This follows my Confession, already published here.
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So many thoughts flashed though my brain while I was waiting, that to try to replicate them here would be too daunting. The one thought that I held on to all the while, was that at least I knew he could not read my mind. My thoughts were mine.
He made me wait. That in itself was interesting. He either was hesitant about starting, or he already understood the psychology of this kind of play. That pain anticipated is just as much a punishment as is the pain when it is finally inflicted on soft flesh.
The sense of vulnerability, of unknowing, is itself a form of punishment. The nakedness. The unseeing, blindfolded darkness. The listening for every sound, the interpreting of every movement heard, the constant guessing, where he was, what he was doing, when he would start, how hard a stroke he would choose to use, how painful it would be, how much that pain would hurt, and how much turn me on, to him, to this.
Even just the physical position, kneeling on the bedroom floor, facing the bed, the foot end, bent over it, my torso resting on the covers, my breasts pressed against sheer cotton, my head turned sideways, my arms splayed in submission, my buttocks offered, exposed, defenceless, that docile pose held patiently while I was waiting for him underlined my acquiescence, my willing compliance, my assent.
I deserved this. I knew that. I deserved this punishment, as hard, as painful, as he might chose to make it, even though he knew nothing of the reason it was warranted, what I had done, what I had allowed another man to do to me.
I had confessed already. Not to him. Not to Peter. Not to the husband that I love, who loves me too. I do not want to hurt him, not be telling him, not ever. But I had confessed, to myself, by writing how it happened, now published to the world, to so many people, none of whom know who I am or care, but some of whom have judged me, commented on my behaviour, called me cheater, slut, skank, bitch, whore, liar, and said some things that cut me to ribbons, all of it deserved, and true, and inside my head, and in my heart, I knew that then, while I was waiting, but knew as well that he can never know, so this would be for him be a game that we would play, not punishment inflicted, as it would be for me.
I took the risk of asking him, suggesting this, casually, not forcing it, just nonchalantly, not even when we were in bed, but in the park, a Sunday picnic, family time. So many families, but Richmond Park is huge, and we had found our private space, where we could look down on Pen Ponds, where we had already fed the ducks and swans with crusts and heels, saved for the boys to throw to them and giggle at their antics as they raced to feed.
Our picnic had been eaten, sandwiches finished, the walk from the car park enough to stimulate our appetites. Apple slices and grapes wolfed down for afters. Juice sucked through straws from hand sized boxes. Mouths wiped with kitchen roll. Then off to play. Tall ferns broken and then used as spears or swords. Charging up and down the hill. The endless exuberance of childhood. Lovely to observe.
Peter and I were sipping sauvignon. The class distinction. The various groups of families and friends scattered around the park betrayed their backgrounds. Cans of beer for some. Wine for others, like ourselves. Plastic cups or glass said something too. Then ethnic differences. Indian groupings with only juice and water, no alcohol allowed. Some middle eastern, mostly men, with shisha pipes, sucking while it bubbled softly.
Our sauvignon was chilled, and wrapped in its thick, cool sleeve, and we were drinking from inexpensive glass, not plastic cups. Sitting on a damp proof picnic blanket. Side by side, leaning against each other, mutual support, the foundation of our marriage, along with love and tenderness and friendship, and the sex life that we so enjoyed.
"Can I ask you something?" I had started.
"Of course," he said.
"I mean, have you ever wondered,... have we been too,... I'm not sure how to say it,... I was reading in the Times,... the second section,... about couples doing things we've never tried,... and I was wondering if you've ever wanted,... I mean, just to explore,..."
Vague, meaningless, but a way of opening a conversation.
"What are you talking about?" he asked me, understandably. Then it clicked. He understood. "You mean our sex life?"
"Well, yes," I said. "I was just wondering,... I mean,... it's always been so good,... it's not that I'm unhappy,... I was just reading about things and wondered if maybe,..."
He turned his head and kissed my cheek.
"Okay," he said. "You'd better tell me what you've been reading."
"Okay," I said. "Well, for example, have you ever wanted to put me over your knee?"
"Sure," he answered. "Mainly when you tidy up my things and I can't find anything I want. The temptation is pretty strong."
We laughed for a moment. Then I tried again.
"I meant,... not like that,... I mean as part of making love."
I was not looking at him, but watching the boys, to make sure that they did not go too far down the hill before they raced each other back towards us. Not too close to the water. But I sensed him turn and look at me.
"No," he said. "I mean,... not really,... it's always been so good with you,... even after the boys,... I think I'm pretty lucky, compared to some of my friends and what they tell me."
"You know I feel the same, don't you," I said. "I mean girls talk as well. I know not everyone has quite as good a sex life as we do. I just wondered if you ever wanted to try something new. It would be awkward saying it,... after so long together,... without it coming across as if there's something wrong,... which there obviously isn't, but,..."
By girls, I meant my friends, all over forty now, or nearing it. Married, mostly, with so many sex lives on the wane.
"I suppose," Peter said. "Putting it like that,... I mean, maybe,... it could be fun,... I guess."
"You'd have to be the dom,..." I said.
"You know the terminology, do you," Peter laughed. "So, what would that make you?"
"Your sub," I said.
"So, I'd get to spank you?"
"If you wanted to," I said.
"Have you been naughty enough to warrant it."
"No," I lied, thinking about that afternoon, over the glass table in our kitchen back at home, being brought to orgasm by the man my husband had arranged to prune our apple tree, his cock sliding back and forth so wonderfully, his fingers simultaneously strumming at my clit.
Just once, I told myself. In a dozen years of perfect married life. Just once.
"Interesting thought," he said, believing my denial. "It hadn't occurred to me that you might like that."
"It's not too kinky?"
"No," he said. "Play spanking, or real?"
"It would have to be real, I think," I said. "I mean just tapping me wouldn't really do anything for either of us, would it?"
"You're serious about this, aren't you?" he said.
"Only if you think it could be fun," I answered.
"It would be different," he said.
I was so tempted to check. To casually stroke his knee, and let my hand move upwards, and see if I could tell if he was getting hard, just from the concept of it, but this was still a public park, and fondling your husband's groin to feel his cock is not the kind of thing you do with families having picnics on a Sunday afternoon. So I asked, instead.
"So, on a scale of one to ten," I said, "how much does it arouse you,... just thinking about the possibility?"
"Five," he said.
"And if I were to wear a blindfold?"
He thought about it for a moment.
"Okay, six."
"Stockings and suspender belt, and nothing else?"
"Maybe getting towards an eight."
"Not your hand," I offered. "A paddle or a cane?"
"Did we bring the tennis ball?" he asked me. "I think I should go and do some practice with the boys at catching, before we get to ten."
I watched them for a while. He was so good with them. Gentle throws. Slow arcs of yellow. Catchable. Especially with our youngest. Just gone six and still so awkward in his movements. Clapping his hands together and missing five times out of ten, instead of cupping them to receive the ball and hold it firm. Our older boy, much more confident and agile, and throwing back more accurately.
I knew then just how lucky I was to have these three guys in my life, Peter especially, but obviously the two children, who could not be more precious to me. That time in the kitchen really did mean nothing. I had been wrong to let it happen, even if it had been quite incredible, and if, in another way, I had no real regrets.
Something so many people seem just not to get. From the comments to my online confession. The assumption that because it happened, I cannot love my husband, where in many ways I love him even more. Or telling me that I should tell him, when it would only hurt him. Or that by holding on to it, not saying, it would somehow fester inside my head. Instead I felt a kind of pride in having let it happen, an inner confidence, that did not detract from just how much I wanted to be all that Peter wanted from his wife.
I shook off those thoughts, wrapped the two wine glasses in thick kitchen roll, put them in our picnic basket, and stood up. I joined them, the three most important males in my entire world. Our olest threw the ball to me. I caught it.
"Okay, guys," I laughed. "You had your practice. Now let's play Donkey. See who has jackass ears and a silly swishing tail!"
