Confession Atonement

This follows my Confession, already published here.

**********

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!"

Miss a catch and get a letter. Mix six, and you're the D-O-N-K-E-Y. Of course, I made sure that that was me. No way would my youngest feel that he was the worst at catching. A mother's love does not allow their son to feel that sense of shame. Deliberate fumbles. Dropped balls, six times, collecting letters.

I would collect other letters, four of them, so very soon.

"You should be punished for that lousy catching," Peter joked as we walked back, one son hand in hand with him, the other hand in hand with me, and Peter's and my spare hands holding to each other, a family conjoined by upper limbs, united, a day enjoyed, a stylish house of brick and slate to drive back home to, a familial love that would endure for always.

**********

Until you explore, you have no idea what is actually out there, what other people are obviously into, the sheer variety, and the unapologetically open availability online.

I used Etsy. My favourite go to place for odds and ends. Searched using 'spanking' and discovered all the different items you could buy. I mentally weighed the options offered. Not a cane as such, because it just might hurt too much. Too narrow. And unpleasant lines. Not sexy. Not a whip, or tawse. Too serious looking. What seemed more playful were the leather paddles, of which there were a few.

Just plain leather, a handle, and a flat eight by three of flexible, but firm solidity that could be used as gently or as firmly as required, and would spread the impact over a wider area that a cane or tawse, and so potentially reduce the pain.

Still a variety. Some plain. Some with raised lettering, or shapes. It took a moment for me to figure out just why the letters that were used were all reversed, mirror images of the words they spelled. An image helped. The word shown on real, living, breathing, flesh. Butt flesh. Bare.

The impact of the stroke would be mostly where the lettering was raised. That then would redden, the word transposed to the butt cheek. Like printing ink, the image was reversed, the leather needing to be the converse of the imprinted final version. Three hearts side by side, reversed, are still three hearts. But an 'E' becomes a '3'. An 'S', a '2', or almost. Some letters stay the same, 'A', 'I', 'O', 'T', 'W', 'V'.

A choice of words. "BITCH". "SLAVE". "WHORE", "SLUT", and others too.

The one with "SLUT" seemed fitting.

The leather mask came separately. Once I had received them both I left them on a pillow. Peter's side of the bed. After the children were asleep, of course.

"You really meant it then?" he said.

"What do you think?" I asked.

He felt the leather of the paddle.

"It could hurt," he said.

"I think that it's supposed to."

"I guess," he said. "Was there a choice?"

"Of words? Yes. There were a few."

"And you chose this one?"

"Well," I explained. "I like to think I'm not a bitch. I mean, I don't ever do anything seriously nasty to anyone. At least I don't think so. And I don't like the idea of being a slave, or anyone being a slave. And I'm not a whore, because I'd never want to charge you to make love to me, so that pretty much left this one, or a row of heart shapes, and since I'd be willing to do anything you'd like me to, I thought this was the best."

He laughed.

"I'd be more than willing to pay," he said.

"Would you?" I asked.

We were both still dressed. A normal bedtime. Peter in the trousers of his office suit, and his pure white, tailored shirt. I was in a kind of house dress. Shoulderless. The elasticated fabric round my upper chest tight enough, and my breasts full enough, there was no risk that it might slide downwards to display the absence of a bra. Loose cut. Knee length. Light blue, with white paisley.

I knelt. Opened my husband's fly. Found what I was looking for. Not solid. Not yet. Partially, but malleable enough to ease it out. I touched my lips to the helmet of firm flesh that was the sizeable head. Kissed it gently. Then opened my mouth wide enough to take that head and part of the thickening shaft. All it took was a few laps of my tongue around the helmet to persuade the shaft to rise, to lengthen, thicken, and to achieve a solid mass, firm enough for us to fuck.

"It's a hundred to suck, two to fuck," I said, backing from his erect cock.

"You know I've never paid before," he laughed. "Not once."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "Not with what you have to offer. You could have been a male escort."

"How do you know I wasn't?"

I knew. We had shared everything. Before we married. He knew all there is to know about my previous lovers. I knew all about each and every one of his. There was only one of mine that he did not know about, if a one time only stranger fuck can be thought of as a lover, and that had not been previous to our marriage. But I smiled at the tease.

"How much would you charge?" I asked him.

"One hundred to lick you out. Two hundred to fuck."

"That's fair," I said. "So, I guess that makes us even."

I went back to licking and sucking on his now upward pointing cock.

"I guess it does," he said.

I had not seen it. Only felt it. The landscape gardener's cock. He had turned me round to the glass topped kitchen table and bent me over it before he had opened the fly of his shorts, eased it out, and touched it to my cunt, so I had not had the opportunity to see what he would use on me. But a woman can judge the organ's size from the feel as much as from staring the cock straight in its solitary eye.

It had felt different. Not quite as thick, nor quite as long, but with a distinctive upward curve that meant it touched the inside surface differently. Pushing upwards as well as in. I could still remember that sensation. Different mattered. It had helped me come. As had his fingers. As had knowing that they were not clean and manicured, like Peter's, but outdoor hands, and still dusty from his working on the tree that he had come to prune.

A good wife learns to do the things her husband likes, or that she assumes that he might like, even if he has never actually asked. Anyone can lick and suck a cock. I had taught myself to love him more than that. To relax the impulse that would otherwise make me gag. To take it in my throat. I did so, pressing my nose against the fabric of his business suit.

We did not use the leather paddle that night. That was just to let him know we had it. We undressed each other, climbed beneath the duvet that we used, and Peter moved between my legs and slid inside of me. We made slow love, leisurely movement in time with one another, unhurried thrusts, all the time in the world to luxuriate in one another's bodies.

"I've asked my mother to look after the boys on Friday night," I told him as we moved in unison. "I said we have a dinner date together. She liked that we still do that."

"Okay," he said. "Sounds good."

"I'll be your S-L-U-T," I said, spelling out the letters one by one.

**********

Dinner from Marks. Middle class quality, just needing to be heated through. Easy to prepare and serve. A rose and candles on the same glass table which I had been bent across while being fucked. Easy to serve from oven to plate to table.

I had promised stockings and suspender belt, and so that is what I wore. No dress. No g-string. Just the sheer black nylons, the fabric belt and the suspender straps that fastened front and back, pulling the stocking tops to peaks on my bare thighs.

I sensed my husband's eyes follow every move I made. Watching me turn, or bend, butt bare, mons too, breasts swaying, nipples stiff in anticipation of what came after eating. Plates taken from the under counter drawer. Food from the oven. Served on the counter-top.

Waitress service to the table. Topless waitress. Two children, but still firm, shapely, and discounting gravity, teats still facing forwards, areolas that to me are far too wide, but please my husband, owl-like. The gardener had not see them. He fucked me while I still wore my bra.

Bottomless as well. No risk of an errant pubic hair finding its way onto the food. No pubic hair of any kind. Peter loves to lick my slit, and he had paid the salon's fees to make that pastime so much more pleasurable, each and every follicle laser treated to their now forever dormancy. I like that his eyes follow my hairless mons as I move around our bedroom, or then, as I set down the plates for us to eat.

Red wine with our main. A sweet Sauternes with our desert. In neat, small glasses. I poured. I was the waitress serving him, who he would bed when we had eaten. I spilled, a puddle forming round his glass, on the clean table top, right where my breast had pressed while I had been fucked so beautifully.

Peter had arranged for him to come. Had left the hundred pounds he had been quoted, for me to hand to him when I was satisfied. I had been well and truly satisfied, for half the price that Peter, as an escort, would have charged. And our apple tree had been nicely taken care of too.

"You spilled," Peter said, stating the all too obvious.

"I'm sorry, sir."

I went for kitchen roll, to mop it.

"You will be," Peter smiled. "You really should take more care."

We both knew what he meant. Just as we both knew that the spillage had been calculated, just to let him say that line.

I had not wanted the suspender belt, or straps, to impede the spanking paddle, so upstairs, I removed them

Offering myself stark naked to my husband, I had let him slip the mask over my head, closing my eyes so that the leather kept them closed. Now apprehensive, I had let him guide me to my place, and knelt, tentatively, because I could not see the floor or bed, and could only feel my way to kneeling.

I leant forwards, the duvet so much softer than the glass table in the kitchen. Not hard or cold against my breasts, but softly yielding. I reached with my hands, towards the head end of the bed, not even achieving halfway to the pillows there, but by my posture giving my consent to what my husband chose to do.

I deserved this. I thought of being fucked downstairs. Peter at work. Not knowing. No suspicion ever, that the man that he had paid to work for him had fucked his wife as well. Then fucking me that same night, as he always had and would. Two men in one day. Two loads of semen. Proud and remorseful, both. Proud that I was woman, just as much as I had been remorseful that this one time my instinct, and my cunt, had won the day.