I expect this story to disappoint you. It features a male spanking a female submissive who isn't all that submissive after all. There is no sex.
*
Mitch heard her footsteps, shoes on the wood floor of the bedroom hallway. He'd left her barefoot, skirt of her thin, cotton sundress tucked up into the neck in back to leave on display her pink butt, with clear orders to stand in the corner until he came back for the follow-up discussion they always had with her spankings.
Well, he thought, let's just wait and see how much more trouble she gets herself into. He felt in control of the situation. He thought he might be generous, not spank her more over this additional infraction.
The footsteps came into the entry hall as she appeared across from where he sat in the living room, watching a baseball game on television. But the woman who appeared wasn't Chelsea, the submissive little mouse of a wife wearing the dress he'd picked for her, one so skimpy she was unwilling to wear it in public. Instead he saw Chelsea, experienced and capable attorney. In tailored slacks, a perfectly pressed cotton blouse, comfortable shoes with only enough heel, and a blazer over her arm she looked just as she did when she left on a business trip, including the suitcase she was wheeling behind her.
Apparently she'd packed while he thought she was standing in the corner. He got up, planning on putting her in her place. Her cold look stopped him before he'd taken two steps toward her. She took one step away from her suitcase, toward him. One foot moved, just a subtle rotation outward. Her stance was enough of a hint for him.
"I am leaving this house, right now. Whether I return, and when, in the event I decide to, depends on how you handle this." He recognized the voice, calm but forceful, the diction precise and the words carefully chosen. She was laying down the law.
"Mitch, this afternoon you crossed a line. When I told you that you'd crossed a line, you doubled down and crossed another line. The onus is on you to figure out what you did and make it right. I will not give you any help. Only after you know how to make it right will you find me willing to hear from you."
Just before closing the door to the garage, she added, "you may not contact me, by any means, for at least eight days."
They'd entertained Brett and Andrea with a Sunday afternoon meal of chicken and vegetables grilled out on their patio. Brett was one of Mitch's oldest friends, they'd known each other since their second year as undergraduates at Tech, then shared an apartment while attending the same MBA program at Emory. As Mitch described their relationship to Chelsea when the two couples began spending time together on a regular basis, "we've been drunk together more than with anyone else, chased more women together, played more poker together."
In three years, Andrea had become Chelsea's closest friend. A northern girl from Pennsylvania, Andrea was grateful for Chelsea's help navigating life in the South.
Mitch and Brett tended to compete with each other. The competition extended to their respective wives, who was prettier, who could more flag down a cab more quickly, who had the better job. Better job? How do you compare a corporate attorney to a Professor of Pharmacy? When the two boys got going, Chelsea and Andrea would exchange a glance and quietly get out of the picture until they were done thumping their chests.
This time it was different, so different it was weird. They'd jumped directly into chugging their first two beers, bickering about who'd fully finished their glass. A belching contest followed. "Welcome to the frat house," Andrea murmured to Chelsea with a wry smile. Chelsea took over tending the chicken and grilling the vegetables instead of reminding Mitch to do it, better to be a good hostess with guests present. The scolding wife could speak to him when they were alone - and when he was sober again.
The two men fell into a pattern of asking their wives for things, apparently an unspoken agreement to determine whose wife was more responsive. Chelsea made a point of taking her time to respond, she was busy enough with the grilling Mitch said he would do.
Andrea had, at first, taken care of her husband's requests reasonably quickly. Then she noticed how Chelsea handled Mitch's behavior and took a page from her book. After the third or fourth episode of Andrea moving more slowly, she was rewarded with a hard smack on her bottom from Brett as she walked away. She'd whirled to face him, her surprise quickly turning to anger. Brett tried to hold her gaze, but soon enough he looked down. Andrea took his beer glass and went inside. She returned a minute later to firmly set a glass of iced tea in its place.
When Chelsea took Andrea into the kitchen to pull out the cold dishes, she noticed Mitch and Brett leaning in to each other, talking. Mitch stole occasional furtive glances toward the kitchen window as he spoke.
They served the meal. Soon enough, Mitch said, "I could use another cold one." She nodded and passed the cole slaw Andrea had just asked for, then wiped her lips with her napkin before rising. She reappeared with a glass of iced tea.
"No." Mitch's belligerence was a sudden change in tone. "I asked for beer."
Mitch, only Mitch, could see her eyes were hard, but her face was bland and her voice soft, sweet as ever. "Dear, I think you've had enough."
Dinner proceeded with both men less talkative. Mitch was sullen, Brett seemed to follow his lead. Andrea and Chelsea were happy to discuss upcoming concerts they might attend. With summer approaching an end, the part of the outdoor concert season they preferred was near. With the heat easing, the final concerts of the year, in September and October, were more enjoyable. At least their husbands heard the discussion, even if they didn't express any preferences.
Andrea helped Chelsea clear away the dishes. In the kitchen, they plated dessert. Chelsea had planned on serving Irish coffee. It didn't take much discussion for them to decide against that. They served cups of ordinary coffee; Mitch immediately signaled with his eyes and an inclined head that he wanted his spiked.
"No, Mitch, just coffee," Chelsea said calmly.
Mitch stood, quickly taking her wrist. He pulled her to her feet, took a few steps to the lawn chairs. In a motion he sat on the footstool and spun Chelsea to fall across across his lap.
That was the end of things going the way he intended.
As he was pulling Chelsea's skirt up, planning on pulling her panties down to spank on her bare bottom as he usually did, she made a quick spin from his lap, landing on her feet before him. She took a stance, then Mitch found her fist coming to a stop very close to his eyes as she gave a short, sharp cry.
"You try that again, you're a dead man." The way she said it, quiet and controlled, the look in her eyes, but mainly the fist still most of what he could see, made her words quite convincing.
Chelsea went to Brett. Standing close to him, looming over him, she looked quite intimidating. "Do not get any ideas. You lift a hand to Andrea, I'll kick your ass. I'll come to your office and wipe your face on the floor in front of your co-workers. I'll bet they'll pull out their phones, you'll be able to watch replays of your humiliation." Nothing about her looked like she was kidding. What Brett had just seen suggested she could do just what she'd threatened.
She turned back to Mitch, still sitting on the lawn chair footstool. "You crossed a line, Albertson. Fucking stupid, clueless, Southern boys."
She began clearing away the coffee and the remaining things on the table. Andrea stood and began to help.
In the kitchen, Chelsea spoke to Andrea in a quiet voice. "Does Brett spank you?"
"No, what he did on the patio was really out of character."
"Mitch spanks me, once in a while. It's been consensual, I can tell when letting him do it will help him get fired up for sex. This, though .... I'm sorry you had to see that. I'm angry that Brett saw it."
Andrea put her hand on Chelsea's shoulder. "I'm not sorry I saw how you responded. I'm proud of you. You showed a lot of strength, but you also showed a lot of restraint."
"I saw Mitch talking to Brett while we were getting ready to serve. I have the impression he was going to show Brett how he spanks me. If Brett tries something like this, you tell me; Mitch and Brett will both answer to me for it."
"Chels, are you guys going to be ... okay?"
Chelsea gave her a tight smile. "I expect we'll work it out."
