As any man in The Life will tell you, it can't be ALL punishment and pain for your woman. If it was she'd soon go crazy.
But that same man will explain as well, and there will be no cognitive dissonance as he does, that if it doesn't hurt and she doesn't cry, it's not truly a spanking.
And now it was Thursday and Thursday night, at 7:22 p.m., she would get her weekly Maintenance Spanking.
Work was more of the same. Grant applications and planning reports and trying, for, oh, the bazillionth time or so, to explain to junior planners that in formal writing we try to make things interesting and readable, but we
do
follow the conventions and never split a damn infinitive or dangle a participle. We were preparing the annual report right then and I had a pretty good idea of what the Board wanted to see.
But, okay, I was distracted. Thursday is a very special intimacy and we both look forward to it.
She greeted me, as she always did on Thursday night, looking her absolute best. Today she was in a long, one-piece jumpsuit in a red satin fabric, something we chose together a couple of years ago for our anniversary. The brilliant red color, so red that if you stared at it for several seconds and then looked away things were surrounded by a green halo, set off her hair and the pale skin that was on display. There was a wide collar with a single big button, and then another button below her belly button with the expanse of skin between very much showing. Below that, though, she was covered completely by the material that spread so much that at her feet it looked like she had on a long, floor-length skirt.
Her hair was done up, her expensive hairdresser had done his usual impeccable job, and her makeup was a bit heavy. If we're being honest here, it looked like I was going to have dinner with a high-priced call girl. Bright green eyeshadow complemented the red of the material. Heavy gold hoop earrings and a gold collar were the accessories along with the leather restraints, the thick sheep's wool lining obvious along with the heavy straps and buckles and "D rings" that would allow her to be restrained made their use obvious. I knew that a similar pair of restraints would peek out if she crossed her legs and showed her ankles.
"Stunning as always," I said, kissing my fingertips and patting her forehead. This was part of our Thursday evening ritual as well. I didn't want to mess up her hair or makeup.
Dinner that evening was at a restaurant we both enjoyed. I had the "surf and turf," a
petit filet mignon
with crab legs, split in the kitchen so I wouldn't have to wrestle the sweet meat out of the hard shell. Red Snapper for her, with a loaded twice-baked potato on the side and a house salad, heavy on the Creamy Italian dressing.
As was always the case at Thursday dinner we kept the dinner conversation casual and, okay, mundane. I told her of my day and how poorly today's college graduates seemed to write. She told me of her latest paper, she writes papers for lazy college students. I had two beers, whatever was dark and on tap, I'm not really a beer connoisseur, while she had a couple of glasses of wine. We smiled and watched the other patrons, making up stories about them.
It was early, by dinner standards, but correct for our Thursday nights, when I paid the bill, leaving a $50 tip on a $100 tab.
We got home a little before 7:00, as I always try to do on Thursday night.
"Go up and get ready," I said, smiling and giving her another of those fingertip-pat kisses. She smiled and went upstairs, looking positively regal in that red outfit.
I moved that heavy chair we had purchased together at a flea market and then re-upholstered in a heavy patterned material so that it looked like it should be in a 19th-century Victorian home's parlor, into the middle of the room.
