Friday, 11 April 2014
A SPANKED HUBBY REVEALS...
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed – Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
“La Belle Dame sans Merci”
The painting is by Frank Dicksee; the same theme & title.
There must be a group for men like me, at odds with social convention but at peace with my own nature. "Hi, I'm Ed and I am a spanked husband." Chairs in a circle, maybe a box of tissues set on the floor. With any luck, several guys are there with me both to tell their stories and tell me they know where I am coming from. I have yet to find such a collective of submissive odd fellows but if I ever do, I will follow my terse introduction with a narrative that, outside that circle of acceptance and shared vulnerability, would expose me to a hail of derision.
I was with Lisa for nearly twenty years, from dating and engagement to estrangement and now divorce. My personal story, however, is but indicative of the shifting dynamics of mating and relating that already have existed in a substratum of Western society for a very long time. Today, the world speaks of Empowered Women. In private, in shadowy precincts of swooning fetishes and closely guarded secrets among countless couples burrowed in the aggregate intimacy of the race, there are and ever will be dominant ladies and the submissive males under their feet. Thus, Lisa and Ed. For that matter, there are your neighbors and friends; bosses and co-workers and for God's sake, a handful of your relatives too.
About myself and my union with a woman whom I have loved for over half my life, I will share some stories and then offer a few tentative conclusions about where I suspect evolution is pushing women and men; that is, awkwardly and fractiously toward a realignment of gender roles in the 21st Century. Believing that experience is the best teacher and knowing how much people enjoy reading erotic details of other's lives, let me elaborate on my own transformation from self-indulgent jerk to disciplined husband.
Being male, there is a primal fact that permits no rebuttal: I think with my penis. That makes me like almost every other male, naturally. But not every man is joined to a woman who consistently lays the law down with a practiced poise so effective that the marriage itself reflects the exercise of her will. Here is a perfect example from our early days. Before our engagement, I used to accompany Lisa to the local fashion mall whenever she liked because there were sure to be plenty of young female employees wearing sexy outfits. I wanted all of them. Don't get me wrong here because I was already in love with Lisa. My cock nevertheless had not yet signed off on my future plans. I flirted intensely with all manner of attractive females when opportunities arose. Occasionally, I would seek out a certain statuesque blonde at a large department store, sidling up to whatever counter she was working that day. I really looked forward to seeing her and talking breezily about most anything, my day at work or some car I wanted, you name it. All to hold her attention and invite her lovely gaze. Her makeup was immaculately matched to her shoulder-length hair and I used to think there was an artist inside, showing her off to the world. Moreover, she seemed to relish the attention as much as I loved lavishing it on her! One night, I thought the coast was clear while Lisa was trying on dresses in a store two doors down across the wide and crowded walkway. I was making pretty good time with this young lady, I figured and while chatting her up, fantasized about how I could arrange a rendezvous. Then Lisa walked up quietly behind me. I watched the face of my luscious Amazon flush crimson as she averted her eyes and got suddenly very busy with stocking merchandise. It was the sum of all fears for a roué. Busted! Lisa had chided me repeatedly about conversing with women whom we did not know mutually. I could do nothing now but beg the question of my guilt. "Oh, hi honey. I was just..." That is as far as I got. "Go out to the car," Lisa commanded coolly. I started to protest that I didn't mean any harm. An obvious lie. "What did I just tell you?" Lisa was in no mood for games so I replied with a feeble "Yeah, OK. Sure," and did as I was told. It was maybe another 15 minutes before Lisa came out, took the keys away from me and drove us to her home silently. I don't know to this day what she told my alluring blonde acquaintance but never again did the two of us flirt or even acknowledge each other though Lisa and I still shop there often. When we got home, Lisa told me that my days as a skirt-chasing dog were over. She had trusted me on my own and I had let her down, badly. Seeing the dire straits I was in, I clumsily confessed to my treachery and apologized profusely while she sat on the couch, listening with an implacable scowl.
Clearly I was only digging myself in deeper. "Are you through?" I was definitely through, I thought. Finished. Lisa straightened herself and pulled up her skirt to form a straight line across her thighs. "You have just earned yourself a good spanking," she declared. "Take your pants down." I was not about to refuse and lose Lisa. I loved her, more so than any woman before and couldn't imagine myself considering marriage to another lady. This was a make-or-break moment. So I unbuckled my belt and dropped my pants to the floor. She reached out, grabbed my hand and pulled me across her lap. "You know damned well you have this coming," she said as she took down my boxers and strategically positioned my bottom so that it rose like a hillock over her stockinged knee. Lisa used a stern hand on me, cupped for a punishing resonance that soon brought intense heat and a ruby red blush to all four of my cheeks. In subsequent spankings, Lisa discovered the effect her hairbrush had both on my bare behind and on my behavior. Still, her point was soundly made that first time. She probably delivered about a hundred swats to each cheek, alternating with authority and scolding me throughout. I was reduced to tears, as much from shame and humiliation as from the sharp sting applied with building intensity. Afterward, I was banished to a corner of her living room with my pants all the way off, standing there for an hour while Lisa poured a glass of wine and admired her handiwork.
Thereafter, punishment spankings became the norm for me as Lisa evaluated then fulfilled my deep need for discipline. Her sturdy wooden hairbrush was always close at hand and worked wonders in reshaping my attitudes in our relationship and conduct outside the home, where by the way I was not immune from being turned over her knee! If I acted up, my pants came down even if that meant hauling me into an empty family rest room in a public venue. Lisa was my loving wife but a consistently strict and skilled disciplinarian. I must have divined this side of her nature when courting her. She was always confident and assertive from the beginning. What I did not anticipate was how much I would come to crave the control Lisa exerted over me. I did all that I could to maintain her trust in me because it was a long way to go winning it back after obvious flirtations and The Mall Incident. When I failed her in any significant way, particularly by disrespecting her feminine authority, Lisa exercised her matriarchal marital right to take my pants down (or make me do it for her to reinforce my submission) and administer the old-fashioned spanking we both knew I had earned. It was characteristic of a comprehensive lifestyle that served us well for years. Femdom spanking guided our marriage into a sexual wilderness.
END OF PART ONE
The painting La Belle Dame sans Merci (The Beautiful Woman Without Mercy) is by Frank Dicksee 1901
Oil on canvas.
Can be seen at Bristol Museum and Art Gallery (UK)