I go round the house, giving everything a final once-over. The place is clean, tidy. I've done almost everything I possibly can, but I still feel anxious for his arrival home. My nerves are shot, my mind all over the place. I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. I look pretty, presentable. I've curled my hair, put on a dress. I'm pouring him a glass of whiskey now, anticipating that he'll walk through the door any moment.
This was our agreement when we married; he'd make the money, I'd keep the house. He makes good money, really good money, which means I have to keep a perfect house, be the perfect housewife. And I try, I really do, but I always feel as though I feel slightly short of expectations. That's my anxiety speaking. My mind can never simply tell me 'job well done'. Instead it ruminates on that last book gone un-dusted, the last plate not put away just so.
He helps me with this, though, and I'm grateful to him. He's 10 years older than me; he was already 35 when I met him. Well established, with a good career behind him already. 'I'll pay to keep you,' he told me. 'You just work on giving me a comfortable life to come home to'.
7pm. The front door handle turns; right on time.
"Hello darling," he says, smiling as he spots me there waiting for him. He grabs me by the waist, pulls me in for a long kiss. When he releases me I smile up at him, breathless. I take his jacket off for him and hang it up, he takes off his tie and hangs it up, loosening the top few buttons of his shirt. I pass him the waiting glass of whiskey. This routine is well established, honed and perfected.
He walks to the back of the house, to our open-plan kitchen-diner. Our house is beautiful, spacious. His money has provided us with a lovely home. But it's large, difficult for me to keep up with the cleaning. He runs a finger along the top of the fridge. It comes up clean. Spotless.
"The house looks perfect darling," he says, looking around. His nose sniffs the air."Why don't I smell dinner?"
"I had to order takeaway," I say. "I got a little behind with the cleaning and I ran out of time."
As I say it I flush with shame. I hate not living up to perfection.
His brow furrows. "Go upstairs and put some lingerie on," he tells me. "With a suspender belt and stockings. Be back in the living room in five minutes."
I do as he says, putting on some of my best, lacy bra in a midnight blue with a tiny matching g string, black lace suspender belt, smooth, sheer stockings. Slipping the garter belt shut, I wonder what he has in store for me.
I go back downstairs, walking as quiet as a whisper in my stockinged feet. When I walk into the living room, he pauses the programme he was watching with a nonchalant jab of the remote.
"Come and lay across my lap," he tells me. "Face down."
I do as I'm told. He runs his palm across the domes of my ass cheeks, draped over his lap.
"You're need a spanking for your failure," he says, his tone almost a lazy drawl. "But I need you to tell me... why are you getting a spanking?"
"Because I didn't manage my time well," I whisper, my pulse racing. "I didn't finish all of my chores."
"That's right," he tells me, still caressing my body with his hand. "When a man comes home, he doesn't expect much. A clean home, a warm meal. I fulfil my end of the bargain; I make plenty of money so that you don't have to work. You need to fulfil yours. That's the least I should expect, don't you agree?"
"Yes," I breathe, my eyes closed.
"I'm going to give you ten spanks, and I want you to count each one, ok?"
I nod my head, scarcely able to breathe. He pulls his palm away from the soft strokes he was giving me, tugs the straps of my suspenders away from my ass cheeks. Then his hand comes down hard, with no sensation in the aftermath until suddenly a wicked sting spreads out from where it connected. My skin feels like it's on fire.
"One," I moan, and he immediately brings his hand down again, on the same exact spot as before. The skin tingles in outrage.
"Two..." I say, gasping. The third strike lands exactly as before, and the third and the fourth. By number ten I have tears in my eyes and my mind feels like it's been cleared of worry, all of my thoughts instead consumed by the satisfying pain spreading itself out in waves over the bottom half of my body.
He spreads his palm out over my ass, soft again. I feel him fingering the skin, admiring his work. He gives me a gentle tap on the ass cheek.
"Now go and find some work to do," he says, dismissing me as he clicks his programme back on. I go to the bathroom, lock the door, inspect myself in the beautiful onyx-framed full-length mirror. I look at my behind; his hand print embedded in red, the skin blistering in tiny blood spots. I put my hand inside my g string. I'm soaking wet.
