by Geraldine Hillis
The party was in full swing. The music blared; the drink flowed. June Robbins was having a ball! She'd drunk enough wine to make her tipsy, and was dancing energetically with a young man she'd met about twenty minutes previously. Her dress, which had started the evening quite respectably, had somehow slipped, giving her partner more than just her pretty face to look at. When the dance ended, he hugged her and gave her behind a friendly squeeze, sliding the dress up a little more than was strictly necessary.
She giggled, almost lost her balance, and was caught from behind by two strong hands. Her husband Martin turned her to face him. "Don't you think it's time to go, June?"
She blinked. "Oh, don't be a bore, Martin. Just fetch me another drink, will you?"
Martin shook his head. "No. You've had more than enough," he said firmly.
A sulky look crossed her face. "Well," she said defiantly, "if you won't do it, I'll find someone who will." And she stalked off, somewhat unsteadily.
Two hours later, Martin half-carried his by now extremely drunken wife to a waiting taxi. Only the promise of a very large tip persuaded the driver to let her in the car at all.
Once home, he undressed her and put her to bed, then lay awake worrying about what the hell he was going to do with her.
"June, wake up." Martin was shaking her shoulder. "June, we're meeting Paul and Maggie at the tennis club in an hour. Mixed doubles. Remember?"
June opened her eyes - very slowly. "Oh God! My head - close the curtains, Martin." She rolled over and buried her head in the pillows. "I can't go - I'm sick." Her voice was muffled.
"You're not sick, you're hungover," said Martin. "Now, are you getting up?"
She half turned and sat up gingerly, holding her head. "I really can't. Make up some excuse for me."
"I spend half my life making up excuses for you and your behaviour," said Martin angrily. "Suit yourself. I'm going out!"
Paul and Maggie greeted Martin warmly when he arrived at the club. They were an attractive couple in their early thirties, a little older than he and June.
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid -" began Martin. "No, I won't lie for her." He took a deep breath. "June's so hellishly hungover, she couldn't even see a ball, let alone hit it."
"Yes, well," said Paul tactfully. "She did seem to be having a good time last night."
Martin gave a short, humourless laugh. "Oh yes, a great time! Drinking herself unconscious, flirting with anything in trousers, letting every Tom, Dick and Harry grope her!" He looked despairingly at the older couple. "Look, I like a drink and a bit of fun as well as the next person, but ..."
"But this happens all the time, is that it, Martin?" asked Maggie gently.
He nodded. "I'm at my wits' end. I just don't know what to do."
Paul cleared his throat. "Well, I know what I'd do," he said. "I'd put her over my knee, haul down her knickers and blister her behind for her!"
Martin gaped at him. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely," replied Paul firmly. He turned and grinned at Maggie. "Aren't I, sweetheart?"
Maggie blushed and laughed. "Oh, he's serious all right. Those tactics certainly cured me of some of my less desirable habits."
Martin had a fleeting vision of Maggie - ultra-respectable Maggie - sprawled across the lap of her equally ultra-respectable husband, with her bare - Abruptly he closed down his imagination. "You mean - you - and Maggie - you ..." His capacity for coherent speech deserted him.
Maggie smiled at him. "Don't looked so shocked, Martin. Sometimes a man just has to take control. June will thank you for it in the long run."
"Do you still - I mean ..."
"Oh yes," said Paul with a grin. "Maggie still needs a lick of the strap now and again to keep her in line. Don't you, love?"
She stuck out her tongue in mock reproval, then returned his grin. "Only very occasionally nowadays." She turned back to Martin. "Seriously, though, think about it. Paul and I aren't the only ones to notice the way she's been behaving. People are talking."
"I'll - I'll give it some thought," said Martin.
He walked home slowly, confused and bewildered by what he had learned. Paul and Maggie! So - so respectable, and decent, and - ordinary! Yet Paul spanked her! Martin made a quick decision and hastened his step.
June was up and dressed when he got home, looking a little pale, but otherwise quite healthy. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking black coffee, and she glanced up as he came in. "Sorry about the tennis, darling," she said casually, "but I really couldn't have faced it."
"Are you really?" he asked coldly.
She frowned. "Am I really what?" she asked, puzzled.
"Are you really sorry?" said Martin. Because I don't think you are. 'Sorry' is a word you use without thinking about it. But I assure you - that's going to change."
June was alarmed by his tone. "I - I don't understand."
"You will - soon enough," he replied. "You see, I've had enough of your drinking and flirting and disrespect. The next time you say 'sorry' to me you'll really mean it." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Come here."
June didn't move, only stared at him in surprise.
He spoke again. "If I have come over and fetch you, it'll be worse. Come here - now!"
Nervously she approached him. In one quick movement she was face down across his knee, too shocked even to protest. He lifted her skirt, and only when he reached for the waistband of her panties did she fully realise what he intended. "Martin, you can't ..."
"I can and I will," was the reply.
She started to struggle then, and he pressed his left arm across her back, tugged her panties down to her knees, and hooked his right leg over hers. He raised his hand.
SMACK!
The first left a rather pleasing red handprint on her right buttock. She yelped.
SMACK!
Now the left. SMACK! Across both! SMACK! Right. SMACK! Left. SMACK! Both. SMACK! Right. Left.
June yelled. She tried to squirm away, but his firm grasp made it impossible. Her smooth white skin turned pink - then red, and splayed finger-marks were beginning to show on her thighs.
SMACK!
"No! Martin - please!" she wailed. Her bottom was throbbing and burning, and she couldn't quite believe what was happening to her.
SMACK!
She started to cry in earnest, real sobs wrenching out of her as Martin continued to spank her behind to a fiery crimson. At last he released her. She struggled to her feet and pulled her panties up over her sore, bruised flesh.
For a long moment they stared at each other - he, wondering if he had made the right decision, or if she was now going to have him arrested; she, uncertain of whether to throw herself into his arms or throw the coffee pot at his head. She opted for the former, and thankfully he embraced his weeping wife, letting her cry out her misery against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Martin," she sniffled. "I'm so sorry."
And this time, she really meant it!
Maggie had had a very bad day. As Principal Teacher of English in a large comprehensive school, she had spent much of her day trying to explain to a class of fifteen-year-olds, that while, 'Hamlet may have had homosexual tendencies,' was acceptable in a literature essay, 'Hamlet was a raging poofter,' was not! She was drowning in a sea of marking, filing, and form-filling. Should she go home and start on the huge pile of exercise books, or nip down to the pub for a vodka and tonic? After a very brief struggle, the vodka won.
Paul had also had a bad day. His new secretary was an illiterate airhead with the face of a Botticelli and the brains of a vermicelli. In one day she'd managed to jam the photocopier, persuade the computer to hide all the files he needed, send the email system insane, and blow up the coffee machine. Paul thought sourly that the client he was defending tomorrow might well hang, and he was only on a shoplifting charge!
By six-thirty he'd had enough. All he wanted was to go home to Maggie. A bite to eat, a bottle of chilled Chardonnay, a shower together and bed, where they could soothe away each other's cares. Wearily he set off home.
The door was locked. Odd, thought Paul, Maggie should be in by now. Oh well, maybe she'd stayed at school to finish some work. He went upstairs, showered and changed, then relaxed in the lounge with a whisky.
By eight o'clock he was uneasy. He dialled Maggie's mobile number; it was switched off. He checked the answering machine and his email. Nothing.
By nine o'clock he was worried. He phoned round all her friends. Nothing.
By ten he was frantic. He called the hospitals. Nothing. As a lawyer himself, Paul knew the police wouldn't take action so soon, but he called them anyway. No, there had been no road accidents. Nothing.
He was preparing to go out and scour the streets when he heard her car crunching on the gravel drive. He reached the door just as she did, and drew her inside, weak with relief. "Sweetheart, where have you been? I've been worried sick!"
Her voice was slurred. "I just went ... couple of drinks."
Paul looked at her closely. "You're drunk!" he said accusingly. "And you drove in that state?" Relief was rapidly giving way to anger.
Alcohol made her reckless. "No, Paul, I didn't drive. I bloody well flew home!"
He struggled to control his temper. "There's no need for sarcasm or bad language, Maggie," he said evenly. "But you could have killed yourself ... or someone else. Can you imagine the headline? PROMINENT SOLICITOR'S WIFE ON DRUNK DRIVING CHARGE! He seated himself on the arm of the sofa. "Clearly I've been too soft for too long, and I'm about to remedy that." He patted his knee. "You're going over my lap for the hiding you deserve. Come here."
Maggie looked at him, swayed slightly, and said two words that had never passed her lips before. "Fuck off!"
Paul stood up, hardly able to believe his ears. Maggie had never dared speak to him in that way before. "I beg your pardon?" His voice was low, controlled, concealing the real fury he now felt.
Reality and sobriety hit her square between the eyes. She knew, with an appalling sinking feeling in her stomach, that she had stepped way out of line. Hastily she tried to make amends, knowing in her heart that she was hopelessly too late. "I ... it just slipped out ... I'll take my spanking now, I promise." She began to fumble with the waistband of her skirt.
Paul stayed her hand. "I don't think so," he said quietly. "You do realise you've earned much more than a hand spanking now, don't you?"
She nodded unhappily.
"It's too late now to deal with this properly," he continued. "Tomorrow, you'll come straight home from work. I should be in about five. You'll receive your correction then. Now go to bed."
Maggie trudged wearily up the stairs. She was in trouble now, and the enforced wait would only add to her punishment. She lay awake for a long time, but Paul did not come to bed.
Maggie's day was even worse than the previous one. She was horrendously hungover, she had not done her marking, her classes seemed even more intractable than usual, and as the day progressed, she became increasingly nervous about what awaited her at home. She sat at her desk during the lunch break, pondering on what she had done. Only last week she had counselled a friend, Martin, whose wife June had been drinking too much. She and Paul had advised Martin to spank her, which he had done with apparently satisfactory results. Now she, Maggie, was guilty of much worse. She still couldn't quite believe the words she had heard her own voice utter. Tonight wouldn't result in a few playful smacks and some passionate lovemaking. This would be real punishment.
In the afternoon she attended a meeting to discuss discipline in the lower school, but her mind was engaged in discipline elsewhere.
Paul's day was somewhat better. The secretary had acquired a brain cell or two overnight, and his files had turned up intact. His client was admonished, and he was able to give over some time to thinking about Maggie.
They'd been married twelve years. In the early days he'd had to spank her fairly often, even take a strap to her occasionally, but as they'd matured together, those instances had become less frequent. In recent years, punishment had mainly been restricted to a few light-hearted smacks. But not this time, thought Paul. He'd obviously let things slide, and now he would have to be severe. He wasn't looking forward to it, but then ... he supposed Maggie wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect either.
Maggie arrived home promptly at four-thirty. By this time her stomach was knotted with nerves. Should she change, start to prepare a meal? No. Paul had given her no such instructions, and she was determined not to make him any angrier than he was already.
She wandered aimlessly from room to room. Paul had an office at the back of the house. Would he punish her there? Probably. She didn't deserve to be dealt with in the intimacy of the bedroom, or the informality of the lounge or kitchen.
By quarter past five her nerves were in tatters. The sound of his car in the drive almost finished her, and she had to draw on all her reserves of courage to face him with some semblance of calm as he came through the door.
He put his briefcase on the hall table. "Office, Margaret," he said curtly.
She preceded him into the office, and stood before the desk while he removed his jacket, his gold cufflinks, and rolled up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt. At last he took his seat and studied her for a long moment. After what seemed an eternity, he spoke. "Do you have any excuse at all for the way you behaved last night?"
She shook her head. "No," she muttered.
"I don't believe I heard you correctly, Margaret."
She pulled herself together hastily. "I mean ... No, sir."
He nodded thoughtfully, then rattled off a string of questions at her. She, the accused ... he, the prosecution. "Is there any reason you couldn't have telephoned last night to say you'd be late?"
"No, sir."
"Could you have taken a taxi home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you deserve to be punished last night?"
She was close to tears now. "Yes, sir."
"Yes. And yet you refused. You refused to accept what you knew you deserved, you were grossly disrespectful, your language was utterly disgraceful, and you have no excuse."
She hung her head, ashamed. "No, sir."
He reached into a drawer and drew out a strap which he laid on the desk. Broad and thick and heavy, it had been a long time since Maggie had felt its fearsome sting. She drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing.
Paul stood up. "Remove your jacket, skirt and underthings. You may keep on your blouse."
She obeyed quickly, dropping the jacket on the floor and kicking aside the rest as she stepped out of them. He raised his eyebrows. "Is that how you were taught to treat expensive clothing?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.
Maggie flushed and hurried to fold her clothes neatly over a chair, knowing that that little lapse had earned her an extra few strokes.
"Over the desk, Margaret. Grip the far edge."
With a stifled sob, she laid herself in the required position. Paul took his place behind her and touched her lightly with the leather, causing her to flinch in anticipation. He raised the strap and swung it in a wide arc. It cracked across Maggie's rear, leaving a broad, red track. The strength of that first blow forced her forward onto her toes and elicited a moan of pain. The second curled around her hip. She twisted sideways, only to meet the third, which caught her inner thigh.
Her mind was in turmoil. Oh God, she thought, it's only begun and I can't take it! She tried desperately to keep still as blow after blow exploded over her tender flesh. Not an inch of her buttocks escaped. Her skin was pink, then red, then purple. Raised weals covered her. And still it did not stop.
She cried out. No words, no pleading ... just a desperate, pain-filled wail. It stopped. It was over. Thank God ... thank God. But it wasn't. Paul's voice. "Maggie, back in position."
Without realising it, she had squirmed onto her side. Still gripping the edge of the desk, she had pulled herself up and drawn in her knees, so that she was almost lying curled up on the surface. Sobbing wildly, she manoeuvred herself back to her proper place.
The brief respite made the fresh assault even harder to bear. No longer could she distinguish individual strokes. There was nothing in her world but tormenting, unrelenting pain. Her buttocks, her thighs, the tender places between her legs ... all aflame.
Paul ... unexpectedly gentle. "That's all, Maggie."
She lay weeping over the desk, not even attempting to rise. Paul put his arm around her, stroking her hair, her tear-stained face, murmuring endearments. "Maggie, sweetheart ... I had to be severe. It's all over, darling. I won't hurt you any more. Please, pet ... don't cry ... it's all over now."
He helped her to her feet and held her as she wept out her sorrow and her pain and her guilt against his shoulder. He knew he would have to keep her on a tight rein for a while yet, but the first and hardest lesson had been learned.
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