A Teaching Moment

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

I’ve been a spanko in my fantasies for most of my life. A tight, round, female bottom displayed across my lap, with one warm, firm cheek comfortably fitting the curve of my cupped hand provides an imaginary tactile thrill that is hard to match… with one major exception. The exception would be if it were my bottom being stroked possessively by a woman loving and stern enough to deliver on the promise implied. And not just a fun little patty-cake spanking, but a real barn-burner, punishment spanking.

Other than a few swats by my mother when I was a lad, all my experience of this nature was purely in my dreams. I never directly confessed to my wife, Joan, or any of my former girlfriends that I had this interest, not wanting to appear the wimp, but I have dropped some pretty good hints on occasion. For example, when my wife asks what I want for my birthday, I’ve been known to suggest a good birthday spanking, followed with something like, “I really don’t need anything, honey. With you and the kids, I’ve got everything a man could want.”

I get the impression she finds these responses, while endearing, somewhat less than helpful, but it’s pretty much true. I’m not into acquiring stuff. I’ve got the tools I need for the small projects around the house, and when I go fishing, I’ve got all the gear one person could need. Having said all that, of course, a man never has enough tools or fishing gear, but what I don’t have, I don’t miss. Again, with that one exception—a hot, red bottom lovingly supplied.

As I say, I have dropped a few fumbling hints to my wife over the years, thinking that if she, by some miracle, were similarly smitten with the spanko bug, she might pick them up and run with them. No such luck. My conscious efforts to kindle that flame (pun intended) are pretty much in the past. Any hints I may cast out there now, are more from habit than from intent. In fact, I’m not really aware that they still occasionally break the surface. Nothing wrong with a little daydreaming as long as the dreamer does not force his dream upon those who do not share the interest. Right?

Recently, Joan made the acquaintance of a woman named Marge. Marge looks to be about our age, and comes across as a very smart, very confident lady who knows what she wants and does not hesitate to pursue it. She started her own software business when she was in her twenties, long before we met her, and built it to the point she garnered the attention of the big-boys, one of which bought her out. She was in her thirties when she retired.

I haven’t mentioned Marge’s appearance, but I guess it is necessary to make sense of what happened next. Marge is a good-looking woman, I guess, taller than I like them, and not as soft as I prefer. I’m guessing she spends a fair amount of time in the gym, she’s not carrying any flab, but her build strikes me as being kind of blocky. She has all the right curves, in all the right places—there would be no doubt in anybody’s mind she is of the female gender. (Are we even allowed to make that observation these days?) In my youth, I might have thought she was a little “butch” but even in those days I would not have spoken that word aloud. Some words cause some people pain, best to just leave them unvoiced.

Although I would have thought Joan and Marge two very different people, they hit it off from the start. Marge was frequently at our house in the morning for coffee, and they had lunch together at least once most weeks. As women who are good friends will, I’m sure the topics they discussed varied widely and included Joan’s joys and irritations when it comes to living with me.

I can’t remember now when it happened, but shortly after I met Marge for the first time, I apparently said something to Joan on the order of, “Now there’s a woman who could give lessons in the art of spanking a deserving male’s bottom.” I don’t remember those words leaving my parted lips, but I do recall thinking them, or others like them, a time or two. The reason I know I did turn them loose to fly through the air is that Joan claims to have heard them, quite clearly. And, although she made no mention at the time, she apparently agreed.

It was one Saturday afternoon that Marge brought Joan home after one of their lunches, and instead of just dropping her off as she usually did, parked her car and came into the house. I was watching college ball and didn’t pay much attention. Until, that is, Marge strode into the family room and switched off the TV. Needless to say, her actions did surprise me some, though not as much as her subsequent words.

“Do I have your attention?” Marge said, her hands on her hips and eyes pinning me from across the room. I confess, I was a little unnerved—I’d never noticed how intent her stare could be.

“Hi Marge,” I said, “you two have a good lunch? Is there something I can do for you?” I wasn’t scared, not yet, but I was a little confused and off balance. This was not a frivolous woman. She did not act capriciously as far as I had ever witnessed. There was reason behind her actions, I just had no idea what it might be.

“Actually,” Marge responded, “I think there is something I can do for you, or for Joan, at any rate.”

So far, the conversation had not revealed much, and it seemed to have stalled again. Why was I not still watching the game? Why was this woman—Joan’s friend more than mine—demanding my attention? If she needed help with some appliance, or a problem with her car, I was more than willing to do what I could, which was damn little given all the electronics in today’s big-ticket items. The last car I knew enough to work on was a Ford Pinto I owned when Joan and I married and which has long since moved on to rustier pastures.

“I’m a little confused,” I said, sounding more than a little confused. “What is it you would like to do for Joan and I?” Fleeting images of financial security flashed across my fore-brain, but that was just silly. Marge is Joan’s friend, not her long lost, maiden aunt.

“Joan tells me you think I might make a good spanker of, ‘deserving male bottoms.’ Perhaps even proficient enough to provide a little tutelage. Did I get that right?”

Wow!! Where did that come from?!  It caught me completely by surprise. Not just her words, but the conflicting sense that: Yes, I thought something like that a time or two, but No, I never would have said anything like that in her presence. I hardly knew the woman.

She wasn’t smiling; she wasn’t glaring; I don’t know what she was doing, but the impression I got was both serious and ominous and it would have dropped me in my tracks had I not been sitting already.

Completely flustered now, I tried to stammer some reply that would turn the entire situation into nothing but a humorous exchange between acquaintances. Have you ever had one of those situations where you are absolutely sure there is something you should say, both clever and disarming, while at the same time having no clue as to what that something might be? I was having one of those. A closed-loop of ineffective mental stammering.

“That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Not really…” I began.

“Oh, come on. You’re not going to chicken out now, are you? Joan tells me you have been asking for a good spanking since you two first met. Actually, if you have been such a pest for so many years, you deserve a good spanking.”

“But I never…”

“On your feet!”

I’ve known Drill Sergeants who would give half their stripes for that command voice. And, as any new recruit would, I quickly stood to a reasonable facsimile of attention.

“Better,” Marge said. “Appears both you and Joan can benefit from a little schooling. Joan led me to believe it was just her who needed coaching in the fine art of providing domestic discipline. Which may be true from her perspective, but I’m starting to think you could also benefit from a little instruction in the equally important role of receiving discipline.

“Follow me,” she said as she turned and strode from the room. (Never before knew a woman who could pull off such a convincing “strode”.)

I stood there in the silence of the empty room for a moment. Then, fearing to see Marge stride back in to fetch me, I followed as ordered.

Fantasies are funny things. You can spend a good part of your life mentally living one, off and on, but be completely gobsmacked if and when it threatens to cross the border into reality.

I heard furniture being rearranged in the kitchen, so headed in that direction. When I arrived, they’d moved the table aside a foot or two, and set two kitchen chairs facing each other in the open space thus created. Joan sat in one of them, with her back to the entry, and Marge stood facing me with one hand resting on the back of the other.

“Too slow, John,” Marge said. “A sign of disrespect. Joan will have to work with you on that.”

“Joan, did you…” I started.

“Save it, John. Your wife is the student in this situation, as are you, for that matter. All questions or comments should be directed to the teacher,” Marge said, and raised her hand when I started to speak again. “And the time for such questions and comments is reserved for the end of the period. Now, you know what to do,” she added and stared at me.

I stood there with no clue of what I should do. Run came to mind, but any woman who could stride the way this woman strode could easily foil that plan. (Love the sound of that word, “strode”. Had to work it in at least once more.) So instead, I stood there looking alternately at the back of Joan’s head and the face of the lady in charge. I detected a little tremor in Joan’s posture; she couldn’t be laughing, could she? Surely not.

Marge heaved a sigh at my inactivity, and in a voice full of patient coaching said, “Clearly this teaching moment must include the most basic instructions. Take off your clothes, John. You may fold them neatly and place them on the counter.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, with erudition under pressure, surprising even me. “I hardly know you. I’m not going to take off my clothes in front of you.” There. Three full sentences, competently delivered. Take that, Dragon Lady.

“John, John, you really are making this difficult for yourself. Is there some reason you honestly believe that being disruptive and difficult in class is in your best interests?”

Joan could hold it back no longer and cut loose with a belly laugh the likes I’d not heard in quite some time. She still did not look in my direction and quickly forced herself back in control. It had to be difficult for her. Poor woman.

“Either you strip, now, and waste no more of our time, or I will have to do it for you. Needless to say, that will add considerably to the duration and intensity of the subsequent lesson.”

Another snort from Joan. She cupped her hand at her mouth now, trying to keep it all in.

“Joan,” I said with all the indignation the situation demanded, “you can’t seriously be willing to allow this woman to not only see me naked but also take me across her knee to be spanked. It’s not decent.”

That was the final straw; Joan lost it. When she finally got it back, she said, “Oh John, you know you’ve wanted this all our married life, and probably even before that. Go with the moment, dear. Who knows, you might even enjoy it as much as you always thought you would… Though I doubt it very much.”

I almost didn’t hear her mutter those last six words, but I did hear the giggle that followed them.

“Enough, John,” Marge said, retaking control. “Clothes. Off. Now.”

I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I could tell there was no good way out of this situation, and I started to unbutton my shirt. After my shirt, I bent down and removed my shoes. Then, reluctantly, I undid my belt, slid my pants down and stepped out of them. At that point, I stalled.

“Those too, John,” Marge said waving at my boxers. “If you are too shy to be naked in front of your wife and I, you may keep your socks on.”

That did it; I dropped my shorts and yanked off both my socks for good measure.

Marge sat down and waved me over to stand off her right side. She was wearing slacks, and her thighs made a solid looking lap. If I were a little less nervous, I might have taken the opportunity to check out her cleavage, but I wasn’t and I didn’t. In fact, my earlier feelings of shock and dissociation returned with a vengeance. The discussion Marge and Joan had about the proper preparation of the penitent prior to punishment drifted by me unremarked. I don’t really remember getting over Marge’s lap in response to her tug on my arm. I do, however, remember thinking, This is not so bad, as I rested there, and she smoothed her hand softly over my backside.

Then, it began with a smack.  SMACK!!  Marge was just using her hand, but remember, I said she was a fit lady? She could really spank, and clearly wanted to show Joan that spank-time was not to be play-time. I jumped at the first one—more reflex than attempt to escape, not my fault—and tried to be a little more “manly” in my reactions thereafter.

Fantasies don’t sting the way a firm, strong hand connecting to a flesh-and-blood, bare bottom does. I took it as well as I was able but did make a few gasping sounds and fluttered my feet some until Marge commanded: “Toes on the floor. No wiggling. Keep that bottom properly presented.”

Not sure how long that big dike (Oh lord, I did not say that out loud! Tell me I did not say that!) spanked me, but it was more than long enough to satisfy my curiosity on the subject before she stopped.

Marge resumed her earlier soft stroking as she said to Joan, “That’s a good warmup. You need to get your naughty boy’s attention if the spanking is to have any beneficial effect. And, you can see from the rosy shade of his bottom, his difficulty in remaining still and his gasping breath that we have achieved the first of our objectives.

“Now, you can proceed with the actual punishment.”

What? No, No!

“Some wives invest in the commercially available tools of corporal punishment like paddles, straps, canes, etc. But for starters, the average household is already well supplied with the basics. I took the liberty of removing this solid, wood hairbrush from your master bathroom, but there are also some promising looking wooden spoons in that jar on the counter; no doubt your husband has a good heavy leather belt; some women like to use slippers, and the trees and bushes in your backyard offer plenty of good switches, just be sure to trim and clean them well first.

“You may need to exert a little more control for the main event. I recommend using your right leg to control his kicking,” she said, sliding her leg out from under me and clamping mine firmly between hers, “and if you take his right wrist…

“Reach up behind your back, John.

“…like this and press it well up his back, you’ll find it quite easy to keep him in place for the entire learning experience. Let me show you.”

I wasn’t quite in tears before that Saturday’s teaching moment was concluded—manly remember—but it was damn close. There was a question-and-answer period afterwards, but I stood in the corner, nose to the wall, cautioned not to speak or otherwise disrupt the damned class.

Before leaving, Marge strode up behind me, rested her hand on my shoulder and said, “I hope there are no hard feelings, John. You did need to get this spanking-as-fantasy nonsense out of your mind, and who knows, Joan may take what I showed her and use it to make your marriage an even greater success than it already is. I’ve offered to supervise the first few classes if she thinks she needs me.”

And with that, she gently—almost possessively—patted my bright red bottom, and the two women left the kitchen.

“I’ve set the timer,” my wife said, in passing, “you can come out and get dressed once it rings.”

Time has stridden on since that memorable occasion. Joan proved to be a more than able student, and it is she who has been providing the teaching moments since—Marge is only an occasional witness/adviser. Wish I’d made the honor roll early on, but given the limitations of what my wife has to work with—namely, me—classes are still occasionally convened to provide me with whatever teaching moment is required.

END

Copyright © 2018 by Jonathan Quincy Graves  All rights reserved.

Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.