New Home, New Arrangement

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

More than three years ago, Madge and I bought five acres in the country—plenty of room for horses, a large garden, fruit trees, and whatever else struck our fancy.  The site is an hour’s drive from our home in the city, in beautiful rolling hills mostly devoted to growing wheat and alfalfa.  We saw it as the place for us to retire, and for Madge to move her horses (she has three) from the stable where they were boarded to our very own property.  I loved being on the land and spent many hours putting in fence posts and stretching wire.  All we had to do, was build the house and barn.

The first architect we hired proved devoid of imagination.  Even worse, he seemed incapable of incorporating the design features we requested.  After wasting months trying to work with him, we started over with someone else.

With a lot more care in the selection process, we found an architect that understood what we were after.  Of course, he was in demand and it took another six months before we received the final sets of plans.

The next step was financing the build.  Not a problem.  I was working and making very good money.  Bankers smiled at me when I talked to them about borrowing for a new home.  They smiled, until three days before we were scheduled to close the loan and my employer announced, because of a business decline, my services were no longer required.  The banker traded his smile for a look of sincere condolence, and we put our plans, once again, on hold.

It was a good year later, by which time we’d trimmed the house design, and deleted the barn, when we received financing to complete our dream (modified, but still our dream).

Long before we could move into the house, I set up a woodworking shop in a corner of the new garage, and started building the bookshelves for our library.  Madge and I have been buying and saving books all our lives, and by now owned well over two hundred small, heavy boxes containing volumes dear to our hearts, many of which we had not seen in decades.

I envisioned this final move to be a life-changing event, and decided to take the opportunity to make it so, and not let it be just a change to our address.  So, it was not only bookcases I worked on in my shop.  Hidden in the stacks of materials and clutter was another little project I intended to finish in time for our initial house warming.  It was, in a sense, a tool for a warming of a different sort.

I’ve been a spanko all of my life.  I’ve spent years fantasizing about being taken over a capable woman’s lap and spanked on my bare bottom with hand, hairbrush, paddle, strap, or whatever, for any of a number of reasons, or for no good reason at all.  And not just spanked, but dominated in whatever way the lady might enjoy.  The spanker might be a mother, sister, aunt, babysitter, girlfriend, fiancée or spouse, but the spankee was always me.  During my moments of honest introspection, I admit I’ve devoted more attention to my fantasies than I should have, and less than I should to my real-life partners.

Madge may have guessed at my obsession, but in our thirty years of marriage she has never let on, and I never possessed the courage to tell her.  I decided that this must end.  I would bring up the topic, and hope for the best.  New location, new situation and new dynamic… I hoped.

At long last, the day was at hand.  The inspectors gave us permission to occupy, and the movers delivered all we’ve accumulated during a long life together.  The garage and the living room were full of boxes yet to be opened, but we’d set up the bedroom, and we had a serviceable kitchen.  We would sleep in our new home for the first time that night.

With considerable trepidation, I approached Madge as she was just finishing making the bed.  The windows were open, and you could smell the new-mown hay in our neighbor’s field.  I held the results of my woodworking, wrapped in tissue paper, behind my back.  “Dear,” I said, “could we talk for a minute?”

“Sure, I was about to take a break.  I can hardly believe we are in our new home.  More than once, I doubted we would ever make it.”

“Me too,” I agreed, “and I think that in our new home, and especially here in our new bedroom, I’d like to make a change.”

“John, we’ve been over this before.  You agreed on this color scheme, and it is way too late to change it now.  I do not want to talk about any more changes,” she said, the memory of past frustrations in our building experience bringing her irritation to the fore.  We’d had several “discussions” regarding colors or other features, some of them a little tense because of the stresses we were both under.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.  I’m fine with the color of this room and love the way you decorated it.  I wasn’t talking about the house, but about us.”

“Us?” Madge said, taken aback.  “Now you’ve lost me.”  She sat on the bed and looked up at me, waiting.

“It’s like this,” I said.  “We haven’t enjoyed much of a sex life in recent years.  I haven’t lived up to my responsibilities in that regard, and I think we should make a change.”

“We haven’t been very… active, I guess you might say,” Madge agreed, “but I don’t blame you.  It’s natural for you to be less enthusiastic at your… I mean our age.  I do miss it sometimes, but we’re not kids anymore.”

“We both miss it.  It just seems that we’ve… or rather I let it slip away from us.  I have not been sure of your feelings or desires and made no attempt to take the lead and find out.  I’d like that part of our life together to change, along with the changing of our home.”

“Okay, that sounds nice, what did you have in mind?  How do you suggest we proceed?”

“Well, to make this work, we will have to change the nature of our relationship in a major way.”  I was up to it now.  There was no way out, and I was as nervous as I have been since the first time I asked Mary Sue for a kiss in the fifth grade.  “I would like it if you would take over in the bedroom from now on.”

“What do you mean ‘take over’?”

“Just what I said,” I responded, still nervous, but less so now that my foot was in the door (not just in my mouth).  “You should call the shots in the bedroom.  I would be happier, if you made the decisions: whether, when, and how we play in this room.  If you want me to please you, for example, tell me what to do, how to do it, and hold me accountable for doing it right.”

“Let me get this straight.  You’re suggesting that if I want something from you, you will provide it… even if I’m not in the mood to reciprocate?”

“Yes.”

“And you also said I should, ‘hold you accountable’.”  Madge folded her arms under her more than ample breasts and looked intent.  “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Here, I made you something,” I said, handing Madge the results of my shop work.

“What is this?”

“Unwrap it,” I said.  My throat was getting dry and tight.

Madge untied the ribbon, and tore the tissue paper off of a laminated, wooden paddle with a contoured handle and a working surface fourteen inches by four inches and three-eighths of an inch thick.  She gripped the handle, turning it in her hand.  The highlights of the wood grain gleamed in the light from the window.

“You made this?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And It’s for me to use on you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s entirely up to you.  When we are in the bedroom, if you ever have reason to be angry with me or disappointed in what I have done or not done, or even if you are just in the mood, this is available for you to use as long and as hard as you like.”

“And if I happen to be in the mood to paddle your butt with this lovely paddle, you will cooperate?  You won’t try to fight me?”

“No, I won’t fight you.”

“I don’t know,” Madge said, stroking the satiny smoothness of the wood.  “You’re not as resilient as you used to be, I would not want to hurt you, or cause you any real damage.”

“As to hurting, I guess that’s the point of a paddle,” I responded with a sheepish grin.  I replaced it with a more serious look when Madge did not smile back.  “But as to damage, while it is well built, that paddle is lightweight.  I expect it will sting like the devil, but it shouldn’t bruise deeply.”

“So, let me summarize.  You are proposing I call the shots in this, our new bedroom.  That I take whatever pleasure from you I want, whenever I want it, and whether or not you receive pleasure in return is up to me.  And, whenever the mood may take me, I am free to apply this lovely little paddle to that deserving little bottom of yours with as much intensity and for as long as the mood may last.  Have I got that right?”

That is what I proposed, but hearing it coming back in Madge’s voice was more than a little intimidating.  I took a moment, but I squeaked back, “Y-yes, um yes.”

“Interesting,” she said, looking at the paddle in her hands for a long moment.  Then she looked up at me and ordered, “Strip.”

“Now?” I said, frightened by her air of determination.

“Now,” she answered.

I began by removing my shirt, progressed to my shoes and took off my pants.  I stopped for a moment and looked at Madge.  She waived her hand, bidding me continue.  Reluctantly, I took off my socks, slid my boxers to my ankles and stepped out of them.

“Interesting,” Madge said for the second time.  She stood and walked around me while tapping the paddle against her hand.

Suddenly, Madge grabbed my arm, sat on the bed, and flung me over her knee.  My head and torso were on the bed, my feet still on the floor.  Her other leg clamped behind mine, and she held me tight against her with her arm.  Without further discussion, Madge raised the paddle high in the air, and brought it down hard against my left cheek.

As I’d told my wife, I expected that thin, but unyielding wood, to sting, but I had no idea just how much.  Startled by the fire in that first spank, a loud yelp escaped my mouth before I clamped my lips together.

A heartbeat later, she delivered another hard smack to my right cheek.  I didn’t yelp this time, but my body made an involuntary jerk.  Damn that blasted paddle stung.

SMACK!!  SMACK!!  SMACK!!  Madge continued to apply her new paddle with obvious enthusiasm.  The sound it made echoed around the hard walls of the still partially furnished room.  I could feel the burn increase alarmingly in my backside, and for a moment feared it might scorch the recently applied paint.  That thought was fleeting, however, with fear for the paint replaced by fear for myself.

I don’t know how many spanks I received in that first ever spanking from my wife of thirty years.  It had not even occurred to me to count.  All I knew, was that it was far more than I expected, and each was far more painful than I imagined.  Finally, Madge put the paddle on the bed next to her, and cupped and squeezed my bottom, admiring the color and the heat she’d achieved.

After several moments of stroking and squeezing, Madge pushed me off of her lap and to my knees on the floor in front of her.  “I like your proposal,” Madge said as she began to remove her clothing, “and I’ve decided to accept it.  I’ll tell you now,” she continued with a grin, “you can expect to be spending a lot of hot-bottomed evenings on your knees in this room from now on.  As you said, we have lost time to make up.  You used to be pretty good with your mouth, let’s see if you’ve retained your talent or if you require remedial training.”

END

Copyright © 2013 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All right reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.