Owned

My wife, Debi, had not always been a disciplinarian. Early in our marriage, I had begged her to spank me. If I could have found any reason to make her furious enough to get out the leather and go to work on my behind, I would have done it in no time flat.

"I don't know, Raymond. That's really not for me."

"Oh, c'mon, Debi. Just pretend I'm your son and I did something naughty."

She shook her head. "I doubt it."

"Work yourself up. Get mad. Think of the last time I pissed you off, and spank me until you're not mad anymore." My eyes danced. "What do you say?"

"Careful what you wish for," she said as she left the room sporting a peculiar little grin.

Several times, she had disarmed me with those words. "Careful what you wish for," she'd say with a wink. I dismissed this as folly each time, and persisted to bring it up during sex. But she'd always used her little phrase to shut me down, and that would be that.

Spanking had always been something of a turn-on for me, not so much for her. The notion of submitting to a female, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, was the pinnacle of sexual excitement for me. Then one day, she accepted the bait.

The first spankings were clumsy, performed perfunctorily and clearly for my benefit. I had to keep from laughing while she dropped the paddle, or fumbled with it and missed my ass cheek and hit my upper thigh. Her arm strength would not intimidate anyone. She would stop and ask if I was okay. Or it might have been that she was shy at all this. Once, she gave up after more than thirty swats because I couldn't keep from laughing. But going over her knee was moderately exciting for me, and it helped us through a period in which sex had become boring.

Then Debi did some reading, and it changed her outlook on marital discipline and spousal spanking.

"You know, we could use spanking as a way to correct your behavior issues, Raymond."

"That's what I've been telling—What behavior issues?" I said.

"Well, there's drinking too much, raising your voice to me, not helping with the chores, lying—"

"When have I lied?" I thundered.

"You just raised your voice, darling," she said, arching an eyebrow. "That should be worth twenty-five in Mistress Debi's woodshed."

At that moment, I looked at her in a new way. It might have been the first time I thought I might fear her. But I just couldn't take her seriously in those early days.

"I know there have been a few white lies, and those have to stop. Raising your voice, disrespecting me, tsk tsk tsk. I can help you clean that up."

Though unimpressed by her display, I smiled at her effort.

My wife's desire, she explained, was to have a weekly correction time, a punishment session where we would clean the slate. She would spank me to the point of tears—mine, not hers—then continue spanking me for another ten or twenty swats, really get me to cry. That was what she wanted, to make me bawl like a little child.

"It's a great idea, honey, but you couldn't raise a single welt on my ass, let alone make me cry. You've tried, and you're as well aware of the outcome as I am." I gave her an apologetic little smile. "I love you for the effort, though."

With folded arms, she tapped her foot on the ground. "Is that so?" The scene was reminiscent of Wilma threatening a larger, stronger Fred.

"Unless you've bulked up while I wasn't looking, you're still my harmless little wife."

"You'll regret those words, mister."

"Babe, you're precious. Don't ever change," I said, pinching her on the cheek. Then I arose, got dressed, helped myself to a beer from the fridge, and fell asleep to a ballgame on the tube.

"You'll be telling that to my strap" were her words as I left the room.

That night she surprised me with the first good whipping I had as an adult. Soon after, Debi transformed herself into a true disciplinarian, and I had no one to blame but myself—and the internet. She even bought a pair of special high heels and made me call her "mistress" on punishment days. Then we settled into a routine of weekly spankings, whether or not I'd been naughty.

My wife and I normally concluded our workweek by going out to dinner, and since neither of us had to get up at any particular time the next morning, we were free to play as late into the night as we liked. As a result, Friday nights had more or less evolved into our appointed night for sex. And spankings.

One hot summer afternoon after work, I thought I would shower before going out. Debi hadn't come home yet, and the kids were over at her mother's. Towel in hand, I strolled out of the bathroom without any clothes on and ran into Debi who was wearing nothing more than four-inch heels and a see-through nighty. In her hand was some kind of a whip. I think they called this an approach-avoidance conflict.

"It's a pleasure whip," she said.

I looked at her with uncertainty. "Whose pleasure?"

"For the remainder of the evening, you will address me as 'Mistress Debi.' You will speak only when you are spoken to. You will follow my orders to the letter."

"You've pre-empted our weekly dinner date?"

"Silence."

"Or else, what?"

She stepped toward me and held the whip high in the air behind her. I raised an arm instinctively to block her.

"You will have your answer, Raymond, and a whole lot more." She lowered her arm, and I lowered mine. "Now drop the towel."

I grinned. "What's come over you, babe? I thought we'd—"

She swung the whip at me and I ducked underneath it. "Next time, I won't miss. Now march yourself over to that chair." She pointed across the room to a stodgy old wooden chair that was older than either of us. With one arm outstretched and a whip in her other hand, she brought to mind some female variation of the Grim Reaper. She met my stare with a steel gaze and did not blink. Sheepishly, Standing naked before her, I complied. My cock had not made up its mind and was somewhere between useful and scared shitless.

Standing behind the chair, I grunted something or other, then jumped as my wife cracked the whip in the air behind me.

"What was that? I didn't hear Mistress Debi in there."

"Uh, okay, Mistress Debi."

"You'll learn to obey me, Raymond. I've learned a few things about corporal punishment and administering pain, and I'm delighted to share them with you! Now stand there while I hook you up."

"Hook me up?"

"Ahem?"

"Hook me up, Mistress Debi?"

She grinned. "Much better. Much better, indeed. You'll come around slowly." Debi fastened my ankles to some kind of cuffs, and then appeared before me as I stood at the back of the chair. "Lean forward." I did.

"What's gotten into you, uh, Mistress Debi?"

"Remember when I told you to be careful what you wished for?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You got your wish."

I looked at her nervously. "What are these?"

"Handcuffs and foot shackles. I bought them online."

"Oh." I swallowed hard. "What are they for?"

"What?"

"What are they for, Mistress Debi?"

"Bend over some more. Arch your back and push your butt out so I can blister it."

Blister it? I felt the walls inching in on me. Suddenly, the air seemed to have thickened, as it was harder to breathe. Aware that levity had been replaced by austerity and my bluff had been called, my pulse jackhammered.

"You are about to have your fantasy played out, Raymond. No more nice spankings. I've seen what you have on your computer."

"My comp—Oh no."

I heard a smile in her voice. "Oh, yes. I know what turns you on, or what you think turns you on. You really should learn to clean out your browser's history, young man. Now prepare yourself to be whipped."

"Honey? Please—"

"Silence! You have been given no such permission to speak. Shall I read the charges against you?"

"Charges?"

She cracked her whip.

"Charges, Mistress Debi?"

"No more warnings for you. The next crack falls across your behind."

I cleared my throat. "W—what charges, Mistress Debi?"

I heard her shuffling behind me and assumed her to be removing an ornate scroll from which she would commence reading a lengthy list of charges, culminating in the proclamation of a death sentence. But no scroll appeared. She merely moved into position alongside me.

"I don't need to tell you anything," she reminded me, "but I will this time. General assholiness, Raymond. Backtalk, mocking me, the usual disrespect. I'm tired of it and you will be punished for it. I will make you regret mistreating me, and you will receive an education right now."

"When have I—"

The whip cut through the air with a whistle and flared a bolt of fresh pain across my lower back. I screeched and shot her a disbelieving glance. She appeared somewhat surprised, but her demeanor quickly returned to resolute.

"Plenty of times, Raymond. Do not speak out of turn again. Are we clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." I began trembling.

She grinned as she registered terror in my eyes. "Good. I believe we have an understanding. Now, for your introductory whipping, you shall receive twenty-five lashes across your bottom, after which time the charges will be dismissed. If you take your punishment properly, there may or may not be corner time, and you may or may not be rewarded afterward."

"Rewarded?" Her eyes narrowed. "Mistress Debi?"

A soft smile stretched across her lips. "Sex, my dear, the carrot before the donkey." Her smile widened. "Now, are you ready to learn to respect me?"

It was noteworthy that after so many fantasies of her spanking me hard and long, now that it was about to happen, there was nothing fantastic about it. My eyes darted around the room like the eyes of a trapped animal. I tested the give on the restraints—first hands, and then feet. My wife had managed to secure me. I looked at her with pleading eyes. My mouth had gone dry.

"Yes, Mistress. I am ready. Oh, one thing?"

"What is it?" Impatience dripped from the corners of her mouth.

"What do we use for a safe word?" I said.

"Where have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"I, uh, read it."

Her eyes narrowed again. I knew I was in trouble whenever I saw her narrowing her eyes. "This is not the internet, Raymond. There is no safe word in this house."

"Oh."

Without any more delay, Debi began whipping me with that horrible leather contraption, some kind of love whip or cat of nine tails or some such ghastly creation. Whistle-crack! The whip fell five, ten, fifteen times, each time shooting searing pain across my rear end and a shower of sparks that seemed to originate somewhere deep within my skull. I clenched my eyes at the first hint of tears. The pain rivaled the worst I'd ever felt. She shifted her feet awkwardly with each stroke. Then the whipping stopped. She set the implement down and slipped out of her heels, then returned to me.

"Now. Where was I?"

"Fifteen, I think." My voice was weak. A tear had popped out of my right eye and broken free. I steadied my breath and braced for more.

"Yes, fifteen. Thank you." Now barefoot, she brought the whip down again, less awkwardly and with more force. Whistle-crack! I yelped. She grinned. Before I could protest, she hit me with number seventeen. Eighteen, nineteen, and twenty fell in rapid succession, each stroke preceded by a whistle and concluding with a crack that made me jump and flinch and writhe. But the restraints kept me in place.

After number twenty, Debi paused to check on me.

"Are you okay, Raymond? Is this too much for you, or shall we continue?" I gasped and sighed but finally quieted, determined not to let my wife best me with a single piece of leather.

Mustering all my strength, I said, "Continue," and braced for the final five.

"Good boy." The legendary Final Five, as we came to refer to them, were the most terrible of all, cutting across my inflamed bottom with fire and indescribable pain. I bucked and yelped but held my composure until the very end. Tears burst free and I bawled like her little boy.

"Spanking barefoot," she said. "That's the key." She was smiling, admiring the whip and my bottom. Then she turned her attention to me. "Are you okay, dear?"

It took me a good minute to catch my breath. "Unlock me. Unlock me this instant."

"Or what? Oh, that sounds like a threat, Raymond, some kind of ultimatum. Handcuffed naked to a chair, you are in no position to be giving me any ultimatums. Now, shall I add another, say, twenty?"

"You wouldn't dare," I shot back.

"Wouldn't I?" Debi returned to her spanking position, planting her bare feet alongside the chair.

"Wait," I said. "Wait, please."

"Ahem?"

I sighed with mounting desperation. "Wait, Mistress Debi."

"For...?"

"Enough," I gasped. "Please."

"Are you sure?" Her voice was like that of a schoolteacher. I felt humiliated, overpowered, ashamed. Locked in place, my wife towered over me with a whip. I was at the mercy of this strict dominatrix, one who now controlled my destiny. This new woman might decide twenty-five painful lashes hadn't been enough, then order another twenty-five or fifty or a thousand. Then what? If she chose to beat me until morning or until I died, I could only beg and plead and cry.

Contrasted with hers, my voice was weak and hoarse. I croaked out my best, "Yes, Mistress I am at your mercy. Please stop. I beg you, please." I broke into fresh sobs.

She smiled broadly. "Now I want to hear you surrender."

I gasped and choked and finally calmed down.

"Surrender to me, Raymond."

"You want me to what?"

"You heard me. Surrender to me completely. Repeat after me: I, Raymond Connor, do solemnly swear—"

"Absolutely not!" I thundered. Without warning, the whip came down on my rear three more times, a whistle followed by a loud crack. I cursed and swore and began howling again.

"Keep using that foul language and I'll whip the daylights out of you, Raymond." She brought the whip down again and again. "I'm really starting to enjoy this, my dear."

Whistle-crack! whistle-crack! whistle-crack!

I howled and cried, to no avail, but the whip kept coming.

"I can dish out a lot more than you can take, mister." Two more, a pause, and then three more. Apparently not satisfied with her effort, she broke into a staccato, speaking alternately with her voice and her whip.

"Don't" whistle-crack! "make" whistle-crack! "me" whistle-crack! "keep" whistle-crack! "whipping" whistle-crack! "you!" whistle-crack! whistle-crack! whistle-crack! She said this as if it had all been my fault. In hindsight, it probably had been.

I sobbed openly. "Yes, yes, please stop!" I begged. "I surrender! I surrender!" Thinking I'd found a safe word, I said it again and again.

"Are you sure? I can whip you until all my anger is gone, and I assure you, there's a lot about your behavior that angers me."

She patiently waited for me to regain my composure. If I needed all night, she would have stood there holding that whip the entire time, waiting for an answer. There was a long pause while I considered whether I would meet her challenge. Using the time to catch my breath, my tears slowed and finally stopped, and I sniffled. But she had me. I was humiliated, naked, beaten nearly senseless, and I had nowhere to hide. She had defeated me, and I could only beg for her mercy.

"I surrender."

"Completely?"

"Completely."

"To?"

"To you, Debi."

Whistle-crack!

"Mistress Debi!" I shouted. Then, panting and in a normal voice, "I surrender completely to you, Mistress Debi." As I spoke the words, I felt a subtle power shift, a shift from a home in which my word was the ultimate authority to one in which she gave all the orders. She was now my superior, and I was her subordinate. I added, "I will be your slave, I will kiss your feet if you want me to, I will do whatever the... whatever you want."

"Are you sure this is what you want, Raymond?"

"Yes."

"There's no going back to our vanilla life."

"Yes, Mistress Debi. I'm sure."

"From this point on, I will be the head of the household."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You will respect me, follow each of my commands without question."

"Yes, Mistress."

"I own you now. As of this moment, you are my slave."

"Yes, Mistress." I felt the weight lifted off my shoulders. "Yes, Mistress."

"Raymond, you do realize that I may spank you without cause or reason, without apology, and if you question me, you will be whipped soundly, much worse than today."

"Yes, Mistress. I understand. I will obey."

"Very good!" With the handle of the terrible whip tucked under an arm like a swizzle stick, she applauded me with a golf-clap. "Very good, Raymond. Now that we have an understanding, I'm going to loosen the restraints. You'll spend the next fifteen minutes standing with your nose in the corner. I want you to think about our new relationship now that you have submitted absolutely to my authority."

Still sniffling, I did as I was told.

A short time later, she excused me from the corner and, after I issued a lengthy apology and asserted my willingness to move forward as her slave, we made love. Over the next several hours, I came repeatedly inside her. My cum factory must have been operating full tilt as I had more cum to give well after midnight.

When I awoke to bright sunshine, we renewed our marriage vows to each other while still in bed, made love once more, and I began my first full day as my wife's subordinate.

That was many months and many spankings ago.

Lately, I had slipped again and done some things she hadn't liked. It was so easy falling into the habit of disrespecting her. In some weird way, I was glad she was there and so eager to correct me as needed.

On this particular Friday night, she trotted out a long list of offenses. Fortunately for me, she only concentrated on the most grievous ones.

"Looks like you'll be talking to my strap tonight, mister. You overdrew took money from the ATM without telling me, and you lied." She studied me, waiting for a reply. "Your daydreaming seems to have jarred your memory. Title, remember?" She narrowed her eyes, and whenever she narrowed her eyes, I was in for a very bad time. A real thrashing was inevitable, and I'd gone out of my way to earn it, so I didn't put up much fight. "How many lashes?"

"You mean, 'How many lashes, Mistress Debi?' don't you?" She pointed with her index finger at the leather belt she wore around her waist.

"How many, Mistress Debi?" It took quite some getting used to referring to my wife as Mistress anything. But, reinforced by her hand, a wooden spoon, a metal spatula that left terrible welts, her wooden hairbrush, her cat o' nine tails whip, and that awful leather strap, I made sure I got used to it quickly. She also once whipped me so hard with a riding crop that I still feel it today. Any offense, she'd warned, would result in my being whipped as hard and as long as she desired. She'd already proven she had no reluctance to spank me on consecutive nights, or administer what she liked to call a strapping frenzy. On one notable occasion, I'd even bled. She'd left horrible welts that made sitting impossible, sometimes for several days. It was her way of controlling me, of saving our marriage.

I now owed her for two offenses. Taking money without telling her was bad enough, but the lying carried with it a separate punishment. Usually, a whole night of discipline was reserved for dealing with lies. Lies led to affairs, and affairs ended marriages. So it made sense that Debi had opted to give the most severe punishments for lies, an evening on which I would receive the longest whippings, whippings that could last an hour or longer, after which any additional offenses would be handled separately. Such extra punishment might include corner time, an extended paddling with another implement, and a list of chores to do around the house, chores that I was to do in the nude. Forced chastity was something she used on occasion, and I might be denied an orgasm for a week or longer. Questioning any aspect of my punishment only lengthened them, so I learned to keep my tongue.