A Passing Thought

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

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

“Well, I’ve read that as foreplay for married couples, it is more common than you might expect,” I said.

“Yeah, especially among women who wear black bustiers, thigh-high boots and carry whips,” my wife said and laughed.  “Seriously, I could see taking my frustrations out on your ass from time to time, but I can’t imagine you’d let me. You are bigger and stronger. The idea of you lying meekly across my knees while I paddle your butt… Is that how you pictured it? My big, strong man naked over my knees? Me with paddle in hand?” Her hand rose to cover her mouth, and she giggled.

“It was just a passing thought,” I said, backing down, wishing I had never raised the topic. “A way to introduce a new element into our sex life. But you’re right; the image it raises is pretty silly. Forget I mentioned it.” My secret fantasies of female domination and spanking play a large role in my lovemaking, but apparently, they are not part of Helen’s.

“Like that’s going to happen,” she said. “It’ll be weeks before I get that picture out of my head.”

We dropped the subject and had our weekly sexual bout in the traditional manner. It was good—we both came. In fact, she seemed wetter than usual, and I stood at my hardest. Afterward, sated, we rolled over back-to-back and slept.

We didn’t bring it up the next day. I was sufficiently embarrassed by the previous night’s awkward discussion, and she, I assumed, had written it off as a random, silly idea. When I really considered it—me naked over Helen’s thighs for a paddling—my fantasies of female domination did form a pretty silly image.

I spent that weekend doing chores outside or running errands. Mostly, I kept social distance from my wife to allow time for my suggestion of Friday night to disperse into the ether.

We do a sort of “Date Night” most Fridays. It rarely includes going out, but we make a point of being more solicitous with each other, leading into romance. We’re both busy, mature adults. [If you’re in your twenties, read “old,” but active and physically fit.] I’m past retirement age, but still doing the nine to five. So, once a week is not bad for us. The following Friday evening was typical. She prepared a nice dinner. I helped with the cleanup afterward, and we cuddled on the couch to watch Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. By the time Claude Rains delivered his most memorable line: “I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here!” (while a croupier hands him his night’s winnings), we were more interested in each other. Clothing loosened and breathing quickened.

In the back of my mind, I was concerned that my wife would raise the previous week’s topic, proceed to gales of laughter, and completely spoil the mood. She didn’t, and I gradually relaxed into our standard routine. Necking proceeded to heavy petting, and we moved to the bedroom. We enjoyed good sex. Sex with my wife is nearly always good, but not so good as the week before. At least not for me. I wasn’t quite as hard—more like my average size and rigidity—but she didn’t seem to notice. There were no complaints.

Often, while penetrating my love, I enjoy fantasies of female domination and spanking to drive me to higher peaks of satisfaction. Not tonight. Her laughter from the week before still rang too fresh. Besides, I didn’t need a fantasy life to make competent love to my wife. The act itself—with her as the participant—is more than enough to bring me off. I’m sure she feels the same. Still…

The following week, things were back to normal. I’d mostly forgotten my bungled attempt at assigning the role of playful disciplinarian to my wife and returned to using fantasies of female domination to spur my arousal. I’d entered my love, and humped like a dog on a particularly seductive leg, when without warning, my mental image of a stern but loving MILF with a hairbrush morphed into an overly busty broad, with my wife’s face, dressed in a deep red bustier, hip-high boots with six-inch heels, wielding a braided leather whip.

The image made me lose it. I buried my guffaw under a grunt of passion, but my seven inches shrank like an inflated balloon let loose. I backed out (In my suddenly, distressingly limp condition, it required little backing.), and worked my mouth down to Helen’s pussy. Occasionally, I go down on my wife, but those occasions have grown less frequent over the years, and I’ve never performed fellatio on a woman that I had been fucking moments before. Thank the gods I had not cum! I have no interest in consuming a cream pie, even if I did whip it up myself.

Helen seemed surprised at the abrupt redirection at first, but responded well to my tongue. So well, that after her first orgasm, she grabbed my hair with both fists to keep me in place for a second and a third. This domineering treatment brought my erection back to full staff, but she became ticklish, thrust my face away and slammed her knees together. My reward for that night’s performance? A hug. Strangely—strange to me, at least—Helen did not ask me why I suddenly slid down her body. Instead, she expressed in words how wonderful it had been for her, and gave me the afore mentioned embrace. She was too sensitive for me to enter her again that night.

That Friday night’s structural failure did not recur in succeeding weeks, but Helen requested I perform fellatio as foreplay to our usual mating.

Three weeks, no, four weeks after I first approached Helen on the topic of spanking, she put an item on my honey-do list. That Tuesday, she asked me to nail a heavy-duty picture hanger at a spot just inside our walk-in closet off the master bedroom. I pointed out that the light is not very good for a painting on the wall she chose, but she assured me it would work for what she had in mind. And, as honey-dos go, this one was easy, so it got my immediate attention. (Gotta rack up those points and save the bitching and moaning for chores that are not so easy.)

I walked into the closet the next day to deposit some clothing in the hamper and stopped in mid-stride when I turned around to leave. An honest-to-goodness spanking paddle hung by a leather thong from the picture hanger. Like you read about in cheap novels, my jaw dropped. It was one of the more bizarre things I’d seen. The paddle was painted pink, with gold letters spelling out “Hubby Persuader.” Perhaps fourteen inches long, including the handle, three or four inches wide and with holes drilled in rows down its length. It looked well made, but pink? And the lettering? That at least left no doubt about its intended target. But Pink? Recovered from the initial shock, I decided to not question Helen. Let her bring it up; so if anybody laughs this time, it will be me. As you might expect, she didn’t say a word.

By that Friday, the tension of not mentioning to my wife that a pink paddle hung in our closet diminished. Friday Date Night progressed nicely. I’d seared steaks and after cleaning up, we settled on the couch with glasses of wine to watch “Sleepless in Seattle.” The great thing about these old movies is you can miss scenes while your attention is elsewhere, and not have to rewind to know what is going on. With my pants unzipped, her blouse open, Helen murmured into my ear, “If you have any trouble performing tonight, I’ve got something that might inspire you.”

I was nibbling at the base of Helen’s neck, and her words froze me in mid-nib. Recovering and trying to be suave, I said, “You do, do you?”

“Yes, would you like me to go get it? It came in pink.”

“If you’d like,” I said. Couldn’t bring myself to say: “You bet! Go get that paddle, and lay it on me!” I’d turned all shy. My fantasies of female domination ran rampant, but from fantasy to reality is an enormous leap when the time arrives.

“Take off all your clothes,” Helen said as she left the room.

It took Helen longer than I expected. I stood naked and got cold waiting for her, but my member stood fully erect. When she reappeared, the delay was obvious. She was wearing a sheer negligee with nothing underneath. She had her hands behind her back and a big grin on her face.

“I see you’re ready,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I wouldn’t dare be otherwise.”

She stepped close and revealed what she hid behind her back—a pink tube with a brand name I couldn’t pronounce and the words: “Warming Personal Lubricant.” Not what I expected.

Helen squirted some of the pink gel onto her hand and massaged it into my cock and balls. The chill of the room disappeared in those areas. Chuck definitely liked it.

We ended up screwing on the floor of the family room. I was more stimulated than usual and had to do math problems in my head to avoid popping off prematurely. I had to struggle to forestall my orgasm until Helen was ready to join me. Almost didn’t make it, which would have been plain rude and unmanly.

As we lay panting on the floor, Helen said, “I could tell you were struggling. Good thing for you that you did not cum too soon. I bought another toy to take care of that situation.”

Not now, I thought. A spanking after an orgasm is the worst. Or so I’ve read.

“Another toy? And what might that be?”

“A large pink… vibrator to take care of me when you fall short… so to speak.” She ended with a laugh.

She would not mention the paddle. I knew it hung there; she knew I knew it hung there, but she was determined to not be the first to bring up the “S” word. Instead, she’d dance around the topic until I finally gave in and brought it up myself. Again.

“And how many times has that happened?” I asked. “Your new toy will grow old and faded from neglect as long as Chuck and I are on the job.”

“We’ll see. Sometimes, you might be too sore and not be in the mood.”

“Too sore?”

“You know, if you had a headache or an ache somewhere lower down,” she said.

Now, she was toying with me, but I continued to play dumb and said, “I thought headaches, aches of all kinds, were the female excuse.”

“I’m developing an ache lying on this hard floor,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”

Thinking about it Saturday morning, I realized Helen had given me several excellent opportunities to raise my fantasies of female domination and spanking again. I’d been a fool to let them pass. Our next Date Night was a week away and she might be less playful then. At our age, you never knew.

I got it wrong.

Wednesday was an awful day at work. Our largest customer changed their mind about the configuration they wanted in a shipment that was almost out the door. In a mad scramble, we pulled it back from shipping, unpacked, modified, relabeled, reinspected, boxed and out the door with the last scheduled pickup. Along with most of the factory, I went home later than usual, and exhausted. When Helen asked me, “How was your day?” I barely had the energy to tell her.

“But you got the package in the mail, right?”

“What package?” I asked while simultaneously remembering the box that sat in the passenger seat next to me as I drove to work. And, now that I remember, it was also there as I drove home.

The box contained a birthday present for our daughter-in-law, which we were mailing at the last minute (24 hours past the last minute now) thanks to our son’s very tardy input on what she would like. Helen felt thoroughly disgusted with our son’s assistance, and that spotlight now shown directly at me. She originally planned to mail the package herself, but I volunteered because there is a post office only two blocks from the factory. I could easily mail it on my lunch break. No need for her to make a special trip. Right.

I felt like a total jerk. Yes, my day was frantic, but I did take a few minutes for lunch. The exercise, to and from the Post Office, would have been a good stress reliever. I just forgot. Damn!

“I’m sorry, dear,” I said. “I’ll take the box to the post office as soon as it opens in the morning.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to intrude on your work,” Helen said. “Bring it in. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“I really don’t mind…”

“Just bring it in. I’ll take care of it. Then I won’t have to wonder if you remembered.”

We went back and forth a couple more times, me promising to be dependable, her telling me not to bother. Ultimately, I went out to the car to get the package and brought it into the house.

Two nights later was Friday Date Night. Helen fixed a light but excellent dinner of a poached salmon salad, which we enjoyed with a domestic Pino Grigio. After dinner, Helen said, “Why don’t you take care of the kitchen? I need a shower.”

We usually shared the duties Friday night, but I didn’t mind. I still felt a little guilty about Wednesday’s screwup.

It only took a few minutes, and I headed back to our bedroom. Helen was still in the shower, so I poked my head into the bathroom and asked if she would like me to scrub her back.

“No, dear,” she said. “If you’re through with your chores, why don’t you take off all your clothes and go stand in the corner.”

“What?” I exclaimed, thinking I must not have heard her right over the noise of the shower.

“You heard me, dear. I’ve been doing some reading online lately, and corner time often accompanies spankings. So, go get naked and bury your nose in a corner of our bedroom. I’ll call you out when I’m ready for you.”

I stepped fully into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. “Helen, darling, I mentioned spanking as foreplay. I don’t think standing naked facing into a corner is normally part of that. It’d feel pretty silly, you know?”

“That’s true, dear, but you’ll feel a lot more than silly if you don’t do what you’re told. I mentioned when you first brought up spanking that I wouldn’t mind taking out my frustrations on your ass, now and then. Well, tonight will see the inauguration of this fresh approach to marital bliss. Now, unless you want to fight me on this, I suggest you hop to it. Get naked and get in the corner. Or, we can forget the whole thing. It was your idea, so it’s your choice. Either way, please leave me to finish my shower in peace.”

I left the bathroom unsure of what to do next. Helen’s voice did not sound as playful as I envisioned when I first suggested spanking weeks ago. Corner time, I thought. Guess that fits in my fantasies of female domination. I just didn’t expect it from Helen. At least not right off the bat. While I considered my position and what I really wanted to do about it, I removed my shirt and pants on autopilot. I stood in my shorts and socks for a minute, still uncertain. Finally, I decided, Screw it. Let’s see where this leads.

I removed my remaining clothing and found a corner not blocked by heavy furniture. My earlier prediction proved accurate; I felt pretty silly. I even started to chuckle, but stifled it when Helen left the bathroom. She said nothing. All I heard were the sounds of her throwing on a robe, then she left the bedroom. I didn’t know whether or not to follow her, but stayed in my role—the naughty, submissive husband being disciplined by his stern, dominant wife. At this, I did chuckle. I also grew quite stiff.

After a good twenty minutes, I had wilted and was no longer amused. Standing in a corner with nothing to see but the junction of two bare walls is really boring. More than once, I considered putting on some clothes and going to find Helen. What could she be doing? But then I really would look ridiculous, having stood in the corner all this time, only to leave it before given permission. It would be like I initially acknowledged her authority but then had second thoughts. Pretty weak. Not man enough to accept a little corner time, when it was me who first suggested playful punishment as foreplay.

Was this playful? She didn’t sound all that playful in the shower. She sounded like I imagined in my fantasies of female domination. Strong. Assertive. No nonsense. So, will she follow through? Will she actually spank me? I grinned picturing it, and my cock twitched.

My joints complained at my inactivity, standing upright in the corner, and I shifted from foot to foot when the bedroom door opened.

“Don’t fidget, dear,” Helen said.

I turned out of the corner, asking, “Where have you been? What’s going on?”

Helen carried one of our dining room chairs into the bedroom.

“I haven’t released you yet, darling,” she said. “Please turn back around. And do not speak without permission. It won’t be much longer.”

I obeyed my wife, still playing my part, thankful that we were finally about to usher in the next scene in this game. The chair must be intended for the spanking—solid, straight-backed, with no arms to get in the way. I would have carried it for her if she asked. It would have been less boring than standing in this damned corner. I hope this is not a regular feature of our discipline foreplay.

Helen wore a terrycloth robe. So, I thought, I guessed correctly when I heard her after she left the shower. I wonder what she’s got on underneath? Didn’t hear her open her panty drawer, but she might have taken lingerie with her into the bathroom. Didn’t notice it, but…

“You can come out of the corner, dear,” Helen said, interrupting my speculation. “Come stand over here.”

When I turned, I saw her seated, indicating a spot on the floor next to her. I also noticed that the pink paddle lay within easy reach on the end of the bed. I moved to where she indicated and smiled down at my wife. She was not smiling back.

I started to speak, to tell her how fresh she looked after her shower, but she raised a hand to stop me. “Hold your thoughts until after this spanking, dear,” she said. “You may have a few new ones to share then.” That did cause her to smile.

Returning to her serious face, she said, “The purpose of the paddling I’m about to give you is twofold. First, you requested it. Second, I am still upset with you for not mailing that package Wednesday. I know,” she continued when I opened my mouth to say something in my defense, “you were very busy that day at work, but I think you still could have done that one small chore. You probably forgot all about it. Perhaps this evening will serve as a small reminder the next time.”

Helen undid the bottom two buttons on her robe and opened it to reveal a pair of lovely, naked thighs and a neatly trimmed bush. She was not wearing panties. So, no lingerie in the bathroom, I thought, and smiled internally.

She spread her legs and said, “Over my left leg, dear. I’ve been doing some reading online, and this position is recommended to keep your naughty boy in place if he proves unruly.” I eased myself down across her thigh, and she hooked her right leg over my left.

“Reach back with your right hand, please.”

When I did, she took my wrist and forced it well up my back in a hammerlock.

“Is there anything you would like to say before we start?” Helen asked.

Now she asks, I thought. I found my position not only embarrassing but also a little helpless. I’m much stronger than my wife, but it would still be a challenge to escape her now.

“Only, go a little easy, please. This is supposed to be foreplay, you know.”

Helen laughed, then said, “It’s a little late for that.” Her hand lay on my ass and began stroking. “I’ve never seen you from this perspective before.” Her fingers moved between my legs, held open by her right leg, and gently scratched behind my balls. She took my balls into her fist and squeezed gently. “Are you feeling vulnerable? You certainly look it. If I were a vicious person, not your loving wife, I could probably pop these jewels of yours right out of their bag.” She pulled my testicles back between my legs, then let them drop.

“But to business,” she said. “While I am spanking you, while you are enjoying your fantasies of female domination, spare a moment to consider that you really should be more reliable when you take on an important task.”

Helen raised her hand and brought it smartly down on my ass. I jumped, but it didn’t really hurt. The spank just surprised me. She spanked me again, and my cock grew stiff. I wondered if she could feel it against her leg. Probably, but she did not mention it. She just continued to spank me with her hand.

I closed my eyes and imagined what I looked like over the knee of my wife, me naked, and her mostly so. The rhythm of her spanking hand provided just enough heat to make this image truly erotic, and I stiffened even more. I was really getting into it, wondering what her reaction would be if I squirted down her leg, when she stopped.

“Damn,” Helen said, “my hand is really getting sore. Judging by your reaction,” she said, reaching down to caress my cock, “the old saying, ‘This is hurting me more than it is you,’ is true in this case. Fortunately, I have just the right tool to reverse that equation.”

Helen lifted the paddle from the bed and brought it crashing down on my ass.

“Ouch! Damn! Not so hard!” I exclaimed. I almost tried to free my right hand, but restrained myself. It would be a shame to destroy the scene prematurely, but damn, that hurt.

Helen giggled, raised the paddle and brought it down a little harder. She paused a second or two, then lifted it and smacked it down just a little harder.

I’ve never been paddled, so did not realize how much a paddle applied with enthusiasm would sting. Pink, purple, whatever color. This paddle proved to be well made, and it really stung. If I had known, I might never have stood naked in the corner waiting for this experience. I might not have gotten naked at all, and I certainly would not have laid myself across the knee of my disgruntled wife. Was being late with our daughter-in-law’s birthday present really worth this level of correction?

I did not count the spanks as she delivered them, but there were embarrassingly few before I started requesting that my wife ease up. After a few more, it was not “ease up”, it was “STOP!” I’ve never considered myself a wuss when it comes to physical pain, but damn!

Helen continued to paddle me, and I started squirming to escape. Turns out that a hammerlock is more difficult to break than one might imagine when held securely over a spanker’s lap, even if the spanker is well below your weight class.

I didn’t cry—I almost never cry—but an unusual amount of water pooled in my eyes before Helen finally stopped. A great deal of yelping came from one of the two people in that room.

Finally, my wife placed her paddle (well, my paddle, if you go by the lettering on it) on the bed and rubbed my ass with her hand.

“Wow,” she said, “you really have a hot ass. Did Chuck heat up as well?” She reached down between my legs and grasped my limp cock. “Nope. Poor guy. Well, darn. I looked forward to some good fucking after all this effort. Maybe we should engage in a little more foreplay?” She gave me a good smack with her hand.

“No! No, that’s enough, thank you. Just give me a little time to recover. I’m sure Chuck will be up to the task soon.”

“If you’re sure. Do you remember the second reason for this spanking? Did I get that point across?”

“Yes, dear, I remember, and I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sure it will never happen again.” Helen squeezed fistfuls of my ass as I spoke, which was both painful and distracting, but I hoped I said all the right words.

“See that it doesn’t, dear. I find I enjoyed this type of foreplay more than I imagined. I’m so glad that you suggested it. We will definitely do this again. Frequently.”

“But it was just a passing thought…”

END

Copyright © 2021 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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