The Contract, Part II
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Contract, Part II
By Nattie
Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!
Perhaps, I should take a moment to explain how we first came to spanking. See, I grew up fantasizing about spanking. Usually, it was a teacher who would suddenly see me and think me special. So special, in fact, that they needed to be stricter with me and teach me discipline and hard work. Generally, this extra attention was applied with a paddle or belt to my bare bottom.
Gradually, over the years, I started to feel it was a bit weird to be having these thoughts. I’d be daydreaming in class, and I’d stop and look around. The other students were all either writing notes, taking notes, or looking at the teacher in concentration. I’d wonder if any of them were thinking of spanking stories inside their head.
Invariably, I’d come to the conclusion-more and more often, as I got older-that I was just a little bit different in this area. So I cursed my fantasies and looked for a nice boy to come along and sweep me off my feet.
Chris and I met in a laundromat by our college, and we talked all night while we did our huge piles of laundry. I was pretty impressed that he seemed interested in me while I was in my laundry-doing clothes (an old, worn pair of sweats and a stained, threadbare t-shirt from my high school swimming days).
We had a very normal, uneventful courtship (we never did the break up then get back together dance that so many young couples do) and we had a normal, one-year engagement followed by a normal wedding with a white dress in a normal church in front of two or so hundred normal friends and not-so-normal family.
Then, we had a normal marriage, and we bought a normal house in a normal neighborhood.
I suppose it was a bit of a surprise to him when I let my decidedly un-normal fantasies invade our lives.
It began one night, about three months after we had moved into our new house. Chris stormed into the living room and informed me that he had had it up to here-he pointed to the middle of his forehead, I guess indicating that there was still a little room left to frustrate him-with my constant spending on the new house.
You know, thirty dollars here for a pretty set of towels for the guest bathroom. Then fifty dollars for a satiny new set of sheets. Eighty-two dollars for the new curtains in the living room (and they were on sale!) and two hundred dollars (oops) on a new bedspread. Somehow, by the time we had lived in our new house for three months, I had accumulated over six thousand dollars worth of little stuff without even realizing it.
When he saw the credit card statement, he was furious. As partner already at thirty-two, he was pretty accustomed to being in charge. He’d been ROTC at one time, until knee surgery had nixed his first dream of a military career.
I suppose that when he stormed around the living room lecturing me that night, he wasn’t expecting me to respond quite like I did. I mean, he took my credit card, cracked it in half and whisked my checkbook into his back pocket.
“No spending, no spending whatsoever-not a cent!-without me until you stop frivaling-” I know that’s not a word, but he was upset, and that’s what he said “-our money away on little purchases here and there!”
I don’t know what it was about it that made me do it. Looking back, I think it was his repeated use of the word ‘no’ that did me in. It could have been his t-shirt stretched over his muscled chest and his hands on his hips. Or, it could have been that he’d suddenly reconnected with what military training he’d had and was suddenly sounding like the Gunnery Sergeant from Officer and A Gentleman barking at Richard Gere.
Whatever it was, I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to grab his face and kiss him more passionately than I had ever kissed him in the ten years that we had known each other.
It sort of took the steam out of his lecture, and he stared at me a little astonished and open-mouthed. I, however, couldn’t contain myself and we spent the next six hours-well, okay, maybe two hours-having the best sex we had ever had.
We didn’t discuss it, or talk about it, until the next day when he came home “sick” from work at lunchtime to ask me what the hell last night was all about.
“I’m sorry,” I said, in a small voice. I was pretty embarrassed. All those fantasies of childhood had been re-awoken at his alpha display. Decidedly un-normal fantasies, and Chris is a decidedly normal sort of person.
At my apology, he sighed. “Well, hell.”
Chris, I should mention, is not the sort of person who says hell. In fact, I’d never heard him say it until that day, and I haven’t heard it since.
“Hell,” he repeated. “I’m not sure that was something to be sorry about.”
I could only blush and stare at my tuna fish sandwich. I was mortified, but a giggle escaped my mouth as I thought of our fun last night. We’d made the kind of love I’d only seen on a flash of pornography while cruising through the channels to find something to watch late at night. Steamy, passionate … I was so embarrassed, and we’d been married for three and a half years.
“Hell,” he said yet again, “don’t be embarrassed.”
“You know I’m a prude. I’m mortified-that’s much more than embarrassed.” Even more than mortified, actually, because just as he had come home from work early, I had been eating my tuna fish sandwich and staring out the window imagining what it would be like for my husband to take me over his knee and lay down the law on my backside.
“What was last night all about?”
I shrugged, and then made the fatal mistake of looking at his hands. I’d never noticed they were so big and strong. He’s a lawyer, but he has the hands of a rancher. They weren’t rough and hang-nailed, but they were wider than I remembered, thick and strong. I couldn’t get my fantasy of that hand spanking my vulnerable bottom out of my mind.
(So if you don’t mind, reader, I’m going to edit out the next four hours of lovemaking, skip over the three hour nap after that, and jump straight to our late night dinner, where Chris wouldn’t let me up from the table until I told him what was going on.)
“Well,” I said. I had eaten every bit of macaroni and cheese, but I still scraped my fork along the plate to get a little of the leftover cheese. “I think I’m weird.”
“Weird,” he prompted.
“Well, I’ve always had these weird sort of fantasies.”
When it became evident that I was not going to elaborate on my own, Chris parroted my last word back to me again. “Fantasies?”
I said it real fast, hoping that he wouldn’t catch my words. “Sorta like alpha hubby lays down the law and spanks wife sort of thing, like.” No, I’m not from the valley in California with their high-pitched “likes” of the eighties, I was just nervous.
And then I held my breath, which was a bad idea because he didn’t respond for over a minute.
“Did you say spank?”
Oh god. I nodded and a few tears of fear slipped down my face as my breath whooshed out and blew my napkin across the table.
“Oh,” he replied. Then-would you believe it!-he busied himself with putting the dishes in the dishwasher, gave me a good night kiss, and went into his office. I sat there alone in the kitchen for over a half hour, not sure what to think. I finally went up to bed and fell asleep, not waking when Chris crawled in bed next to me.
Weeks passed where a silence developed between us, and he said nothing about the desires I had confessed to him. Then, one day, I wrote him an email while he was at work. Our sex had stopped cold turkey, and we were completely avoiding the issue. It took me almost six hours to compose the few sentences I sent off to him that afternoon.
Chris,
Having fun drafting your contracts? Just wanted to ask if you could bring home some dinner. I’m caught up in that article the newspaper asked me to write. I’ve got to have it to the editor by five tonight.
Maybe some Chinese?
Luvvles,
Jen
PS: Do you think I’m a freak?
Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!
Labels: free stories
The Contract, Part I
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Contract, Part 1
By Nattie
Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!
It was a Sunday different from all other Sundays.
I sat in our white wooden breakfast nook, enjoyed my once a week treat of Lucky Charms, and let the sun streaming through the windows warm my skin. It was a typical lazy Sunday morning in my house, and I knew my husband would come down in a few minutes looking scruffy and—even after these seven years of marriage—looking cutely edible.
I smiled as he descended the stairs with all his grunts and groans that I had thought cute the first few months of marriage, then annoying for the next year or so, and finally such an ingrained part of our morning ritual that I usually thought nothing of them at all.
He came to the table with his rich, dark brown hair sticking up all over the place and grinned. I should have taken note then—Chris does not, in general, grin before his morning cup of coffee.
“I did some reading last night.”
He had a proud look about him, as if he expected congratulations or something. Considering he was an avid reader and read every night, I needed more information before doing my wifely duty of stroking his ego.
“Oh?”
He ran a hand through his hair to flatten it, but of course it just popped out in new directions. Then he sat across from me, which was my second clue that something was amiss. Normally I got a grunt, barely a passing glance, and he never, ever, sat across from me until he had his steaming coffee mug embraced between two hands as if holding a sacred object. Then he would blow on it exactly three times to cool it (which, as you’ll see later, doesn’t actually work), raise it in both hands, and sniff it with his eyes half-closed in what looks like sexual ecstasy. Finally, he would take a sip that would—without fail—burn his tongue.
My dearest husband burns his tongue every single morning, so usually the first words I hear from him are “Ow!” followed by an inhale through pursed lips that sounds like wind through a tunnel, and finally a “Mmmmmmmmmm—” drawn out just long enough to annoy me “—Mm!”
Then, and only then, would he look at me. And to his credit, he would smile with one side of his mouth and say “Good morning, sweetie. Good coffee.”
But here he was, sitting across from me wide-eyed and eager, the coffee pot ignored and untouched on the kitchen counter.
“I was perusing the internet, and found some sites on contracts.”
Since my husband is an attorney, I nodded appreciatively as if interested. “That’s great, honey.”
“D/s contracts.”
That got my attention. It had taken two years to train my happily vanilla husband to spank, and reluctantly spank, at that.
“D/s,” I repeated, laying my spoon down and resigning my Lucky Charms to a fate of neglect. “But, we’re DD.” I glanced over at the coffee pot to make sure that I had, indeed, made coffee that morning.
“Semantics, shmantics, Jen darling.”
Now, I don’t know if any of you readers out there have been up close and personal with a lawyer, but they are way too picky with words. My husband would never say ‘semantics, shmantics.” Never.
But, apparently, he just did.
Evidently, I was gaping at him in a bit of a shock, because he pulled from (Where? I don’t know. Behind his back? Under his shirt? Behind my ear?) a stack of seven or so papers.
“These are some samples of D/s contracts.”
Not to sound redundant, but I repeated, “But, we’re DD.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point.” He started spreading out the papers with the same enthusiasm he had spread out pictures of various homes when he had announced to me our readiness to look for a house. “Look, we could do a contract.”
“Um,” I said, staring forlornly at my now soggy cereal. Lucky Charms must be eaten fast, or else the marshmallows dissolve and the rest becomes quickly soggy and a bit gross, to boot. “Why would we want to?”
Stupid question. Chris loves contracts passionately. I think he became a lawyer just so he could write contracts. He even managed to persuade me to not only have and sign a pre-nuptial, but managed to make it rather romantic and sweet.
“Well, you’re the one who brought up this head of household stuff, but you had to take charge and practically train me to spank.”
I gnawed at my lip. I try, as much as I can, to make Chris feel like everything is his idea and that he’s in charge. Not for any DD reason, it just kind of makes me laugh inside when he struts around the house as proud as can be over his “great idea” which was actually something I wanted and planted in his head. It makes him happy, so it makes me happy to dupe him a little. Gives me a little power rush, you know? Men are pretty adorable creatures—even the most manly man has an irresistible and slightly gullible little boy inside.
“I made some coffee this morning.” After all these years, I didn’t think I needed to mention it.
As if I had said nothing, he shuffled the papers excitedly, which I had yet to glance at. “See, we could make a commitment to each other and our relationship—our special relationship—with a contract, just like D/s!”
I glanced down. “But, I don’t want to call you Master.” Not for real, anyway. Sometimes I do the Bewitched thing and say ‘Yes, Master’ when he’s being particularly bossy, but that always ends with him sticking his tongue out at me while we have a good chuckle.
“That’s okay, we could come up with our own expression of commitment. We’ll use the D/s format to renew our marriage vows, in a way, and to make a commitment to our lifestyle.”
I frowned at his boyish excitement. Not that it wasn’t all romantic and stuff, but I’m not really one for change. “Don’t rock the boat,” my mother used to say, and my father would chime in with “no need to go fixin’ what ain’t broke in the first place, I always say.”
“Don’t you want some coffee?” It came out a bit shrill for a casual question.
“No thanks, honey.”
I didn’t know what to think of that, so I picked up my bowl and carried it to the sink, throwing the poor soggy cereal into the jaws of the garbage disposal and rinsing them down the drain. I even wiped out the sink, despite the fact that I’m usually not the type of person who is overly concerned with a shiny, sparkling sink.
I finally turned to him and asked, with a bit of trepidation, “So. What’s wrong?”
Chris was starting to look a little disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm, like a little boy who was about to get his bubble burst. I felt a twang of guilt, so I sat down and worked up an interested smile.
“Wrong?” he asked.
“I mean, if you want to change our relationship, what’s wrong with how it is now?”
Chris was gathering up the papers, looking even more dejected. “Nothing, I just wanted to add … a new dimension, a little excitement. It’s no big deal.”
As anyone in a long-term relationship knows, ‘no big deal’ is usually the ‘one little thing’ brought up for years in the and-you-couldn’t-even-do-this-one-little-thing-for-me argument. He stood to finally get his cup of coffee, and I grabbed his hand. We have a pretty good relationship, and we do go out of our way to try and give each other happiness.
“Okay,” I said, with a smile that I hoped conveyed enthusiasm.
His eyes lit up, and he flashed his cute little boy grin. “Okay?” he asked.
I sighed. “Yes.”
So that’s how it started, that Sunday different from all other Sundays. The television was not turned on the whole day, not even during the football game I’d overheard him arguing about with his buddies over the phone the few nights before.
Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!
Labels: free stories
D/s with Anita Blake
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Have you read any books in the Anita Blake series, by Laurell K. Hamilton?
The wonderful thing about paranormal and horror genre, is that it seems to allow kink and D/s themes in a commercial book.
I just love the way she portrays Nathan. He’s strong, he goes after what he wants, and yet he’s so beautifully submissive. Anita loves him, but she doesn’t quite give him the dominance (and sensitivity) that he needs. It’s taken her awhile to even respect his needs, respect him the way he is.
And the way The Harlequin ended! Asher--be still my soul--is going to teach Anita about submission in the next book. Whew, boy, do I want to see that. We’re talking hands-on training, Anita going under, feeling all those feelings for the first time with Asher.
Now that’s something to wait for!
Speaking of fiction, I’ll finally be delivering on my promise (and Reesa’s generosity) on Friday, with the first FREE installment of one of my more popular short stories, The Contract.
