I cut the lime for our Tanqueray and Tonics as she stands at the kitchen sink, snapping the ends off the asparagus she is preparing for dinner. She's changed from her office attire into a sleeveless cotton dress, pale blue, the color of her eyes. Her sensible sandals have a modest heel, neither flat nor fuck me, but with a slight lift that accentuates her bare ankles and calves. At almost 50 she is still fetching, with a figure developed as a high school athlete and toned from years at the gym. Lithe and limber, she is the envy of girls a decade younger. She wears little makeup, just a kiss of color on her cheeks and lips and a touch of mascara on her eyelashes.
She smiles in thanks as I hand her the monogrammed glass, and we clink our drinks in an unspoken toast before taking a sip.
"What a day," she says unhappily, as she sets her glass on the black marble countertop and continues her preparations. I smile as my eyes trail down her luscious body, but my smile disappears as I continue to watch her work. She is not focused on dinner, or on me for that matter. She lacks her usual grace and fluidity. It is easy to see her frustration by the taunt way she holds her body. Her mind is still at work, no doubt mulling over the day's events.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She turns to face me momentarily. "No, not really," she replies with a shrug, as she moves to the sink and turns on the water. I feel a flash of anger as she turns her back on me. I am not a man accustomed to being dismissed, and I find it especially intolerable from my Brianna.
My eyes trail down to her right ankle and foot. Her toenails are painted a bright apricot, but her ankle is unadorned, as it has been for the past for several weeks. Absent is the anklet she wears as a sign of her decision. Our agreement is clear: when she wears the anklet she will submit to me, and honor me, as only a wife who is strong enough to submit to her husband's wishes can honor him. But when she does not wear her anklet, she has made the choice to remain the independent woman who does so well in the outside world.
My eyes settle on her backside. Wide through the hips, my dynasty-bearing love has a peach-shaped bottom that I can't get enough of. There are no panty lines, of course. As distracted by work as she is, she knows I prefer a bare bottom. In this request, she always obeys.
I watch silently as she methodically picks up each asparagus spear, pinches it, and lets it break naturally. Then she carefully places each stalk single file in a neat little row on the pan. Olive oil, sea salt, pepper, and nuts will be added before she pops it into the oven.
Yes, I decide, still staring at her as I stir the lime in my drink round and round the edge of the glass. I am proud of my Briana and of her accomplishments in the fast-paced and sometimes cruel business world in which she thrives. But I also know that she is not happy when she is consumed by her work.
Slowly, I make my decision. It is time to bring her home again, to reclaim her, to remind her that she is mine. There are times when she simply cannot ask for what she needs, even by a simple gesture such as putting on a piece of jewelry. And I have come to learn that these times—the times that she cannot ask—are the times she needs me most.
It is not a decision I take lightly. We have an agreement, after all, and I am the one about to break it. But she needs me, and I will not fail her.
I quietly put down my drink, step up behind her, cup my hand on her bottom and squeeze firmly as I sternly whisper into her ear: "Bree. Stop what you are doing. Right now."
She looks back at me, the surprise at my tone evident in her eyes. She starts to speak, her posture defensive, but when she sees my scowl she closes her mouth and stops, half facing me, an asparagus spear still in her hand.
I brush back her blond hair and speak again. This time my voice is soft, but the words are an unmistakable command. "Palms, flat on the countertop."
She sets the asparagus in the baking tray and turns to face the counter squarely. Almost instinctively, her legs separate until her feet are shoulder-width apart. Without a word, she leans over, places her palms, fingers spread wide, on the marble finish, and pushes her bottom out to me. The tie on her dress accentuates her waist, and the soft fabric clings to her like a lover. I trace her curves with my hands.
"Yes, that's right, Bree. Just like that," I say, letting her hear the admiration in my voice. I strive for the balance I want as I begin to bring her home. Lover. Husband. Master.
"Now, let me see your sweet ass."
I could easily lift her dress myself, of course. But there is something delicious to me about making her do it, knowing that her keen mind is processing this evening's directions, even as she performs the simple tasks I am now requiring of her.
She looks back, confused, but then slowly lifts her dress around her waist. I run my hands over her now bare hips and caress her tight bottom. I back up, standing behind her so she cannot see me. I take my time, admiring her for a moment, savoring both her body and her obedience. She is on my schedule now, on my terms, and I am certain that I have her attention. I am in charge, and she will wait, and wonder, and anticipate.
Slowly and deliberately, I begin to unbuckle and remove my belt. Her shoulders tighten as she hears the metal clang of the buckle, then the whoosh as the leather slides through the belt loops of my jeans. She begins to squirm in understanding as she undoubtedly processes the evidence: The dress up around her waist. The belt now wrapped around my hand. The preoccupation she has had with work over the last few evenings. She needs no words to know what is coming. If I were going to fuck her now, she'd already be naked. She knows I prefer the naughty schoolgirl look for what I am about to do.
A serious punishment spanking is an unusual event for us, so I give her a moment to compose and to anticipate what is to come. Her breath becomes quick and shallow as she fights to maintain control.
"I have waited patiently for several weeks for you to come to me."
She nods.
"Now, I must take back what is mine."
I wait.
Finally, she takes a deep breath and holds it in for a moment before letting it out ever so slowly. I smile in recognition of her action: it is the cleansing breath that makes her mine again. It's a precious moment, her acceptance, that instant when she hands herself—body, heart, soul—back over to me. I smile, but she cannot see me.
She screams as the belt strikes her ass. Her knees buckle and her hands coil into fists at the sudden assault to her beautiful bottom. I examine my work. Almost immediately a welt begins to rise, and I rub my fingers over it gently. My girl is unaccustomed to a hard strapping, and I know it hurts. But I am firm in my resolve to make my point.
Gently, sweetly, I shush her, rubbing her lower back, telling her that she is my good girl, reminding her that I love her and that I will always take care of her.
I give her time to settle before lifting the belt to strike again. This time she arches her back and puts her head down between her arms and sucks in air as she adjusts to the pain, but she does not try to get away. Again, I soothe her spine, stoking it gently, whispering my love to her. Tenderly, I rub my lips over the red marks, tracing each welt with the tip of my tongue, kissing around the tender spots. I prefer erotic discipline to the harsh discipline I am now inflicting, but this is a lesson that must be remembered.
