what may have happened at my front side was of little concern.  Mary’s forecast may well have been correct.

I wasn’t counting the spanks as they arrived, I think they must have been in the twenties before I reached back to cover my ass with my hand.  Mary grabbed my wrist and pushed it up behind my back.  I don’t think she even paused between spanks to do it.

At one point, through eyes that were tearing up, I saw Cynthia watching with a high level of satisfaction.  It was bad enough to be naked, put over my wife’s knee and spanked with her hairbrush without there being another woman watching and enjoying the scene.

I did well, for a time—did not cry out, did not beg for mercy, and (most important of all) did not cry like a little girl—but that lasted only for a time.  After lord only knows how many painful impacts of Mary’s hard, wooden brush, I finally lost control.  Maybe, in retrospect, this was the whole point.

Ultimately, I did cry out.  At which time I heard Cynthia say, “Now you’re getting to him.  Keep it up.  The lesson is just now starting to sink in.”

Shortly I began to beg for mercy.  Well, sort of.  Between spanks I said, “No.  No more.  Mary.  Please, Mary.  That’s enough, Mary.  Mary, stop!  Please stop.  I’m sorry…”  I kind of stopped making much sense at that point.  The pain of that brush in the hand of my Mary was overwhelming.  I have never been spanked before, so had no basis for comparison, but surely no one has suffered from a spanking the way she made me suffer that evening.

Mary continued to spank after I collapsed across her thigh, no longer begging, but sobbing with tears flowing across my cheeks.  When she finally stopped, I was so deep into penitence I did not realize it at first.  As I came down from that peak of pain, I became aware of Mary’s hand—thankfully, not her hairbrush—resting lightly on my crimson ass.  She was talking quietly with Cynthia.

I was still a little out of it, but I think Cynthia said, “Nicely done.  It is always important that a change in a relationship be clearly defined.  I sincerely did not want to see you and John in divorce court.  Now, with luck and a consistent effort on your part, I think there is a good chance that will not come to pass.”

“I intend to be consistent,” Mary said.  “Even if I have to put this bad little boy over my knee twice a day for the next month, I will get through to him.”

Mary must have realized I was recovering, because she said, “I hope you heard that, John.  I don’t want to be so hard on you, but I am determined to make this work, for both of us.  Now, if you are sufficiently recovered,” she continued, unclamping my legs, “you may get up, put on my apron, and do the dishes.”

I struggled to get to my feet, and with no concern over what body parts I might display, went to the pantry to retrieve Mary’s apron and got to work.  She did not say that I could put my clothes back on, so I did not risk it… even though, it was humiliating to have the sight of my bright red, naked ass peeking out the back of the apron for the women to enjoy.

“Can I tempt you with some desert, Cynthia?” Mary asked.  “I bought two pastries at that bakery on First Street yesterday just to celebrate this occasion.”

Clearly, Mary, unlike me, knew in advance exactly how this day would end—with my complete surrender.

END

The story continues in: The Surrender To Win Addendum in which John blames Jane for his new situation and ends up paying the price.

Copyright © 2020 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.