Spanko

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

“A spanko?”

“Are you familiar with the term?” Ashley asked.

I found Ashley on one of the online dating services. My wife, Mary, died in an auto accident two years ago, and I was not doing well on my own. My house echoed with the silence of Mary’s absence. I tried to lose myself in my work and found relief for short periods. But at the end of the day, I always returned to the vacancy that was my life without Mary. She was only 36 when she died, leaving me and our two sons, now off raising families of their own.

After two years of unwanted bachelorhood, I turned to the internet. At forty, I figured I was too old and too long out of practice to find a woman without assistance. I was surprised to learn how many options existed, both with the plethora of dating sites and the range of choices within them.

As I delved deeper, in a fervent search for companionship, it seemed there were three dominant classifications of women in my age group. The largest were the needy. These were either the women who had never been able to attract a suitor, or those fleeing a bad match. In either case, the needy wanted someone, anyone, who would provide them with the financial and emotional security they lacked. I was one of these—financially secure but emotionally penniless. The second major group consisted of professionals using false names and personae to seduce the unwary paying customer. Neither group contained another Mary. There was a group, smaller than either of these two, consisting of successful women who had never married in order to concentrate on their careers, or whose marriage had ended in a tragedy of some sort. These, like me, were looking for someone to share their lives with.

After trying several matchmaking sites, even arranging discouraging dates with a few of the women, I turned to a site that claimed to screen their offerings. That is where I met Ashley. Ashley is no Mary. No, that’s not fair. Ashley is not the Mary that was mine at thirty-six. At thirty-eight, Ashley reminded me of the Mary at twenty-four, although she looks nothing like Mary. Ashley is vibrant, full of life, with a quirky sense of humor that pops out at the most unexpected—sometimes wholly inappropriate—times.

It’s because of that unique sense of humor that I had to ask. “I know the word ‘spanko’, but are you serious?”

Ashley and I had approached our first meeting with caution. She’d had the same disappointing history with dating sites that I’d experienced. We exchanged a series of emails, progressively revealing more of our personal histories, our preferences, our joys and tragedies. It was shortly after we traded phone numbers that we agreed to meet for lunch at a local Olive Garden the next Saturday. Experience taught me to start with a luncheon date at a reasonably priced restaurant. The advantages to lunch are you can easily claim prior commitments for the rest of the day if you and the lady do not click. Lunches typically do not include mind-altering quantities of alcohol, and if you agree to meet at the restaurant, there is no obligation to see your date home after.

Ashley and I did click, which revealed the downside to lunch dates: What do you do with the rest of the afternoon? Well, in this case, lunch lasted until 2:00 PM. From there, we went window shopping at a high-end mall a block away.

We were looking through the window of a jewelry store when Ashley said, “That would look nice on you.” It was a smartwatch with a heart rate monitor and a feature that allows you to connect it with your Porsche 911. It was also waterproof down to 50m. All this for less than three grand.

“That’s cool,” I said. “If I’m ever speeding along in my Porsche on a dark and stormy night, and I swerve off the road into a lake, my watch will still be running when they fish me out. Does the heart-rate monitor track all the way down to zero?”

“Damned if I know; it doesn’t say.”

“It’s just as well. I can’t afford it. It’s not so much the three grand for the watch as the hundred and twenty grand for the Porsche. You gotta admit, that’s a pricey option for a smart watch.”

She even chuckled at my jokes. Now that’s a keeper!

It was pushing 4:30 when we separated, agreeing to have dinner together the next evening. We settled for a peck on the cheek, and I watched her drive away until I could no longer see her car in the traffic.

My mind raced with the prospects for this new relationship as I drove home in my Ford Explorer. (A decent vehicle and it suited me, but far from a Porsche 911.)

During dinner the next evening, our conversation involved us sounding each other out regarding lifestyles and politics. Neither of us were either hard left or hard right. None of the things we might discuss would lead us into a minefield of emotional response. We were even safe discussing politics, which was a topic best avoided with my Mary.

Over dinner, I filled Ashley in on the details of my successful but all too brief life with Mary. I further explained the succeeding two years of solitude and recuperation, and finished with my current need to reconnect and share my life with a woman who wanted to share her life with me.

In turn, I learned of Ashley’s sometimes rocky relationship with her former husband, Reggy. They’d married in their thirties, both having delayed to pursue their careers, but then feeling that the time for intimate companionship was passing them by. It turned out that Reggy was never suited—or at least never committed—to a monogamous relationship. Ashley put up with his infidelities until he became involved with a girl in his office who, at half his age, saw him as her sugar daddy. Their divorce was uncontested, him enamored with his cute young thing; her thinking they deserved each other.

It was early days yet. We’d only shared two meals, but I could feel a connection building and I think she could too. We shared a hug and a kiss in the parking lot and promised to phone during the week. Her corporate CEO was visiting their office that week, and she expected both her days and her evenings to be hectic. We climbed into our cars and drove our separate ways. I decided then that we would never again drive separately, if I could avoid it.

We phoned each other three times that week. Ashley called after her business and social commitments were met for the day. She’d grown comfortable with me so quickly, she felt it safe to unload the stresses of the day. She didn’t dump it on me. It was more sharing with a sympathetic listener.

Late Thursday, I offered her a home cooked meal at my house Saturday night. She accepted with what I sensed was genuine gratitude. I like to cook, and she’d been doing business dinners with the big wigs all week. One more night dressed up and in a restaurant with me or anyone else was not appealing. We traded addresses—we live only a mile apart—and I stressed the evening would be strictly casual, with nothing expected beyond a decent meal.

“I’ll plan dinner for about six o’clock,” I said, “but come early if you want to get out of your house and just crash at mine for a few hours.”

“I like the sound of that,” she said. “Don’t be surprised if I take you up on that offer.”

After we finished the call, it occurred to me that I had some work to do before the house would be ready for visitors. I’m not a slob, but I had been living as a bachelor for a couple years. Mopping the floors and vacuuming the carpets were done on an as-needed basis. Plus, the place suffered from a buildup of general clutter—half-read books and magazines, the occasional dirty glass, an open bag of chips, that sort of thing. It was too late Thursday night to worry about it, but I resolved to do an out-of-season spring cleaning starting Friday after work.

I have a pretty complete selection of alcoholic beverages in the pantry, most of the bottles dating back to before Mary died. We entertained other couples in those days, something I have not done much since. Unattached single men in their late thirties have little in common with married couples. Gatherings tend to be a little awkward. On my way home from work Friday night, I bought a few bottles of wine, and I put the whites in the fridge to cool.

I changed into my jeans, noticing as I did that I’d accumulated several sets of dirty clothes on a chair in the bedroom. I am not going to invite this classy lady into my bedroom on our second real date, I thought. In my mind, the luncheon meeting did not count as an actual date. I went through the pockets, scooped everything up and dumped it in the hamper.

I started cleaning in the family room. “Start from the top and work your way down,” my mother used to say. She also said, “Start with the obvious and work your way back.” That one seemed to apply to this room, so I began by gathering up the clutter.

As I removed things, I became aware of a thin layer of dust on shelves and tabletops. Where does dust come from? Seriously. I don’t live next to a desert or open field. There’s been no construction or road work near me for years, and I’ve no idea where the nearest sand and gravel pit is located. Still, while I wasn’t paying attention, every horizontal surface accumulated a fine grey layer.

I’d had a long week at work, so I retired at my usual time Friday night without finishing the room I started on. This was going to take longer than I thought.

I got back to it early Saturday morning and had the place in pretty good shape by noon. I have a bathroom off my bedroom, which I ignored, spending time in the bathroom off the hall. Again, figuring Ashley would not be visiting my bedroom or its adjoining bath on the second date.

Now, what to fix for dinner? Steaks are easy, but too close to restaurant food. I know she likes pasta from our first meeting. Spaghetti is too mundane. I’ve been known to do a killer lasagna (It’s all about the cheeses.), so made a run to the store for ingredients. By three o’clock, dinner was assembled and in the fridge, waiting for the right time to go into the oven. I was satisfied with how the house looked, so grabbed a beer and turned on the TV to see if any of my teams were televised this week.

It was about four-thirty when the doorbell rang. Ashley looked comfortable in blue jeans and a plaid shirt.

“I hope you don’t mind my coming so early for a six o’clock meal, but after the week I’ve had, I just wanted to get out of the house and go somewhere I could crash for a few hours.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Please come in. Can I get you a beer or something else to drink? I’m well stocked at present.”

Ashley asked for a glass of white wine, so I led her into the kitchen and told her where the wine glasses were while I opened a Sauvignon Blanc.

“The only downside of you coming early,” I said, “is the house is not yet full of the good smells of something cooking. I’ve put together a lasagna, and it’s waiting to be put in the oven about five.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Perhaps you could give me the nickel tour in the meantime?”

From the kitchen, I led Ashley through the dining room, to the family room. I muted the TV, and she remarked she was also a fan of the team I was watching. From the family room, I led her down the hall to that bathroom. I pointed to the closed door at the end of the hall and said, “And that’s the master bedroom and bath.”

Ashley continued down the hall and opened the door. I cringed because my cleaning spree had just glossed over those two rooms. They weren’t dirty, exactly, just not up to having visitors. She walked through the bedroom without comment and looked into the bathroom and the walk-in closet. Doing an about-face, she smiled and said, “Clearly, a bachelor lives here.”

She walked out of the bedroom, and I closed the door behind us, blushing in response to her remark. “There is a rec room in the partially finished basement, and two spare bedrooms upstairs. The basement is nice when we have especially hot days.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure,” I said, “but I don’t go down there much. It’s probably a little dusty.”

“I don’t mind.”

The stairs to the basement branch off from the hall. I led her down, flipping on the light switch on the way. There is a door at the bottom of the stairs, but Mary and I never closed it unless the kids were down there making too much noise. There’s not much there—an old, worn, overstuffed couch and chairs, a big screen mounted over a gas fireplace and a ping-pong table.

Dusty was the least of its faults.

Ashley looked around, sporting a grin. “I’m guessing you did not make this mess.”

“No,” I said, “My sons brought their families home for last Thanksgiving. I’ve not been down here since they left, so did not realize the shape it’s in.”

Ashley walked to the ping-pong table, detouring around the pillows, magazines, and empty beverage cans and drink cups on the floor, and slid two elegant fingers down the handle of a paddle.

“Do you play?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, picking up the paddle. “I planned to warn you this evening, and I suppose this is as good a time as any. I’m a spanko.”

“A spanko?”

“Are you familiar with the term?” Ashley asked.

“I know the word ‘spanko’, but are you serious?” I said. “If so, I’m guessing by the way you are holding that paddle, that you prefer to be on the giving side rather than the receiving.”

“Very astute,” she said. “Reggy was never interested in the lifestyle, but I promised myself I’d explore it early in any relationship with a new man who entered my life.”

It seems this was another topic we might have in common. Mary never mentioned an interest in adult spanking, while for me there was a… mild curiosity, I guess. I thought of it now and then, not often, and imagined what it would be like to be in either role—the spanker or the spankee. Seeing Ashley standing there with that paddle in her hand brought it to the fore.

“If our relationship were further along,” she continued, “I might decide to paddle you for allowing this room to remain in this condition. It’s only fair that you know this about me upfront. I don’t want to prolong our budding relationship, investing the time and emotion if we are incompatible on this issue, and I’m sure you feel likewise.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” I said. A kaleidoscope of butterflies was going through metamorphosis in my stomach. “Just out of curiosity, if we were further along in our relationship, what might happen next?”

“That would depend,” she said. “If we were intimate, I would order you to strip—get completely naked. Then I would bend you over my knee or an appropriate piece of furniture—the back of that couch, for example—and proceed to redden your backside with this paddle.”

“I don’t think we’re at that stage just yet,” I said.

“No, we’re not,” she agreed. “At this phase, if we had reached a mutual understanding, I would just order you to drop your pants and assume the position. Saving you the embarrassment of revealing everything.”

I looked at Ashley standing next to the ping-pong table, paddle in hand, miscellaneous litter scattered on the floor between us. She gazed back at me, exuding an air of competent intent.

Almost without conscious volition, my hands went to my belt and unbuckled it. What am I doing? I thought. I’ve barely met this woman. But my hands continued their task, unbuttoning my fly and lowering the zipper. My curiosity must be greater than I’d realized. I held my pants up with both hands for a moment, then let them fall, revealing the boxers I wore underneath.

I stood there for a couple of heartbeats, turned, walked to the back of the couch, and draped myself over it. Neither of us said a word.

I heard or sensed Ashley approach behind me. I flinched when she rested her hand on my back and gently pushed me further down. My heart was beating like the heels of a flamenco dancer. I had to remind myself to breathe.

“Stay in position now, John. I have no desire to fight you.”

My mind resolved to hold position no matter what came next. I did not want to appear a weakling in front of Ashley. Still, there was a modicum of doubt over whether my body would follow the dictates of my mind, if this paddling was too painful. I’d never been in this position before. I had no idea what I was about to experience.

SMACK!

The first swat surprised me, and I jerked in response. I knew it was coming, but my mind had to bridge the gap between the expected and the reality. That took a moment. There was a minor sting associated, but it was not really painful. Or perhaps I was so occupied with rationalizing the position I was in, I did not fully appreciate the impact of paddle with boxer-covered bottom.

Ashley paused for a half-dozen seconds before delivering the second SMACK!

I adjusted my position minutely, sagging more deeply into the over-stuffed back of the couch.

SMACK!

I noticed that one. The pause had been shorter between the second and the third, perhaps half as long. And it stung.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!

Ashley paused and rubbed my bottom through my boxers. “Are you okay, John?”

“Uhm, yes, I think so.”

“Well, hang in there. This is about to get more intense.”

Her hand lifted from my bottom and SMACK! the paddle returned.

Ashley established a rhythm and delivered seven more swats.

There was another pause. Her hand returned. “You’re doing well so far, my dear. There will be no more respites until we’re done. Remember to hold your position.”

The paddling resumed, and true to Ashley’s forecast, there were no more breaks in the action until she’d delivered twenty or so good swats. It got to be painful at about number eight.

Ashley’s hand returned and rubbed lightly. Then her fingers went to the waistband of my boxers.

“Raise up now, dear. I think we can dispense with these for the rest of your paddling.”

I was reluctant to obey. There was concern about baring my ass to this near stranger, and more important, I feared the paddle might sting even more on my bare skin.

I pushed my hands against the seat of the couch and raised my stomach above the back. Ashley skimmed my boxers smoothly down to my knees.

“Good boy,” she said. Pushing down on my back, she added, “Get back in position. It’s only fair you learn what you can expect if your relationship with a spanko continues.”

There was little further delay before the paddle met bare skin.  SMACK!!

An “Ouch!” escaped my lips before I could stop it.

Ashley did not respond. Her paddle did. She resumed her former rhythm.

She was spanking harder than before. Perhaps not harder, but with my boxers down, she was definitely spanking more effectively. I clenched my fists and buried my face in the cushion, determined not to rise or cry out. But Ashley was setting my ass aflame. Involuntarily, my feet shifted. Before long, I was crossing and uncrossing my ankles. The paddling continued, unrelenting.

“Keep your feet on the floor, John,” Ashley said, maintaining her cadence.

I’d not realized until then that I was bending my knees and lifting my feet off the floor. First one, then the other. I commanded them back down, but while doing that, my hands unclenched and edged out from under me, threatening to revolt against this ordeal. I forced my hands back under me, trying to not forget and allow my feet back up. The pain was now significant!

I wish that I had counted. I wish that, when it was over, I knew just how many swats it had taken to reduce me from manhood to something more akin to a little boy. The paddling lasted for a very long time, and I did manage to hold position draped over the back of the couch, but it was a struggle.

When Ashley put down the paddle, she stroked and gently cupped my fiery ass. In a fleeting thought, I was impressed she could stand the heat of the flame and did not snatch her hand away.

After a minute or two, Ashley gripped the waistband of my boxers and began to raise them, saying, “Lift up, please, John. You took your paddling well. You have some idea now, I think, of what it would be like to share your life with a spanko.”

She stepped back, and I stood. I was a little unsteady when I bent down for my pants, but I pulled them up and fastened them before turning to face Ashley. I’d not realized a tear was running down my cheek, but Ashley gently wiped it away with her thumb.

“What do you think, John?” she said. “Do you still want me to stay for dinner?”

“Absolutely,” I said, although I had to clear my throat first.

I led Ashley up the stairs from the basement and into the kitchen, where I turned on the oven to preheat and removed the lasagna from the fridge.

To reaffirm my masculinity, I sat on the thinly padded chair at the kitchen table across from Ashley to eat that evening. We both transitioned to a red wine with the lasagna, and Ashley praised my adaptation of the traditional recipe. She also smirked knowingly when I occasionally had to shift my position.

As we ate, she said, “You didn’t show me the rooms upstairs. Are they in better shape than your basement rec room?”

“To be honest, I haven’t looked. I just assumed that my son’s wives would have straightened them before they left.”

“I see,” she said. “Mind if I make a suggestion?”

“Not at all.”

“I recommend you inspect those rooms and make sure the entire house is ready for company before you next invite me over for dinner. I hope that will not be too far into the future,” she said, reaching across the table to take my hand. “But remember, I am a spanko.”

END

Copyright © 2023 by Jonathan Quincy Graves.  All rights reserved. Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

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