Firing for Effect

 

Emily

 

It was a bruise. That wasn’t up for debate. The question was how she got it. It was a small one-no bigger than a thumbnail-but high enough on the inside of her thigh to make a man wonder. No matter. She had a matching one on the outside of the other thigh that was a little larger. She had always been a klutz-even when she was light on her feet, she wasn’t really. Great dancer but liable to trip coming off the floor. But still. It could have been a love bite, a hickey, a sucker-bite like they called them in high school. No telling. Unless he flat out asked and he wasn’t drunk enough to do that. Wasn’t really drunk at all.

She wore the same high tight shorts and tank top that she rocked thirty pounds and twenty years ago. Still drove him mad. Maybe because he rarely saw her in them these days. He would see her in the warehouse and mostly imagine. If you could call remembering, imagining. But the ache he was starting to feel was not an ancient memory. It was here and now.

She was larger than she had been but who wasn’t? It was well-earned size. One kid, living over in Ohio with his dad coupled with over a decade of physical work-lifting and stacking and running a forklift-left her scant time or energy to run on a treadmill for hours like the women in the office. Nah, this one was built by life for life.

She shifted to her left and pulled her right foot up onto the chair further stripping her right thigh. Her shorts climbed high enough that their next move would be inside of her. Jesus, she didn’t even know what she was doing. At least he hoped she didn’t. That would have just been cruel. He stopped caring about the scant camouflage his sunglasses provided and stared.

He almost jumped-startled out of his leggy reverie-when Teddy slipped a cold 16 over his left shoulder. No idea that the guy was behind him. So not good. “Thanks, Bra”, he covered and popped the snap top. “No worries”, he said loping past them on his way to the shed no doubt engrossed in one of dozens of projects that he starts but never seems to finish. Their acre back here always looks like a shop class after the lunch bell rings.

“How is it with him?” he asked her crotch.

She watched him disappear into the shed. “Its fine, you know? He’s Teddy”, she shrugged and dropped her foot creating a large expanse of smooth, bare lap. “He’s okay-I mean he wouldn’t have been my first choice, you know? But he was there.” She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s good to come home to somebody. Even somebody goofy.”

“I might have something open up in the early shift for him-not a full 40-just part time.”

“Anything you can do, sweetheart”, she said.

His mind went to a place where he could feel that bare lap under his. He felt himself riding them-flying like Superman in the comics-arms straight out and his legs kicked back and himself grinding between her thighs.  The back of his throat went dry. He sucked at the beer warming in his hand and shifted uncomfortably.

“You flat out stopped texting me. It’s like a have to hunt you down during the day to just see you.”

She looked over her sunglasses at him. “I know how it is with you. But you’re married to my best friend. If we did it and it went sour-and face it, with me it usually does-I’d lose you and that would hurt. But I’d lose her and that would be tragic.”

He knew the words from his wife’s romance novels that were scattered about the house. “Yearning” was one, “aching” was another. He always thought the aching wasn’t real-just a feeling. Not like a bad shoulder or twisted knee. But this was worse. Though sunken deep in the old chaise, playing the cool cat behind his shades, he felt like he was leaning forward directing the pain in his heart-and lower-at her. Firing for effect.

How do you know when it’s time?

You’re standing there, nude, at the mirror;

Red, scrubbed and powdery fresh from the shower.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed not wearing much.

To me, you look the same as you always did-

Nothing’s fallen, nothing’s spread.

This moment used to lead to others where we would come together,

Slide, slip, push, grunt, scream and collapse.

Again and again.

Now you’re curling your hair telling me what I need to

Pick up at Costco.

(Was I supposed to be taking notes?)

I’m not really listening;

Busy trying to get sports talk through the static on the clock radio.

I let my eyes wander to the fullness of your bottom-imagining the dark secrets enveloped there;

The sleek firmness of your gym-toned legs.

Why imagine? I wonder. You’re right here. Just reach.

Not like I haven’t before.

For a moment I imagine my tongue like a frog’s-

Flicking and diving deeply between your bum-cheeks from over here.

A test.

I asked if you wanted to come back to bed.

We had time, after all.

Your reflection froze and said “Sure, if you want” with the same enthusiasm

Put into listing produce.

“Shhh, wait!” I said, holding up a finger, finally getting the station clearly.

“No, then?” the curling iron high-in a holding pattern.

“I’ll go make coffee”, I said. “It’s getting later…”

“Okay.” You said, getting back to the hair.

“And don’t forget it’s the frozen strawberries we want.

Not the mixed berries you got last time.”

Six Months and Counting…and Counting…

© HotBottoms

© HotBottoms

“But I wasn’t being bad…” She said peering intently outside where absolutely nothing was happening on the decrepit tennis courts…

“I know that honey” I said gently.

“Then why….?”

“Just come over here please…” I said from my seat at the bottom of the bed. My voice wasn’t menacing-certainly not threatening-it was soft, as I recall. Cajoling…

After a moment she turned reluctantly from the window and walked toward me. Backlit as she was, I couldn’t see her face but could clearly-or all I remember now- as she approached were her legs-long, strong and smooth.

It was our six month wedding anniversary and would be her first spanking.

Not long ago we were driving the back way to one of our favorite hiking spots in the mountains when we passed the Mountain Top Inn. It was freshly painted and the roof was new, but it looked about the same as it did those many years ago. It wouldn’t be at the top of anyone’s “go-to” lists but for a young couple with not much, it was 5-Star.

We talked about the walks we had taken that weekend, the antiques and some of the fall flowers we had picked and preserved. We were into that then. And of course we talked about the…

She said what she often said when reminded of the first time: “I thought it was a phase you would grow out of…” It would have been easier to grow out of being right-handed. It would have been easier for me to grow out of my stocky, swarthy body type into a sleeker Nordic model better suited to my taste in clothes. It would have been easier to…..you get the idea.

For me, the question always was-why had it taken so long for me to invite my beloved vanilla over my lap? We had been together four months-then married six. Ten months? Hell, my prom date ended up over my lap in the backseat of my buddy’s Catalina while everyone-including my date-laughed like hell. (God, how I wanted to lift her dress and pull her panties down. Wanted it so badly I think my hands were shaking. It might have eased the memory of never really having gotten past first base with her. Damn cheerleaders! Dick-teases all of them!…But I digress).

I blame our whirlwind courtship fraught with nasty family drama coming at us from all sides. Our rush to be married just two short months after deciding that we would, consumed us. We had a short time to get to know each other-plan some kind of wedding-juggle what seemed to be a tribe of supportive friends and, times being what they were, there was a seemingly endless parade of parties, drinking and general revelry. And the sex was what you would hope it to be in your twenties: fresh, new, mysterious and continuous. Maybe her first spanking had to wait for a routine to develop; for the first hint of “sameness” to poke its gray head into what we were doing.

For that first one we hadn’t yet instituted the practice of kissing when heads passed on the way over the lap so she settled herself hesitantly and cautiously on her belly. She thought I was going to swat her a few times on her panties and waited nervously. Instead I slipped my fingers into the elastic of her waistband and slipped them slowly and oh so s-l-o-w-l-y down: the first bottom reveal of our marriage. She lifted up to allow them to come down but said…”Oh man…” sort of breathlessly.

Me, as I recall, made that hissing sound that Hannibal Lecter made when he first smelled Clarice Starling. Can’t swear to it, but with the first swat I laid on her bare bottom, I’m sure my eyes rolled back in my head like a great white chomping a seal.

The spanking didn’t last too long. Probably no more than fifteen or sixteen smacks-mostly soft with ample cupping and rubbing and a lot of-no that is not a banana in my pants I am indeed happy to see you. Her bum was a sweet cotton-candy pink when I helped her back onto her feet and I wondered about the look in her eyes. Until she pushed me back on the bed with her panties still binding her at mid-thigh.

The chest thumping, sweat flying sex we had after the spanking left us so spent we dispensed with the planned afternoon hike and lounged instead in the green pool. Seriously. It was green. Come on, I said, it will be like swimming in a pond.

It took us a while to work out the complete ground rules of what we were doing when we realized this wasn’t going to be a once in a while type thing. A few weeks later we were playing racket ball and she missed a shot. Fierce competitor that she is, she slammed the ball off four walls sending me ducking then, to further impress anyone watching with how pissed off she really was, threw her racket.

I waited for her to regain composure before picking up the ball to serve. She picked up her racket, took a couple of breaths then popped me lightly in the chest with it. “See”, she said. “This is when you should spank me. When I deserve it, not just because.” Duly noted. But let the record show, I didn’t discard the “just because” option entirely.

Now as we were driving off into the mountains reflecting on a marriage of decades and literally countless spankings: birthday-spankings, punishment spankings, maintenance spankings, foreplay spankings (line blurs on that one) she, the converted vanilla, allows that it was probably spanking that saved our marriage. Or at least kept it from getting to a place where it would have needed saving.

Through up times, down times, jobs, no jobs, big money, no money, strong sex drive; no sex drive we have this thing, this one through-line to our marriage that grounds us as it binds us. Like a weird religion that we practice in private. No matter how distant we become from one another, which happens now and again, how often one of us might slip into that window staring ennui, we have something that will pull us back together.

As she explained to one of her vanilla friends who just didn’t get it “No matter how much we don’t like each other at times-there’s always this thing that we know we are going to do with each other that will break the ice and bring us close again. Plus it ends up with him rubbing lotion on my bare butt.”

And what could be wrong with that?