A Little Direction and Discipline

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

“I asked Doris to stop by this evening.”

Marrianne was scraping the remnants of a good breakfast off the plates and into our garbage container when she made that comment.  The tomato, bacon and cheese omelet I made for us turned into a cold lump in my stomach.

“Have I done something wrong, honey?”

“Nothing specific, dear, but your attitude has been slipping of late, and it is best to nip these things in the bud.  Besides, it has been almost a month, and a little reminder now and then is always a good idea.”

A “little reminder.”  If only it would be that simple; but Doris never did anything in a “little” way.  Oh no, when Doris reminded you, it left an impression that would last for a good long time.  Doris enjoys her work; she puts everything she has into it, and everything she has is more than enough for me… way more.

“Are you sure it’s necessary?  I can be more conscious of my manner now you have pointed it out.”  I was taking a chance here.  Marrianne does not like to discuss this topic, and when she has decided to call Doris, she has never reversed her decision.  I learned early on that arguing was definitely counterproductive in a big way, so even questioning could be risky.  I saw Marrianne’s lips compress as the words left my mouth and immediately dropped the subject.  It was going to be a very long day filled with fear and trepidation until this evening… and Doris… finally arrived.

This all started a little over a year ago, although I can trace the roots back to my pre-pubescent youth.  As far back as I can remember, I have been interested in over-the-knee, bare-bottom spanking.  Over the years, I’ve spent many an hour fantasizing about a pair of delightfully curved, pink, fleshy mounds above my right thigh and below my stroking (and spanking) hand. I’ve spent even more time with me in precisely the opposite position.  The idea of a strong-willed woman undoing and dropping my pants and pulling me down over her lap for a lengthy session under hand, hairbrush, paddle, strap or whatever has always been the ultimate image for me to reach explosive release.

Marrianne and I have been married for 23 years and have enjoyed an average sex life for a married couple at our ages.  While free and fun loving in bed, Marrianne has never liked to talk about our lovemaking, especially outside of the bedroom.  So, I never brought up my attraction to spanking, at least not directly, until the summer before last.  In our early years, I occasionally gave her a swat to the backside while we were having sex, but I could tell from her reaction she did not appreciate it, and she ignored all my hints she might want to reciprocate.

Spanking had been on my mind a lot, though, and on that fateful day a year ago in August, I got up the courage to suggest to Marrianne she might want to give me a good, sound birthday spanking that year.

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked.

“Well, it’s tradition, and it might be fun.  And besides, I know I have been getting a bit on your nerves lately.  You could take this as an opportunity to set me straight… to provide a little motherly direction and discipline.”

“I’m not your mother, John, and that tradition played no part in my upbringing.  For that matter, did your mother spank you when you were little?”

“No.  I’ve often thought she should have, but she never did.”

“I don’t know anything about spanking, but it does not sound like fun to me.”  And with those words, she turned back to what she was doing.  I think she was working on an afghan at the time.  Marrianne loves to crochet, knit, tat and quilt.  She is impressively creative and skilled with her hands, and all our kids and grandkids wear her scarves and caps, and her quilts and doilies take prominent places in their homes.

I decided to never raise the topic again, but to keep it relegated to my fantasy life.  Our married life together was mostly happy and rewarding, so there really was no need to change it, even though spanking remained a frequent, secret fantasy.  My birthday came and passed without incident that year, just as so many had done each year of my life.

Five or six weeks later, Marrianne announced over dinner, “I’ve been thinking about what you said about spanking providing you with a little direction and discipline.  I’m not at all interested in spanking you, but you do need discipline.  You’ve a number of irritating habits, and you’ve been getting lazy around the house, expecting me to do all the routine tasks required to keep and maintain our home.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” I said, “perhaps you should identify what it is you would like me to take on, and I’ll try to do a better job of it.”

“I’ll do that, John, but I know how you are.  Asking and suggesting won’t be enough in the long run to make real changes in your attitudes.  (I have to admit she was probably right about that.)  That’s why I’ve done a little research and found a young lady who will provide you with the discipline you need.”

“What do you mean?” I said, taken aback by this very uncharacteristic announcement.

“Why, spanking, John.  It was your idea; don’t tell me you have forgotten.”

“No, no, I haven’t forgotten.  I thought the topic was just between the two of us.  It never occurred to me you might tell someone else.  It would be humiliating if any of our friends or business associates should find out you spanked me.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear, I’m not going to spank you, and I only discussed it with Evelyn.  She won’t mention it to anyone.  At any rate, she has a friend who knew someone who knew someone who happened to have experience in providing just this type of discipline.”

Evelyn is Marrianne’s younger sister, and apparently she broadcast the news over her extensive network of friends to find a girl or woman who was into spanking male bottoms.  By now, I expect half the town is aware of my secret proclivity.

“Her name is Doris,” my wife continued.  “She, Evelyn, and I met for lunch last week, and I think she is just the person to provide the motivation and direction you have been lacking.”

I couldn’t decide whether this was sounding worse and worse, or better and better.  The idea Evelyn knew I was into being spanked—she and my wife discussed it over lunch—was terrifying (even though it did play into my kinkier fantasies).  While the idea a young lady might take me over her knee and spank me was more attractive than I wanted to admit.

“Doris thinks a regular program will be most effective in achieving the desired results.  She should be here in an hour to give you your first spanking, or ‘discipline session’, as she prefers to call it.”

“She’s coming here?  Tonight?” I blurted, taken by surprise at the pace this was developing.  “I’ve never even met this person, and you are going to let her spank me?  Shouldn’t we discuss this first?  Give me a chance to get used to the idea?  I mean, a complete stranger…”

I saw Marrianne’s lips compress, the way they do when she is irritated.  Then she said, “There is no reason to put it off any longer, John.  You said yourself you needed this form of discipline, and I agree with you.  I’ve committed considerable time and effort in arranging this with Doris, and I’m confident she can do the job.  Now why don’t you go take a shower, put on just your robe, then come to my sewing room.  I want to complete the baby blanket I’ve been crocheting in time for Barbara’s baby shower.

“But honey…”

“Go shower, John.”

I suddenly felt an urgent need to go to the bathroom which I did, then took a shower, taking special care to clean around my nether regions—that area I feared would be under very intense and personal inspection by a young woman whom I had yet to meet.  I was anxious and somewhat aroused as the jets of hot water played over my body, but to be truthful, I was more anxious than aroused.  Despite my years of imagining, I was never actually spanked.  Of course, it would hurt. Spanking wouldn’t be punishment if it didn’t hurt, but would it hurt a lot?  I’m not into pain.  I’ve never deliberately hit my thumb with a hammer, for example, and on those occasions I did it by accident, I did not enjoy it in the least.

Marrianne referred to this Doris as a “young lady”.  I wondered just how young she might be.  Is she pretty?  What will she be wearing?  I hoped she is not into corsets and knee-high boots.  Some men are into that sort of thing, but in my fantasies, I’ve always preferred the stern aunt, mother, or loving wife to the professional dominatrix.

When I finally got out of the shower, I saw Marrianne had hung my bathrobe on the hook inside the bathroom door.  I suddenly needed to use the toilet again.

Marrianne looked up from her rapidly clicking crochet hooks as I entered her sewing room, smiled and said, “All clean, dear?  I expect you will want to make a good impression on Doris, for this, your first time.

“I see you are wearing your slippers, even though I told you to just wear your robe.  Why don’t you take them off and put them in that corner out of the way,” she said, putting down her work and pointing the way.  “One thing I have asked Doris to work on with you is your inability to follow directions.  While you are at it, put your nose in the corner as well.  I’ve read that is a good place for a naughty boy, or naughty man in this case, to wait for his spanking.”

“Honey, can we talk about this?  I’m willing to meet this Doris person, and even consider taking a spanking, but this has come on pretty suddenly.  I think we should think it over and discuss it first.”

Marrianne’s lips were in full compression by the time I finished my appeal, but she opened them just wide enough to say in her sternest voice, “You are the one who pointed out you were in serious need of discipline, and I have given it plenty of thought.  It has been obvious to me you were correct, and your attempts to back out now just serve to confirm that judgment.  Now, I do not want another word from you.  Put your nose in the corner,” she commanded, pointing again more forcefully, “and let me finish what I am working on in peace.”

Marrianne rarely gets this determined, and I knew from experience further argument would only make her more rigid in her decision.  Reluctantly, I turned to the indicated corner, stepped out of my slippers and stood facing the junction of the two off-white walls.  It has not been in Marrianne’s nature to boss me around, nor in mine to bow to any demands, but I guess I asked for it, and corner time is all part of the package.  Soon, the only sound in the room was the clicking—more pronounced and quicker than before—of Marrianne’s crochet hooks.

I stood in the corner for the next twenty minutes, although it seemed much longer, alternately quaking in apprehension and fighting down arousal.  This scene came directly from my fantasy life.  I was afraid reality would be more intense than fantasy, and I did not want to display the depth of my arousal by sporting a raging member to my wife when she (or Doris) told me to turn around.  Somehow, I was certain they would not be in the least bit amused by such a display.

My body jerked, and I started to turn from the corner when the doorbell announced we had a visitor.  Marrianne put down her work and said in her sternest voice yet, “Don’t you dare leave that corner.  I am more than adequately upset with you already.”

I turned back without opening my mouth and stood right where I was.  Soon, I heard Marrianne greeting someone at our door, and a female voice replying.  The sound was faint enough I could not understand what they were saying, but obviously Doris had arrived.  Soon, I would meet this woman, and the fate she brought with her.  Trepidation and arousal both ratcheted up a notch, and I fought to maintain some small amount of self-control, both to keep my knees from knocking and my little soldier from springing to attention.

I heard the distinctive sound of high heels approaching on the wood floor of our hallway.  Since Marrianne only wears heels when we go out, it could only be Doris.  I could tell when they entered, however, both women came into the room behind me.

“Very nice,” a strange female voice said.  “I recommend, however, in future you have your husband lose the robe while standing in the corner.  Much of punishment has to do with attitude and atmosphere.  When a bad boy is waiting for his spanking in the nude, it is more difficult for him to imagine anything but punishment will occur.  The humiliation of being stripped with his naughty, bare bottom ready and on display helps establish the proper mental attitude well before the actual spanking even begins.”

“Take off your robe, John,” Marrianne said, and stepped up to take it from me.  My cheeks clenched involuntarily at the certainty they were under the scrutiny of the two women behind me.

“Better,” Doris said.  “Now, do you have a sturdy, straight-backed chair, with no arms, your husband can fetch for me?”

“I think one of the dining room chairs should do,” Marrianne replied.  “John, dear, go bring in one of our chairs for Doris.”

Reluctantly, I turned from the corner and got my first look at my disciplinarian.  At the same time, she got a full look at me, except for what I was able to casually cover with my left hand.  Doris is about 18 or 19 years younger than me—not much above the age of our oldest daughter—tall, taller than my average male height in her heels, not heavy, but strong looking, dressed in fashion jeans, a red shirt that complimented her figure, and western looking boots with tall, sturdy heels.  Her hair was auburn, swept back and tied out of the way, and she wore a smirk, seemingly at my attempt to cover myself.

I scurried quickly by the two women and into the dining room for a side chair.  The image of Doris was not precisely out of my fantasies, but it might have been if I made her acquaintance under other circumstances.  As it was, fear and trepidation were easing ahead of sexual arousal.  Of course, the increase in arousal was beginning to manifest itself in tumescence, and that in turn was causing an increase in fear and trepidation.  I did not want to be hard in front of my wife and this stranger, especially since this stranger was so much younger than Marrianne.  If I so much as hinted I found Doris sexually attractive—nothing hints at arousal quite so blatantly as a raging hard-on—it might hurt my wife, and I did not want to do that under any circumstances, much less those facing me now.

I returned to the sewing room with the chair covering my flagpole, which I suppressed to below half-staff.  Doris indicated where she wanted the chair placed, which was in the middle of the room facing the chair in which Marrianne sat when she was working.  There was plenty of room since Marrianne’s quilting frame was folded and leaning against one of the walls, out of the way.

“That will do nicely,” Doris said.

“If you don’t need my help,” Marrianne said, “I’d like to get back to work now.  I’m trying to get this baby blanket done in time for the shower of the daughter of a good friend of ours.”

“No problem,” Doris said. “I can take it from here.”

Turning to me, and looking me straight in the eyes, Doris continued, “My name is Doris, but you may call me ma’am, as in ‘yes ma’am’ or ‘no ma’am’, as the situation dictates.  Your wife has asked me to help her provide discipline in your life, which, by all reports from her and your sister-in-law, is sorely needed.”

Oh good, I thought, Evelyn has gotten her two cents in as well.  “I’m not that bad,” I protested. “Just a little thoughtless now and then, I suppose.”

“More than a little, I understand,” Doris responded.  In the background, Marrianne’s crochet hooks were back in action.  Strangely, they were neither louder nor faster than if Doris and I were not in the room and this whole scene was not taking place.  “And I didn’t hear a ma’am in your statement, nor was your input asked for to begin with.  One of the rules you will learn here is you will speak to me only when asked a direct question, and only with the greatest respect.”  There was no anger in these words, just the tone of a teacher patiently instructing one of her slower students.

“I left my bag in the living room when I arrived this evening.  Trot off like a good boy and get it for me, please.  Don’t dawdle, I am not a patient woman.”

I wanted to protest at being ordered around in my own home, but decided the best course of action was to just get this over with as quickly as possible.  Who knows, despite the acute embarrassment of being naked and spanked by a strange woman in front of my wife, it might even be as stimulating as my fantasies.  Regardless, it was bound to result in plenty of material for later imaginings.  If it turned out to be too intense, I could stop it and convince Marrianne it was a bad idea and should only be a onetime occurrence.  So, keeping my protestations to myself, I went in search of Doris’ bag.  It was not hard to find, being larger than the average purse, made of denim with silver conchos and buckles—fashionable in a style foreign to my wife’s more conservative tastes.

When I returned to the sewing room, Doris was seated in the chair and indicated I should place the bag on the floor, within easy reach, at her left side.  Taking my wrist, she guided me to stand to her right.

“Now this is what is going to happen,” she said.  “Despite being of an age at which you should know better, you are still a naughty boy, deserving of a spanking.  As you admitted, you are thoughtless in your dealings with your wife and other women, you have several habits your wife finds annoying, and you do not contribute your fair share to the upkeep of your home.  Over the next several weeks, we will address each of these shortcomings in more explicit detail, but tonight I see no need to delay your introduction to a disciplined life any further.  At this point, you may apologize to your wife for making this necessary, then place yourself over my knee so we can get started.  We have a long evening ahead of us.”

“Several weeks?” I blurted.  “Who said anything about several weeks?  In fact, I think it is time to call the whole thing off.  Thank you for coming,” I said, beginning to back away, “but your services won’t be needed after all.  Sorry to have wasted your time.”

It was at this point I suddenly discovered how much real trouble I was in.  As quick as a striking snake, Doris reached out, grabbed my arm and yanked me down over her denim-covered left thigh.  Her right leg closed like a vice behind both of mine, and she reached with both hands over my back to take hold of my right wrist and twist and secure it far up behind my back.  Granted, her actions caught me by surprise, but still, this woman was quick and strong.  I struggled to get free, but there was no way it was going to happen.  I looked to Marrianne, but she was intent on her work, seeming serenely oblivious to the drama right in front of her.  The only counter indication was a slight, satisfied set to her mouth.

With a loud WHAP, Doris’ hand struck my defenseless bottom and a quarter second later I felt a distinct sting.  “You’ve just made a very large mistake, young man.”  WHAP  “And you’ll pay for it dearly.”  WHAP  “When I am done with you, I expect an apology to your wife,”  WHAP  “and a very sincere apology to me as well.”  WHAP

With my wrist in her right hand, Doris leaned over to open her bag and extracted a hard wood paddle with two rows of holes down the sides.  She brought it up past my face to be certain I saw what was coming next.

“You are a naughty, willful man, but I know just how to handle your kind.  Prepare to learn a much-needed lesson.”

“Let me up.  You can’t do this to me,” I protested.  Doris then proceeded to demonstrate she could, in fact, do it to me, and she could do it with considerable effect, and do it for as long as she wished.

The spanking I received that night was like nothing I imagined.  Oh sure, it was initially arousing to find myself held helpless over the jeans-clad thigh of a younger woman, but when Doris went to work with her paddle, all arousal was forgotten.

Each strike with that hard wood paddle left its own fire behind, and the flame was stoked and grew with each successive spank.  I didn’t want to cry out; I didn’t want to struggle once Doris demonstrated the futility; most especially I did not want to cry in front of this woman or my wife, but Doris proved what I wanted had no bearing on what would happen.

Doris, with her paddle, soon had me expressing my discomfort in strident terms, first in wordless complaint, but soon in heartfelt cries of apology interspersed with pleas for mercy and promises to be oh so very good in the future.  As these vocal remonstrations were developing, I also resumed kicking, twisting, and jerking my body in whatever way I thought might cause Doris to miss her target or bring me some surcease of pain, to no avail.  Finally, I collapsed in surrender and lay helpless, exhausted and on fire from the middle of my bottom to the tops of my thighs.  The tears were flowing freely, and my words were replaced with sobs of distress.

Several times during this ordeal, I pleaded with my wife to call a halt, to save me from this punishment.  Marrianne continued to work on her blanket, and through my tear-clouded vision I saw no outward indication she was even aware of my presence.

After more than ten minutes—an eternity under that burning paddle—the spanking tapered off to just a few well-placed shots, then nothing.  I felt Doris put down the paddle and lightly stroke my flaming, bruised bottom.  Even her lightest, feminine touch inflamed the nerve endings of my over-sensitive, severely punished mounds.

After allowing me a few minutes to regain some semblance of control, Doris said, “I like to make the first session with a naughty boy one he will remember for a while, so there is no doubt what he experienced was true punishment.  Your actions earned you extra this time, but I want to assure you that every time I come here, you will be punished.  If you are cooperative and accepting, honestly try to learn from each session, then the punishment need not be as severe.  I strongly believe, however, in most cases, true penitence and correction of the faults of a naughty boy only comes after real punishment.

“Before your spanking, I suggested you apologize to your wife for making this necessary.  Would you like to do that now, or should I resume your spanking until you’re ready?”

“No!  No, I’m ready; you don’t need to spank me.”  Looking up at my wife, who put her work aside and was gazing warmly back at me, I said, “I apologize for my attitude, and promise to be a much better husband from now on.”

“I accept your apology, dear, and I am sure you will do much better.  I love you very much.”

“And what do you have to say to me?” Doris asked.

“I apologize for the trouble I caused you, ma’am,” I stammered, wanting only to mollify this strong woman who still held me firmly over her left thigh. “Thank you for providing me with the discipline I needed.”

“Very good, young man,” she responded, seemingly oblivious to the incongruity of a woman almost 20 years my junior calling me young man. “Hopefully, you will not make the same mistakes when I come for your next session a week from today at this same time.”

“No!  Please!  I’ve learned my lesson.  There’s no need for another session.”

WHAP  “Obviously, you still have a long way to go.”  WHAP  “I’ll be here next week,”  WHAP  “and I expect to find you in your birthday suit,”  WHAP  “waiting silently with your nose in the corner.”  WHAP  “At which time we will address some of your more onerous shortcomings,”  WHAP  “and work on specific items for improvement.”  WHAP  “Do we understand each other, young man, or should we start this session again from the beginning?”  WHAP  WHAP  WHAP

“No!  Stop!  We understand each other.  I mean yes ma’am, I understand, ma’am.”

“Good, now get off my lap and trot yourself back over to the corner until you’re given permission to leave it.  And keep your hands off of your naughty bottom, unless you want my hand applied to it a few more times.”

I got to my feet and practically jumped to the corner.  The temptation to rub my bruised flesh was almost irresistible, but I managed to keep my hands clenched tightly at my sides.

Marrianne accompanied Doris to the door, and after a brief conversation, I heard her leave the house and drive away.  When my wife returned to her sewing room, I turned from the corner and was gently trying to rub some distress from my battered bottom.

“That was awful!” I said.  “I am never going through that again.”

Marrianne’s lips compressed, and she picked up her phone and began to dial.

“What are you doing?” I asked.  “Who are you calling?”

“I’m calling Doris.  She won’t have gotten far by now.  I’m sure she can be back here in just a few minutes.”

“What?  No!  Don’t do that!  Please don’t do that!”

“Get your nose back in the corner, John, with your hands at your sides,” Marrianne directed. Her finger was poised over the Send button.  “I’ll let you know when you can come out.”

I was faced with a difficult decision.  Should I overcome my wife physically—perhaps stab her in the heart with a crochet hook, wrap her up in the quilt she recently finished and dump her body in a dumpster—or should I do as I was told?  After a brief moment of silence, I turned back to the corner and Marrianne put down her phone.

Throughout the following week, I tried almost constantly to convince Marrianne we no longer needed Doris’ services.  I tried reason, demonstrations of a reformed character, assertion of my rights of authority as the husband, desperate and abject pleading.  My wife met all of these with a calm, satisfied silence (although when I was most insistent, there was a distinct compression of the lips).

The evening, one week to the day after that horrible initial session with Doris, found me back in the corner of the sewing room standing stripped naked, while Marrianne worked on a shawl she was knitting for a friend of hers living in assisted care.

After six weeks—six very painful and humiliating lessons under Doris’ paddle and strap—the ladies agreed I made satisfactory progress, and the sessions became less frequent.  Currently, Doris only comes over when Marrianne feels her services are needed.  This can be in answer to an egregious act on my part, backsliding in either performance or attitude, or just a decision by Marrianne it is time for another lesson.  Regardless of the reason, each and every visit results in real, painful discipline, more or less severe as determined by the reason and my acceptance of it.

Tonight, I will once again suffer through the pain an experienced, dedicated disciplinarian can deliver to the defenseless male bottom.  I will spend the day in fear and despair at this inevitable event, and for the umpteenth time mightily curse the day I suggested to my loving Marrianne she provide me with a little direction and discipline.

END

Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Quincy Graves.  All rights reserved. Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

Revised July 2022.

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