A Trip to the Laundry Room

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Ours has become a marriage of convenience.  We are both financially successful, with me in semi-retirement at 50, consulting part time and taking on occasional projects that interest me.  Elizabeth is still in the workforce as the CEO of her own company.  We share the same bed, but our sex life is nonexistent.  Nonexistent that is, if you do not count the active manual stimulation I engage in while watching spanking videos and reading spanking stories off the net.

Spanking is a lifelong obsession of mine.  It may have contributed to my original interest in Elizabeth who is two years older and of a stern nature, but I have never mentioned it to her.  I never screwed up the courage to admit to this kink to anyone.  So, it remains a private, closely guarded obsession.

It was about 4:00 on Tuesday afternoon, and Liz had come home uncharacteristically early.  It was a pleasure to see her; we are still close, but I had to scramble to clear my computer screen of an old Leda video I downloaded.

“How is your day, dear?” Liz asked.

“Fine, just reviewing some old materials.  How’s yours?  You’re home early.”

“It’s a good day so far, but I’ve been talking to Marianne she wants to show us something down in the laundry room.  Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

Marianne is the new maid Liz hired last week.  She seems a nice lady, in her thirties, tall and a bit heavy, but with a pleasant manner and an engaging smile.  I have had little interaction with her myself, but she stays busy when she’s here, and my impression has been that she is genial, honest and industrious.

I preceded Liz down the basement stairs and into the laundry room, wondering if Marianne was about to tell me the washer or dryer died, or some other such news that would cost us money.  Not a big deal; I don’t remember when we bought our current set, and appliances just do not last forever.

As we entered the laundry room, Marianne gave us one of her smiles, and proceeded without comment to move an old kitchen chair into the middle of the room.

I looked at Liz and realized she was blocking the exit from the room and had adopted her sternest expression.

“I’ve waited for a long time for you to outgrow your selfish obsession with corporal punishment, John, but it’s clear that is just not going to happen.”

“What… what do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend with me.  I’ve known about your peculiar fascination with corporal punishment for years.  I didn’t mention it because I have no interest in participating.  But I realize you are stuck in this groove, and our relationship has suffered because of it.  I’ve hired Marianne to make your fantasies come true, and to spank you back to your senses.”

“You’re going to let her spank me?  You can’t do that.  I’m no child.”

“I firmly believe you should not spank children,” Marianne chimed in, still smiling, “but naughty men who act like little boys and don’t live up to their husbandly obligations often require a good dose of the hot bottom.”

“You can always refuse,” Elizabeth said, “but if you do, you’ll be talking to my lawyer.  That will mean the end of this marriage and the end of the comfortable life you’ve adopted.  One thing is for sure, you won’t be able to stay retired on what my lawyer and I leave you.  I still love you, John, but I won’t tolerate the status quo any longer.”

“OK, Liz.  You’ve made your point.  I’ll clear the spanking materials off my computer.”

“Too late for that, dear.  Besides, it wouldn’t work.  You are too obsessed.  No, the only thing for you to do now, is to drop your pants.”

“My pants?”

“Yes, your pants.  Down to your ankles; then step over there and ask Marianne to spank you.”

“But I don’t even know her,” I said, holding on to my belt.

“Don’t worry, dear, you’ll get to know each other well before this day is over.  Now move, before I decide to forget the whole thing and call my lawyer.”

The look in her eyes told me she was not kidding.  Liz has always had a strong independent and decisive streak—one thing that attracted me to her—she would follow through with her threat.

I looked over at Marianne.  She had taken a seat on the kitchen chair, and she pulled the ankle-length, dowdy dress she always wore way up revealing her heavy nylon-clad thighs.  This younger woman held no attraction for me, but with her in position to administer the discipline I so long craved my anatomy responded.  An uncomfortable erection was forming.

I glanced once more at Liz, hoping for a reprieve, but she looked as determined as ever, and I unbuckled and unzipped my pants.  Reluctantly, I let them fall, then shuffled over to where Marianne sat.  My face was bright scarlet, and I could not meet the eyes of either woman.

It was humiliating to approach this veritable stranger with my pants at my ankles.  It was amazingly humiliating just to learn that these two women were aware of my closely held fetish.  And, it was also humiliating to realize I had no choice.  Either I accept a spanking, or my current life—which, as Liz said, is very comfortable—would be brought to an abrupt and public end.

I shuffled over to where Marianne sat and stopped facing her right thigh.  Marianne grabbed me by the hips and moved me around to stand in front of her.  She is big, taller and heavier than I am, and unlike me, her work is far from sedentary.  This is a woman who could handle me as though I were still just a little boy and do it without breaking a sweat.

“Now look Marianne in the eyes and ask for your punishment, John,” Elizabeth directed.

“Please, Liz…” I began, trying to avoid the embarrassment of requesting my punishment.

“Do it, John,” Liz commanded.

I looked at Marianne’s face.  She still wore that gentle smile.  “Please spank me,” I said.

“You can do better than that, Mr.  Hamilton,” Marianne replied with a slight frown.  “How should I spank you?  You’ve probably read about this scene a thousand times in stories on the internet.  Try again; and don’t try my patience any further.”

“P-please, ma’am, please spank my bare bottom long and hard.”

“See, Mr. Hamilton,” Marianne smiled again, “I knew you could do it.  And since you asked so nicely, I’ll grant your request and give you an especially long, hard, bare-bottomed spanking.”  With that, she reached out, took my underpants in both hands and pulled them to my knees.

“Over you go,” Marianne said as she spread her legs, pulled me over her left thigh and clamped her right leg behind my knees.

“Such a cute, spankable bottom,” she said, smoothing her large right hand over the twin mounds presented across her lap.  “It’s a shame you waited all these years to experience the real thing.  Well, we’ll just have to make up for lost time, won’t we?”

While she performed these preliminaries, a shock of fear went through me.  Against the base of the chair, inches from my eyes, stood a small, sturdy paddle I recognized from my computer surfing as a Holy Terror.  I thought a hand spanking bad enough; I had no desire to learn whether this formidable little paddle deserved its name.

The first spank landed hard against my right cheek.  I bucked in surprise at the sting and looked around.  Liz had taken a chair nearby from which she could observe, or more accurately supervise my punishment.  As that thought registered, the second spank landed on my left cheek.  The immediate sting shocked and concerned me.  I had not expected Marianne’s hand would be this effective a punishment device.  I didn’t want to act childish in front of Liz, but as Marianne continued, it was obvious that this was going to hurt.  By the twentieth stinging spank, it was obvious this was going to hurt a lot.  This was real punishment.  I could not remain stoic through the rising burn for much longer.

Marianne was stronger than I realized, and she knew how to spank a bottom.  I was soon grunting with each spank, trying to keep the sounds behind my clenched teeth, but losing the battle.  As she worked her way down to the tops of my thighs, a yelp escaped between my lips, and with a few spanks to the same tender spot, Marianne elicited my first open wail.

Marianne’s smile broadened at her success, and she continued her efforts with increased enthusiasm.  For my part, I bucked and struggled and begged for her to stop.  Elizabeth looked on with stern satisfaction.

This continued for what seemed to be many minutes.  I was in real anguish, and while I did not quite cry, the control I maintained at the beginning was forgotten.  The humiliation of my situation still burned—the thought of Liz sitting watching Marianne spank me was almost too much to bear—but that heat was nothing compared to the burn of my tortured bottom.

Finally, Marianne slowed and stopped.  Gently, she stroked my bright red and swollen cheeks.  “Now that is how a well spanked bottom should look,” she said.  I heard the pride and pleasure in her voice.  “Should we move on to phase two?”

“Phase two?!” I said in panic.

“Yes, do,” Liz answered.  “And don’t hold back, dear.  I want to make sure John learns a thorough lesson today.”

“Hand me the paddle please, Mr. Hamilton,” Marianne said.

I’d forgotten that implement of pain, lying inches from my nose.  “No, please,” I said.  “I’ve learned my lesson, honest.  There is no need for the paddle.”

“Hand me the paddle, Mr. Hamilton,” Marianne repeated.  There was no smile in her voice now, and as much as that paddle against my backside scared me, the tone of Marianne’s voice scared me more.  With profound reluctance, I took the paddle in my right hand and passed it up over my shoulder.

“Better,” Marianne said, “but don’t ever make me ask you twice again.”  WHAP!!

Over the next several long minutes, all questions were answered.  The Holy Terror did deserve its name, and I was soon reduced to a sniveling, wailing little boy over a strong woman’s knee.

I don’t know how long it lasted, many minutes I am sure.  Eventually I lay exhausted over Marianne’s strong left thigh as the sound and the sting of her paddle taught me that the fantasies I lived through the internet were absolute bullshit.  They were nothing like the real, punishing, thing.

Marianne reverted to gentle stroking, and she and my wife were talking.  I missed part of their conversation, my attention absorbed in my agony, but I heard Marianne ask if Liz wanted her to tryout the enema equipment or the strap they purchased.  “No,” Liz responded, “I think we will save those for another day.

“We’ll establish a regular schedule,” Liz continued, “and of course I’ll call on your services whenever John’s actions or attitude warrant it.  I’ll expect you to let me know how diligent he is in his assigned chores, when he is not busy with his consulting or other gainful employment.”

“No problem,” Marianne responded, “this is one of the most enjoyable domestic positions I’ve ever held.”

“Get up now, little boy,” Marianne said as she unclamped my legs and gave me a poke in the side.

“Come, John,” Liz said as she took a firm grip on my ear.  “Kick off your shoes and pants and leave them here.  Now that you’re long-held fantasy has been realized, I am going to reintroduce you to our marriage bed, where we will experiment with my fantasies.  Be warned, dear, any hesitation or lack of performance on your part and you’ll find yourself right back here in the laundry room.”

As we headed for the stairs, I looked in Marianne’s direction.  She was standing by the dryer watching us leave the room, wearing her warm, genial, attractive smile.

END

Copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All right reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.