A Little Direction and Discipline, F/M

[graves95]

A Little Direction and Discipline

By Jonathan Quincy Graves


“I asked Doris to stop by this evening.”

Marrianne was scraping the few remnants of a good breakfast off the plates and into our garbage container when she made that comment. The tomato, bacon and cheese omelet that I had made for us turned into a cold lump in my stomach when I heard it.

“Have I done something wrong, honey?”

“Nothing specific, dear, but your attitude has been slipping a little lately, and it is best to nip these things in the bud, you know. Besides, it has been almost a month, and a little reminder now and then is always a good idea.”

A “little reminder.” If only it would be that simple; but Doris never did anything in a “little” way. Oh no, when Doris reminded you, it left an impression that would last for a good long time. Doris enjoys her work; she puts everything that she has into it, and everything she has is more than enough for me … way more.

“Are you sure it’s really necessary? I can be more conscious of my manner now that you have pointed it out to me.” I was taking a chance here and I knew it. Marrianne does not like to discuss this topic, and when she has decided to call Doris, she has never reversed her decision. I learned early on that arguing was definitely counterproductive in a big way, so even questioning could be risky. I saw Marrianne’s lips compress as the words left my mouth, and immediately dropped the subject. It was going to be a very long day filled with fear and trepidation until this evening ... and Doris ... finally arrived.

This all started a little over a year ago, although I guess the roots can be traced back to my pre-pubescent youth. As far back as I can remember, I have been interested in over-the-knee, bare-bottom spanking. Over the years, I’ve spent many an hour fantasizing about a pair of delightfully curved, pink, fleshy mounds above my right thigh and below my stroking (and spanking) hand, and even more time with me in precisely the opposite position. The idea of a strong willed woman undoing and dropping my pants and pulling me down over her lap for a lengthy session under hand, hairbrush, paddle, strap or whatever has always been the ultimate image for me to reach explosive release.

Marrianne and I have been married for 23 years, and have enjoyed what is probably about an average sex life for a married couple at our ages. While free and fun loving in bed, Marrianne has never liked to talk about our lovemaking, especially outside of the bedroom, so I had never brought up my attraction to spanking, at least not directly, until the summer before last. In our early years, I had occasionally given her a swat to the backside while we were having sex, but I could tell from her reaction that she did not appreciate it, and all of my hints that she might want to reciprocate had been ignored.

Spanking had been on my mind a lot though, and on that fateful day a year ago in August, I finally got up the courage to suggest to Marrianne that she might want to give me a good, sound birthday spanking that year.

“Why would I want to do that?” she had asked.

“Well, it’s tradition, you know, and might be fun. And besides, I know that I have been getting a bit on your nerves lately. You could take this as an opportunity to set me straight … to provide a little motherly direction and discipline.”

“I’m not your mother, John, and that is not one of the traditions that I was raised with. For that matter, did your mother spank you when you were little?”

“No. I’ve often thought that she should have, but she never did.”

“I don’t know anything about spanking, but it does not sound like fun to me.” And with those words she went back to what she was doing. I think that she was working on an afghan at the time. Marrianne loves to crochet, knit, tat, and quilt. She is impressively creative and skilled with her hands, and all of our kids and grandkids wear her scarves and caps, and her quilts and doilies take prominent places in their homes.

I decided to never raise the topic again, but to keep it relegated to my fantasy life. Our married life together was mostly happy and rewarding, so there really was no need to change it, even though spanking remained a frequent, secret fantasy. My birthday came and went without incident that year, just as so many had done each year of my life.

It was five or six weeks later, when Marrianne announced over dinner, “I’ve been thinking lately about what you said about spanking providing you with a little discipline and direction. I’m not at all interested in spanking you, but you do need discipline. You’ve a number of habits that you know irritate me, and it seems to me that you have been getting pretty lazy around the house, just expecting me to do all of the routine tasks that are required to keep and maintain a clean and well maintained home.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” I said, “perhaps you should identify what it is that you would like me to take on, and I’ll try to do a better job of it.”

“I’ll do that John, but I know how you are. Asking and suggesting won’t be enough in the long run to make real changes in your attitudes. [I have to admit that she was probably right about that.] That’s why I’ve done a little research and found a young lady who will provide you with the discipline that you need.”

“What do you mean?” I said, taken completely aback by this very uncharacteristic announcement.

“Why spanking, John. It was your idea, don’t tell me that you have completely forgotten it.”

“No, no, I haven’t forgotten. I just thought that the topic was just between the two of us. It never occurred to me that you might tell someone else. It would be humiliating if any of our friends or business associates should find out that you spanked me.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear, I’m not going to spank you, and I only discussed it with Evelyn. She won’t mention it to anyone. At any rate, she has a friend who knew someone who knew someone who happened to have some experience in providing just this type of discipline.”

Evelyn is Marrianne’s younger sister, and apparently she had broadcast the news over her extensive network of friends to find some girl or woman who was into spanking male bottoms. By now, I expect that half the town knew about my secret proclivity.

“Her name is Doris,” my wife continued. “She, Evelyn and I had lunch last week, and I think that she is just the person to provide the motivation and direction that you have been lacking.”

I couldn’t decide whether this was sounding worse and worse, or better and better. The idea that Evelyn knew that I was into being spanked, that she and my wife discussed it over lunch, was terrifying (even though it did play into some of my more kinky fantasies); while the idea that a young lady might actually take me over her knee and spank me was more attractive than I wanted to admit.

“Doris thinks that a regular program would be most effective in achieving the desired results. She should be here in about an hour to give you your first spanking, or ‘discipline session’ as she prefers to call it.”

“She’s coming here? Tonight?” I blurted, taken completely by surprise at the pace that this was developing. “I’ve never even met this person, and you are going to let her spank me? Shouldn’t we discuss this a little first? You know, give me a chance to get used to the idea? I mean, a complete stranger…”

I saw Marrianne’s lips compress, the way they do when she is really irritated. Then she said, “There is no reason to put it off any longer, John. You said yourself that you needed this form of discipline, and I agree with you. I’ve committed considerable time and effort in arranging this with Doris, and I’m confident that she can do the job. Now why don’t you go take a shower, put on just your robe, then come to my sewing room. I want to complete that baby blanket that I have been crocheting in time for Barbara’s baby shower.

“But honey…”

“Go shower, John.”

I suddenly felt an urgent need to go to the bathroom, which I did, then took a shower, taking special care to clean around my nether regions--that area that I feared was going to be under very intense and personal inspection by a young woman whom I had yet to meet. I was anxious and somewhat aroused as the jets of hot water played over my body, but to be truthful, I was more anxious than aroused. Despite my years of imagining, I had never actually been spanked before. I expected it to hurt, spanking wouldn’t be punishment if it didn’t hurt at least some, but would it really hurt a lot? I’m not really into pain. I’ve never deliberately hit my thumb with a hammer, for example, and on those occasions that I did it by accident, I did not enjoy it in the least.

Marrianne had referred to this Doris as a “young lady”. I wondered just how young she might be. Would she be pretty? What would she be wearing? I hoped that she was not into corsets and knee high boots. I know that some men are into that sort of thing, but in my fantasies I’ve always preferred the stern aunt, mother, or loving wife to the professional dominatrix.

When I finally got out of the shower, I saw that Marrianne had hung my bathrobe on the hook inside the bathroom door. I suddenly needed to use the toilet again.

Marrianne looked up from her rapidly clicking crochet hooks as I entered her sewing room, smiled and said, “All clean dear? I expect that you will want to make a good impression on Doris, for this your first time.

“I see that you are wearing your slippers even though I told you to just wear your robe. Why don’t you take them off and put them in that corner out of the way,” she said, putting down her work and pointing the way. “One of the things that I have asked Doris to work on with you is your inability to accurately follow directions. While you are at it, put your nose in that corner as well. I’ve recently read that is a good place for a naughty boy, or naughty man in this case, to wait for his spanking.”

“Honey, can we talk about this? I’m willing to meet this Doris, person, and perhaps even consider taking a spanking, but this has all come on pretty suddenly. I really think that we should think it over and discuss it first.”

Marrianne’s lips were in full compression by the time that I finished my appeal, but she opened them just wide enough to say in her sternest voice, “You are the one who pointed out that you were in serious need of discipline, and I have given it plenty of thought. It has been obvious to me that you were entirely correct, and all of your attempts to back out now just serve to confirm that judgment. Now, I do not want to hear another word from you. Put your nose in that corner,” she commanded, pointing again more forcefully, “and let me finish what I am working on in peace.”

Marrianne rarely gets this determined, and I knew from past experience that further argument would only make her more rigid in her decision. Reluctantly, I turned to the indicated corner, stepped out of my slippers and stood facing the junction of the two, off-white walls. It had not been in Marrianne’s nature to boss me around like this, nor in mine to bow to any demands, but I guess that I had asked for it, and corner time really was all part of the package. Soon, the only sound in the room was the clicking--a little more pronounced and quicker than before--of Marrianne’s crochet hooks.

I stood in that corner for the next twenty minutes or so, although it seemed much longer to me at the time, alternately quaking in apprehension and fighting down the arousal that this scene, directly from my fantasy life, was causing. I was very much afraid that reality would be much more intense than fantasy, and at the same time, I most fervently did not want to display the depth of my arousal by sporting a raging member to my wife when she (or Doris) finally told me to turn around. Somehow, I was fairly certain that they would not be in the least bit amused by such a display.

My body jerked and I started to turn from the corner when the doorbell announced that we had a visitor. Marrianne put down her work and said in her sternest voice yet, “Don’t you dare leave that corner. I am more than adequately upset with you already.”

I turned back without opening my mouth, and stood right where I was. Soon, I could hear Marrianne greeting someone at our door, and a female voice replying. The sound was faint enough that I could not understand what they were saying, but obviously Doris had arrived. Soon, I would meet this woman, and the fate that she brought with her. Trepidation and arousal both ratcheted up a notch, and I had to fight to maintain some small amount of self control, both to keep my knees from knocking and my little soldier from springing to attention.

Soon, I could hear the distinctive sound of high heels approaching down the wood floor of our hallway. Since Marrianne only wears heels when we go out, it could only be Doris. I could tell when they entered, however, that both women had come into the room behind me.

“Very nice,” a strange female voice said behind me. “I would recommend, however, that in future you have your husband lose the robe while he is standing in the corner. Much of punishment has to do with attitude and atmosphere. When a bad boy is waiting for his spanking in the nude, it is more difficult for him to imagine that anything else will occur. The humiliation of being stripped with his naughty, bare bottom ready and on display establishes the proper mental attitude for punishment well before the actual spanking even begins.”

“Take off your robe, John,” Marrianne said, and stepped up to take it from me. My cheeks clenched involuntarily at the certainty that they were under the scrutiny of the two women behind me.

“Better,” Doris said. “Now, do you have a sturdy, straight backed chair, with no arms, that your husband can fetch for me?”

“I think one of the chairs in the dining room should do,” Marrianne replied. “John, dear, go bring in one of our chairs for Doris.”

Reluctantly, I turned from the corner and got my first look at my disciplinarian. At the same time, she got a full look at me, all except for what I was able to casually cover with my left hand. Doris was about 18 or 19 years younger than me, not much above the age of our oldest daughter, tall, taller than my average male height in her heels, not heavy, but strong looking, dressed in fashion jeans, a red shirt that complimented her figure, and western looking boots with sturdy heels. Her hair was auburn, swept back and tied out of the way, and she wore a smirk seemingly at my attempt to cover myself.

I scurried by the two women as quickly as I could and went to the dining room for a side chair. The image of Doris was not precisely out of my fantasies, but it might have been if I had made her acquaintance under other circumstances. As it was, fear and trepidation were easing slightly in favor of sexual arousal. Of course the increase in arousal was beginning to manifest itself in tumescence, and that in turn was causing an increase in fear and trepidation. I did not want to be hard in front of my wife and this stranger, especially since this stranger was younger than Marrianne, which was bound to raise jealousy and anger on the part of my wife if I so much as hinted that I found Doris sexually attractive; and, nothing hints at arousal quite so blatantly as a raging hard-on.

I returned to the sewing room with the chair covering my flagpole, which I had been able to suppress to below half-staff. Doris indicated where she wanted the chair placed, which was in the middle of the room, facing the chair in which Marrianne usually sat when she was working. There was plenty of room, since Marrianne’s quilting frame was currently folded and leaning against one of the walls out of the way.

“That will do nicely,” Doris said.

“If you don’t need my help,” Marrianne said, “I’d like to get back to work now. I’m trying to get this baby blanket done in time for the shower of the daughter of a good friend of ours.”

“No problem,” Doris said, “I think that I can take it from here.”

Turning to me, and looking me straight in the eyes, Doris continued, “As you know, my name is Doris, but you may call me ma’am, as in ‘yes ma’am’ or ‘no ma’am’ as the situation dictates. Your wife has asked me to help her to provide some discipline in your life, which by all reports from her and your sister-in-law is sorely needed.”

Oh good, I thought, Evelyn has gotten her two cents in as well. “I’m not that bad,” I protested, “just a little thoughtless now and then, I suppose.”

“More than a little, I think,” Doris responded. In the background, I could hear Marrianne’s crochet hooks back in action. Strangely, they were neither louder nor faster than if Doris and I were not even in the room and this whole scene were not taking place. “And, I didn’t hear a ma’am in that statement, nor was your input asked for to begin with. One of the rules that you will learn here is that you will speak to me only when asked a direct question, and only with the greatest respect.” There was no anger in these words, just the tone of a teacher patiently instructing one of her slower students.

“I left my bag in the living room when I arrived this evening. Trot off like a good boy and get it for me, please. Don’t dawdle, I am not a very patient woman.”

I wanted to protest at being ordered around like this in my own home, but decided that the best course of action was to just get this whole thing over with as quickly as possible. Who knows, despite the acute embarrassment of being naked and spanked by a strange woman in front of my wife, it might even be as stimulating as my fantasies were; and regardless, it was bound to result in plenty of material for later imaginings. If the whole thing was too intense, I was sure that I could stop it and then convince Marrianne that it was a bad idea and should only be a onetime occurrence. So, keeping my protestations to myself, I went off in search of Doris’ bag. As it turned out, it was not hard to find, being somewhat larger than the average purse, made of denim with silver conchoes and buckles--fashionable in a style foreign to the more conservative tastes of my wife.

I was a little surprised, and somewhat dismayed at the weight of Doris’ bag until I remembered all of the things that women are prone to carry about with them. I was tempted to open it and examine the contents, but reasoned that the delay, and the possibility of being caught, would not help to ease my pending discipline session.

When I returned to the sewing room, Doris was seated in the chair and indicated that I should place the bag on the floor, within easy reach at her left side. Taking my wrist, she then guided me to stand to her right.

“Now this is what is going to happen,” she said. “Despite being of an age at which you should know better, you are still a naughty boy, deserving of a spanking. As you admitted, you are thoughtless in your dealings with your wife and other women, you have several habits that your wife finds annoying, and you do not contribute your fair share to the upkeep of your home. Over the next several weeks, we will address each of these shortcomings in more explicit detail, but tonight I see no need to delay your introduction to a disciplined life any further. At this point, you may apologize to your wife for making this necessary, then place yourself over my knee so that we can get started. We have a long evening ahead of us.”

“Several weeks?” I blurted. “Who said anything about several weeks? In fact, I think that it is time to call this whole thing off. Thank you for coming,” I said, beginning to back away, “but your services won’t be needed after all. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

It was at this point that I suddenly discovered how much real trouble I was in. As quick as a striking snake, Doris reached out, grabbed my arm and yanked me down over her denim covered left thigh. Her right leg closed like a vice behind both of mine, and she reached with both hands over my back to take hold of my right wrist and twist and secure it far up behind my back. Granted, I was taken by surprise, but still, this woman was quick, and strong. I struggled to get free, but there was no way that it was going to happen. I looked to Marrianne, but she was intent on her work, seeming serenely oblivious to what was happening right in front of her. The only counter indication was a slight, satisfied set to her mouth.

With a loud WHAP, I heard Doris’ hand strike my now defenseless bottom and a quarter second later I felt a distinct sting. “You’ve just made a very large mistake, young man.” WHAP “And you’ll pay for it dearly.” WHAP “When I am done with you, I expect that apology to your wife,” WHAP “and a very sincere apology to me as well.” WHAP

Taking my wrist in her right hand, Doris leaned over to open her bag and extracted a hard wood paddle with two rows of holes down the sides. She brought it up past my face so as to be certain that I saw what was coming next.

“You are a naughty, willful man, but fortunately, I know just how to handle your kind. Prepare to learn a much needed lesson.”

“Let me up. You can’t do this to me,” I protested. Doris then proceeded to demonstrate that she could in fact do it to me, and that she could do it with considerable effect, and do it for as long as she wished.

The spanking that I received that night was like nothing that I had imagined. Oh sure, it was initially a little arousing to find myself held helpless over the jeans clad thigh of a younger woman, but when that woman went to work with that paddle, all arousal was forgotten.

Each strike with that hard wood paddle left its own fire behind it, and that flame was stoked and grew with each successive spank. I didn’t want to cry out; I didn’t want to struggle once Doris had demonstrated the futility; I most certainly did not want to cry in front of this woman or my wife, but Doris proved to me that what I wanted had no bearing on what would happen. Doris with her paddle soon had me expressing my discomfort in strident terms, first in wordless complaint, but soon in quite heartfelt cries of apology interspersed with pleas for mercy and promises to be oh so very good in the future. As these vocal remonstrations were developing, I also resumed kicking, twisting, and jerking my body in whatever way I thought might cause Doris to miss her target or to in any way bring me some surcease of pain, all to no avail. Finally, I had collapsed in surrender and lay helpless, exhausted and on fire from the middle of my bottom to the tops of my thighs. The tears were flowing freely now, and my words had been replaced with sobs of distress.

Several times during this ordeal, I had pleaded with my wife to call a halt, to save me from this punishment, but Marrianne continued to work on her blanket, and through my tear clouded vision I saw no outward indication that she was even aware of my presence.

Finally after more than ten minutes--an eternity under that burning paddle--the spanking tapered off to just a few well placed shots, then nothing. I felt Doris put down the paddle and lightly stroke my flaming, bruised bottom. Even her lightest, feminine touch enflamed the nerve endings of my over sensitive, severely punished mounds.

After allowing me a few minutes to regain some semblance of control, Doris said, “I like to make the first session with a naughty boy one that he will remember for a while so that there is no doubt that what he experienced was true punishment. Your actions earned you a little extra this time, but I want to leave you with no doubt that every time that I come here, you will be punished. If you are cooperative and accepting, honestly try to learn from each session, then the punishment need not be quite as severe. I strongly believe, however, that in most cases true penitence and correction of the faults of a naughty boy only comes after real punishment.

“Before your spanking, I suggested that you apologize to your wife for making all of this necessary. Would you like to do that now, or should I resume your spanking until you’re ready?”

“No! No, I’m ready; you don’t need to spank me.” Looking up at my wife, who had put her work aside and was gazing warmly back at me, I said, “I apologize for my attitude lately, and promise to be a much better husband from now on.”

“I accept your apology, dear, and I am sure that you will do much better. I love you very much.”

“And what do you have to say to me?” Doris asked.

“I apologize for the trouble that I caused you, ma’am,” I stammered, wanting only to mollify this strong woman who still held me firmly over her left thigh, “and thank you for providing me the discipline that I needed.”

“Very good, young man,” she responded, seemingly oblivious to the incongruity of a woman almost 20 years my junior calling me “young man”, “hopefully, you will not make the same mistakes when I come for your next session a week from today at this same time.”

“No, please, I’ve learned my lesson. There’s no need for another session.”

WHAP “Obviously you still have a long way to go.” WHAP “I’ll be here next week,” WHAP “and I expect to find you in your birthday suit,” WHAP “waiting silently with your nose in the corner,” WHAP “at which time we will address some of your more onerous shortcomings,” WHAP “and work on specific items for improvement.” WHAP “Do we understand each other, young man, or should we start this session again from the beginning?” WHAP WHAP WHAP

“No! Stop! We understand each other. I mean yes ma’am, I understand, ma’am.”

“Good, now get off my lap and trot yourself back over to that corner until you’re given permission to leave it. And keep your hands off of that naughty bottom, unless you want my hand applied to it a few more times.”

I got to my feet as quickly as I could, and practically jumped to the corner. The temptation to rub my bruised flesh was almost irresistible, but I managed to keep my hands clenched tightly at my sides.

Marrianne accompanied Doris to the door, and after a brief conversation I heard her leave the house and drive away. When my wife returned to her sewing room, I had turned from the corner and was gently trying to rub some of the distress from my battered bottom.

“That was awful!” I said. “I am never going through that again.”

Marrianne’s lips compressed, and she picked up her phone and began to dial.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Who are you calling?”

“I’m calling Doris. She won’t have gotten far by now. I’m sure she can be back here in just a few minutes.”

“What? No! Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”

“Get your nose back in the corner, John, with your hands at your sides,” Marrianne directed calmly, her finger poised over the Send button. “I’ll let you know when you can come out.”

I was faced with a difficult decision. I could overcome my wife physically, perhaps stab her in the heart with a crochet hook, or I could do as I was told. After a brief moment of silence, I turned back to the corner and Marrianne put down her phone.

Throughout the following week, I tried almost constantly to convince Marrianne that we no longer needed Doris’ services. I tried reason, demonstrations of reformed character, assertion of my rights of authority as the husband, desperate and abject pleading, all were met with a calm, satisfied silence (although when I was most insistent, there was a distinct compression of the lips).

The evening, one week to the day after that horrible initial session with Doris, found me back in the corner of the sewing room standing stripped completely naked, while Marrianne quietly worked on a shawl that she was knitting for a friend of hers living in assisted care, when the doorbell rang.

After six weeks--six very painful and humiliating lessons under Doris’ paddle and strap--the ladies agreed that I had made satisfactory progress, and the sessions became less frequent. Currently, Doris only comes over when Marrianne feels that her services are needed. This can be in answer to an egregious act on my part, backsliding in either performance or attitude, or just a decision on the part of my wife that it is time for another lesson. Regardless of the reason, each and every visit results in real, painful discipline, whether more or less severe as determined by the cause and my acceptance of it.

Tonight, I will once again suffer through the pain that an experienced, dedicated disciplinarian can deliver to the defenseless male bottom. I will spend the day in fear and despair at this inevitable event, and for the umpteenth time mightily curse the day that I suggested to my loving Marrianne that she provide me with a little direction and discipline through spanking.

THE END

© Jonathan Quincy Graves, June 2014, All Rights Reserved. May not be copied or duplicated in any form, either whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author.

[justpecause]

Your story is fabulous!

[john_s_macleod]

It's been a long time since I've read one of your excellent stories but this one is every bit as good as I remember! Your polished writing style is particularly enjoyable - and while I prefer a "closed" relationship, you made this seem perfectly plausible in every aspect. You capture the dynamic between a long-married couple very well.

Thank you and I look forward to more!