Trish reflexively sucked in her tummy before remembering that her body, all of it, was just as it should be. She relaxed and appreciated the modest belly she'd accumulated and made a quarter turn to see what Hubs had in an unguarded moment called her "chib," the lower portion of her bottom cheeks peeking below her jean short shorts. As she pivoted from the full length mirror in their beach rental's master bedroom, she ran her index fingers up under the denim leg openings, hooking the lower edge of the tankini bottoms she had on underneath, and gingerly stretched them taught over her sore behind.
Trish was recuperating from the traumatic though not unwelcome dose of open-air corporal punishment she'd suffered at the hands of Steady, the bike shop manager and fitness trail keeper. She felt... fractured. The experience had explored a secret unfulfilled craving and released her debilitating shame. It also left her feeling alone.
Trish wasn't so much recuperating from the gentler foreplay hairbrushing she'd solicited and received from her accommodating Hubs; she was more after-action reviewing it. The lovable, supportive lug had tentatively patted, then mildly tapped, and finally and only in response to Trish's shameless (a word she'd resolved to incorporate into her new private, personal motto) entreaties, modestly popped her tender bottom a dozen times with the wooden back while she reenacted the distress she'd felt earlier with Steady. Hubs must've gotten something out of her performance, because he'd taken his pleasure with her right then and there, without soliciting permission or approval. It was... good. She couldn't remember the last time she'd orgasmed with Hubs inside her, but all of the attention lavished on her healthy fanny by two men primed her for the cumquake that shook her nearly to pieces even before Hubs arrived at his destination.
Trish slept so peacefully and deeply that she, usually the family's early bird, didn't notice burly Hubs slip out of the bed this morning. Now she smelled the aroma of his beach breakfast, calculated to get everyone up and moving to take advantage of another beautiful day of sand and surf.
"Shamelessly Cruising for a Bruising," Trish tried, sotto voce. Not quite right.
She pulled her shoulder length hair into a pony tail and fed it through the back of a fresh ball cap she snugged down on her head.
Joining the family downstairs, Trish occupied herself with packing the beach bags full of snacks, drinks, towels, sun screen, and reading materials while the rest of her crew finished their meal and cleared away the dishes. Hubs slid her morning cup of coffee, sweetened to the brink of ruination, across the counter to her eager hand. The kids, old enough to ride their rented bicycles down to the beach, went ahead with Hubs' reminder, "Buddy system, guys!" sending them along. Hubs loaded the two large canvas bags Trish had packed into their non-descript mid-sized SUV, and asked her, "Cycling down or catching a lift?"
Trish usually pedaled everywhere during family beach week. It was one of her wholesome indulgences, giving time alone with her thoughts and an opportunity to exchange a harmless smile or two with appreciative fellow vacationers. Today, though, she couldn't imagine subjecting her mortified bottom to even a short bike ride. Also, she needed, really needed, companionship.
"I'm still a little wrung out from yesterday's ride. Lift please." She perched a pair of sunglasses on her nose, sipped her coffee, and waited for Hubs in the foyer.
He gave her a knowing smile and offered, "It wasn't just the cycling, was it?"
Trish internally flopped into a panic, momentarily spinning out improbable scenarios in which Hubs had learned of her humiliation at the hands of a stranger and, worse, her complicity. That wasn't how she wanted him to discover her... predilection.
"I enjoyed 'wringing you out' with the hairbrush last night." He pulled her tight against his large frame as she held her drink safely to the side. "We should try new things like that more often." He kissed her, she thought more assertively than usual, and she relaxed into his embrace, relieved and comforted.
Shame, Shame, Go Away.
Banishing the spattery shock of thinking that Hubs already knew of her... depravity, Trish parried with, "Well, we could try THAT new thing again, as soon as I've recovered."
Hubs frowned, "Was I too rough with you, Sweetheart? I can dial it down."
Not by half, Trish thought. That dial better have an 11. "No, Sir," she said instead, emphasizing the last gratuitously submissive word and enjoying the low, warm feeling hearing herself say it produced. "I'm just not used to it. Next time," she paused, sipping from her mug, for effect, "I'll take more."
Hubs looked momentarily nonplussed, then, "Whenever you'd like, sweet wife. I'm at your service." He returned his focus to getting the family out on the beach. He locked the house, took Trish by the hand (whatever his other shortcomings, he was habitually, casually affectionate), and opened the passenger door for her (and gentlemanly too). Trish suppressed a grimace as she slowly deposited her sensitized posterior on the sun saturated seat. Before closing her door, Hubs reminded her, "You're so painfully hot." If he only knew, she thought.
The short trip to the beach might be a singular opportunity to advance what she felt was a necessary and timely conversation, so Trish quietly began. "Y'know, it doesn't have to be 'whenever I'd like.'" She let the overture hang in the air between them, giving it time to gain altitude or drop into the sandy mat beneath her sandals.
Neither staring at him nor looking away, Trish could see in her periphery how his face scrunch up in a familiar expression of considered bewilderment. "Not following, sweetheart," he finally admitted.
Trish had expected this to be a deliberative process and was ready to press on. "Sometimes, you know how I can get."
"OK," his careful response.
"I might like it - I mean I probably wouldn't like it, at least not when it was happening, but it might be helpful, maybe to both of us, at least that's what I'm hoping, if you'd..."
She was sure she'd had a sensible, direct, precisely calibrated script in mind before, but it had accidentally gone through some sort of shredder. She was starting to wonder if this conversation was a even good idea and whether she should back out, maybe playing it off as failed humor.
"Patsy," Hubs interrupted, if it was possible to interrupt whatever that had been. "I think that you want me to spank you."
Trish felt tears welling up. How embarrassing. She'd steeled herself to insist, even demand that gentle Hubs accept the burden of being her disciplinarian, and here she was, caught in an undertow of - what - shyness?
