Their cathartic spankings became a monthly ritual. Maintenance spankings, as she called them, provided all the intimacy he needed. Over her knee, the complexities of life dissolved into the rhythm of hairbrush and bottom; in ouch and corner time he felt peace. Standing in the corner of her room felt right, everything in order. He never did, however, get over how much her spankings hurt. It was always a struggle to stay on her lap, but he knew it was where he belonged.
He worked to fit into her life, taking care of her home. When his company downsized, he lost his warehouse manager position. She reduced his rent while he sought another job that fit her schedule. Rather than feeling sorry for himself, his focus became maintaining her condo and making life easier for her. Paradoxically, it seemed, he was emotionally stronger the more he served. He found his purpose in her home.
As she advanced in her career, he felt no little pride in her accomplishments. Not that she spoke in depth with him about her job, but he could tell when she excelled. It made him feel good to think he played some small part.
While out of work he took classes, learning to cook. He made dinner for her. He delighted when she complemented him on his use of seasoning and spices. Everything was going well, very well, until that day. The day that changed everything.
The day he still doesn't speak of was the day she discovered his secret. There is always a secret. Everyone has one. But his involved her, making the situation intolerable. When she found out his secret, it was devastating.
Every morning, after he made her bed, he would pick up anything out of place. Once in a while she left something, perhaps a jacket, on the back of her side chair, or a skirt folded on the seat. He hung these up in her closet. It was not difficult to understand where these should go.
A year ago, not long after they moved into the new condo, he found a knit top on foot of the bed. He wondered if it should be folded in a drawer or hung up. He opened the drawers in her room to see if that was where it should go. What he saw was her collection of lingerie and undergarments. He hung the knit top in the closet.
That evening he asked if that was the right place. She pointed to some shelves built into the back of the closet. He folded the top and put it next to sweaters there. It should have been obvious. She laughed. He laughed, "I must be blind."
But the damage had been done. He was not blind; he had seen her undergarments. He couldn't forget. Of course, he knew they were there. Of course, he knew she wore underwear, bras, stocking, lingerie. But now he had seen. The following Wednesday morning, after making the bed and cleaning her bath, he opened that top drawer. He could smell her presence. Things had been moved. He could tell what she had worn that week.
Wednesday mornings became very special to him. He would open all three drawers of her dresser, one at a time. Silently observing which items she tended to wear most often. He didn't touch anything. He memorized each item and its placement in her dresser drawers. Each Wednesday he carefully closed the drawers and returned to his room. He enjoyed "pleasuring himself" in the shower before going to work.
He made it a rule never to open any drawer until all his tasks for the morning were accomplished. He limited his enjoyment to just looking, memorizing and speculating on what she would wear that week. And, very importantly, only on Wednesday morning after he cleaned her room.
He made her bed and put away any clothes lying about. He cleaned the bath, wiped down the glass shower door and polished the chrome fixtures till they sparkled. He dusted, straighten and vacuumed her bedroom. He lovingly arranged her grandmother's hairbrush with the other items on her dresser. Only then, after being very careful to do the best job possible, would he allow himself a long, silent peek.
Slowly pulling open the first drawer, inhaling her scent, guessing which items she might wear, these were heady moments. He did not touch, but he did lean in to get his nose close. His was a silent ritual; opening and closing one drawer at a time. Nothing disturbed, nothing out of place, nothing touched, he rationalized his indulgence.
He looked forward to his Wednesday ritual, even more than his monthly spankings. Other days of the week were for cleaning the kitchen, or the living room. Wednesdays he cleaned her room. Only on Wednesdays would he open those three drawers, of stockings and underwear and bras, her lingerie and stockings.
On Wednesdays, in a long hot shower he relished thinking those stockings, that chemise, perhaps her lace brassiere on her. And he was happy, very, very happy.
Happy until one Wednesday morning she came home unexpectedly. She observed him in her room with his head in her underwear drawer. She watched his little ritual. Opening each drawer, savoring the contents and closing it. He turned to walk out and there she was.
He froze. Nothing good could come of this. His secret exposed. "Um, how long have you been home?"
"Long enough, it seems."
"I didn't expect to see you there. You startled me."
"Just what were you doing in my dresser?"
"Um, I cleaned your room."
"And you cleaned my underwear?"
"No, no, no. I didn't touch what's in those drawers."
"I see. You just looked and didn't touch."
"Yes. I never touch your things except to clean or put away. I would never touch what is in those drawers."
"I think you better go to your room now, and don't come back in here."
He trudged off to his room. She did not move as he approached her in the hall. He feared those eyes. He could not look at her. He could tell she was upset. There was no smile. He had to turn sideways to get by her. He went to his room, then left for work by the back door.
Thursday morning, he apologized as he handed her the coffee mug. His secret ritual, once discovered, broke something. No apology was enough. He hung my head and waited for the inevitable. He knew even a Sunday spanking was not going to fix it.
"We will discuss this Sunday morning. I will think about consequences. You have betrayed my trust and violated my sense of security in my home. Changes will be made. Until then, I do not want to see you. You will remain in your room when I am here and use only the back door."
He read between the lines. He might not have a place to live Sunday evening. Two of the happiest years of his life destroyed by one act of selfish indulgence. He trudged off to his room. After she left for work, he cleaned up the kitchen. He did not go into her room. He didn't know whether her bed was made or not.
He felt lost and it was his own fault. If he hadn't opened those drawers that day, he would still be able to greet her in the morning. On Friday morning, he made the coffee, set out the breakfast and hid in his room until he heard her leave for the office.
Saturday was the same. She was gone most of the day. She returned only to go out for the evening. He tried to avoid being in her presence as she asked. The condo was impeccably clean, he saw to it. He did not go into her room.
Sunday morning arrived. At 8:00 there was that dreaded knock on his door. He had been awake for hours. He was terrified. This talk could mean having to move out. He followed her, not to her room as usual, but to the dining room table. He was surprised to find another woman there.
She was short, stocky, and older, maybe 60? Her grey hair was pulled back in a bun. She greeted him with a handshake. "My name is JoEllen Lake. You may call me Miss Lake. You must be James. I am glad to meet you."
He had no idea what she was doing here. Her greeting was disarming. He hesitated, "I'm happy to meet you too, Miss Lake."
"Please, let's be seated," she said gesturing. Jennifer sat at the head of the table, Miss Lake across from Jim. Her blouse gapped open slightly. Jim looked down.
Jennifer explained, "James, Miss Lake is a consultant, a counselor of sorts. I have invited her to help us sort out our issues and my unexpected feelings of insecurity in my home."
"Yes, James, my job is to help people resolve violations of trust with just and lasting results. I understand Miss Kendall observed you doing something inappropriate. Would you describe for me what you did so I can understand the scope of things?"
Jim started at her. His mouth was open but no words came out. She straightened in her chair. Her blouse closed. Her voice suddenly sharp and demanding, "James, what did you do?"
"I have trouble talking about it."
"That is quite alright young man. It can be difficult to admit an injustice that harms another." She paused. Her voice returned to its calm assurance. "Just tell me what you can."
