With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  “Come in.” Julian’s voice sounds clear and strong as he calls out on hearing my knock on the door of his study. There’s a quality of youth in it for a moment, too, even though he’s of an age where distinguished gray has already appeared in his thick dark hair. He sounds happy, full of anticipation but in his familiar, controlled way.

  Obeying the summons, I close the door as quietly as I can behind me, then take my customary place on the fine Persian rug before his desk.

  Julian appears to be making annotations in his journal, his handsome face impassive and unrevealing. No trace of the suppressed excitement I thought I detected just a moment ago. The credit card statement has been moved from the blotter and now lies in the wire basket, ready for paying. He’ll probably use the online system. Afterward.

  Me, I’m feeling that dangerous turmoil in my nether regions, and emotions surge and billow in my chest. I have to keep myself rigid so as not to do something incredibly stupid. Like touch. Reach out. Grab. Hurl myself forward. Julian is so good-looking, he’s regal almost, with his beautifully groomed hair and his glowingly dark eyes. His body is athletic, and his hands narrow and scholarly. His is the strongest arm I’ve ever felt.

  “Oh, Amanda…” He looks up from his writing, his expression mild and a little resigned. “What on earth am I going to do with you?”

  Almost having to bite my cheek to try and remain solemn, I smile my inner smile. His question is patently absurd. He knows—and I know—exactly what he’s going to do with me. This show of almost avuncular bemusement is simply a facet of this dance we do. One of his favorite figures, in which he always, always leads.

  “I don’t know, Julian.” I keep my voice small. As if I’m afraid. Which I am, in a way.

  “This can’t go on, you know.” He reaches over and taps the statement. “I thought we agreed to discuss any large purchases. To—” he pauses, significantly “—negotiate them.” That emphasis, oh so subtle, makes me flex my fingers against the pleats of my skirt at the thought of previous “negotiations” and the radical effects they produce.

  “And now I find this.” He points, as if to a figure, although he’s really looking at me, not the items on the statement. “And this. And this.” Again, not the sums, just me and my face, which is already blushing, and my body, which must be visibly quivering with excitement even though I’m trying not to let it. “It does seem that you’ve forgotten what we agreed.”

  “I guess I must have,” I whisper.

  “I’m certain you must have,” counters Julian firmly. “So I think we’d better see to it that your memory is better from now on, don’t you?”

  “Yes…I suppose you’re right.”

  “There’s no ‘suppose’ about it, Amanda.” His eyes are dead level. He’s a brilliant actor, but the fire’s there; even he can’t hide it. “We both know there’s only one way.”

  I hang my head, not really ashamed of my extravagance at all. In fact I glory in it. The only thing that I can’t face is the intensity of my husband’s glittering gaze. It makes me weak, weak at the knees. Knees I want to tumble to so I can crawl around the back of the desk and reach for…

  “I think you’ll find what we need on the sideboard, Amanda.” He goes on in the face of my silence. I’m not even supposed to speak at this juncture. “I wonder if you would be good enough to fetch it.”

  With slow steps, and eyes still downcast, I walk over to the polished antique sideboard and look down tremblingly at the object that lies there.

  I hardly dare touch it. I raise my hand, then withdraw it, feeling dizzy again as if I’ve been waltzing in his arms for half the night.

  “Amanda,” he prompts softly, and with a leaping heart I pick up the leather strap.

  It’s not an ugly thing, in fact far from it. The leather’s a rich, very, very dark brown, not unlike the color of Julian’s hair, and the intricate filigree tooling in white is a little bit like the elegant threading of gray that he has. If it wasn’t for its purpose, I’d consider the strap an object of rare beauty. But as it is, its awesome purpose fills my imagination with breathtaking resonances.

  “Place it here,” he instructs, pointing to a spot toward the edge of his desk. “Then you may clear the usual space in readiness.”

  Leather upon leather, I set the strap on the desk’s black hide inset, then begin my ominous task. Files, ornamental inkwell set, Julian’s favorite pen, his PDA and mobile phone; all these I arrange to one side, so the center of the desk is quite empty. When all is ready, I glance toward my husband for my next cue.

  “Very good, my dear.” His voice is quite kind, approving. “Very neat. And now, I think you know what to do next?”

  It’s intoned as a question, but again, underneath, it isn’t one. I know exactly what to do, and blood rushes around my body as I comply.

  Carefully, and with as much grace as I can muster, I arrange myself facedown across my husband’s gleaming desk, my head facing the side where he’s sitting. Folding my arms, I lay my face against them, and the skin of my cheeks feels very hot.

  “Nicely done, my dear,” Julian murmurs, coming around to stand directly behind me. His long supple hand settles lightly on my buttocks, touching first one then the other, the contact quite distinct through my layers of clothing. “Now, let’s get you ready, shall we?” It’s as if we’re having a perfectly normal conversation as he takes hold of the hem of my skirt.

  Julian is a very graceful man, very methodical, and in this, more than anything, he pays attention to every tiny detail. First, he rolls my conservative, pleated skirt carefully to my waist, then he tucks my slip over it to secure it. There’s a pause, while he seems to consider the arrangement, deliberating, assessing. Then I feel him catch his fingers into the waistband of my white cotton briefs and peel them slowly down my quaking upper thighs. Rolling these, too, he makes a little bridge between my knees—just as he edges my legs apart, momentarily pressing his calf against mine.

  That bridge of white cloth pulls taut.

  I gasp. I can’t help myself. I can’t contain myself. The soft, wet folds of my sex are on show to him now, and the thought of him seeing them only makes those folds get wetter. It’s a strange thing…. He’s my husband, and he’s been seeing every inch of my body for years and years. He’s totally familiar with it, and I’m familiar with him looking at it. But this exposure—in delicious shame and the anticipation of punishment—is completely different.

  “Are you ready, Amanda?” Julian’s voice is ineffably polite, yet somehow deeply charged. I know it wouldn’t make a halfpenny worth of difference if I said I wasn’t ready. It’s too late now to stall our momentum, to break the pattern.

  There’s a rustle of cloth, Julian taking off his jacket, and a pause after that while he rolls up his sleeves. Any second now I’m going to pay for my extravagance with the household credit card, pay dearly in the way my husband likes. Really likes…

  The dreaded moment arrives with a whistle, a crack, and after a second’s delay a huge blank white pain in my bottom. I hear a piteous cry, and even though I know it’s me, it sounds like a weird and birdlike stranger. I’ll never get used to this. Never. It’s like a swathe of flame blasted across my flesh.

  “Hush now.” Julian presses a fingertip against the single first weal. I gnaw my lip and bury my face against my arm to stifle more cries, all the time loving his severity and deeply fearing it. “Try to keep quiet, Amanda,” he urges. “Try for me. Please? A punishment is far more memorable borne with dignity.”

  What’s dignity? I certainly haven’t got any. No matter how much I’d like to have it. As the polished strap cracks down on me with unrelenting frequency, I howl and wail and shout despite my husband’s cool and patient admonishments. Each stroke finds a new way to burn me; each leather kiss discovers fresh and virgin skin. Within minutes, my entire backside feels as if it’s been flayed, roasted, blazed on a spit. The muscles of each burning buttock seem to drum.

  “Oh, please…”
I moan, but I’m not quite sure what I’m moaning for.

  I’m begging, but for what?

  Stop?

  Continue?

  Harder?

  More?

  Wrapped in red mist, my mind has stopped working.

  Julian, however, chooses to hear those last two words. He redoubles his efforts, moving down now to lay the lash across my thighs.

  In a cleansing rush, I cry freely, the teardrops wetting the white sleeves of my blouse. The suffering in my thighs is soon a match for the torture in my bottom. But even that isn’t my lesson done, not by a long way.

  One final harsh refinement still remains.

  “You must help me now, my dear,” whispers Julian, leaning over me. “I know this hurts you, but believe me, I mean to do you good.”

  With an overtheatrical sniffle, I unfold my arms. I can’t tell if I’m experiencing genuine reluctance or just feigning it. I can’t tell the difference. But pressing my face against the leather blotter, I reach behind me.

  “That’s it, my love,” praises Julian. “Be brave now, my darling perfect girl.”

  The touch of my own fingertips against my hot bottom makes me gasp and groan and then hiss long with pain as I pry the groove wide open.

  What follows is a blur of tears and torment. In a show of skill and marksmanship, my husband whips my tender anus, letting the leather dance over its target with each stroke.

  I complain. I howl like a she-cat. I swear inside, silently cursing him and telling him I can’t bear it, yet at the same time swirling my hips to court his blows and invite their impact.

  I’m not quite sure when I pass the hidden frontier, but somewhere along the line a great flame has begun to burn…a conflagration that’s wildly raging, between my legs.

  “Are you sorry, my dear?” Julian inquires eventually, letting his fingernails take a turn across my agony.

  “Yes! Oh yes, Julian, forgive me,” I choke out, unable to contain myself. Blind with lust, I grind my belly against the desk.

  “I do, my darling, I do,” he says, and now at last his voice is hoarse and low, vibrating with hunger. As he speaks I hear a swiftly running zip.

  And now, at last, oh God, oh yes!

  Julian’s thick penis slides deep into my sex and his rough belly hair makes me whine again as it grazes my sore bottom.

  “There, my darling, isn’t that better?” His breath catches as he inclines over me, shoving with lithe, powerful hips. “Have you enjoyed your anniversary treat?”

  “Oh hell, yes,” I agree, thrusting back at him.

  Loving the pain. Loving the pleasure. Loving him.

  I Will

  Erastes

  You never really expect to marry your childhood sweetheart, because, God, what a cliché that is! But that’s what Mark is, was and always will be. It doesn’t matter to me that his eyes are not the bright intense blue-green they once were, that age has dimmed their shine just a little, because I still love them. They remind me now of cool seaside caves, where we once kissed in secret. It doesn’t matter that his hair has thinned at the top and sides, and that he’s no longer that sun-kissed Adonis I ran with, chasing endless Frisbees on endless summer beaches in the seventies. He’s a man now, not a boy, and he’s had life hit him sideways. Life that does that to all of us, and it shows on him. But I watched every line grow, and every flaw on his face and on his body are signs of the life he’s led. With me.

  Of course, when we met, I couldn’t say I knew I was going to marry this man. Why? Because I was six and he was five (and three quarters). We shared a desk, and I spilled milk over his painting. He hated me that first morning, but we made up again at lunchtime because I had chicken sandwiches and he had Spam, and we shared a love of Mars bars. I find it amazing sometimes that I can remember that so clearly, and yet if Mark were to ask me what I gave him last Christmas, I’d find it hard to recall.

  And that’s how it started, crayons and milk and Spam. I’m grateful to the Spam company, despite the fact that neither of us like it much; we still buy it now and then, two silly old queens laughing over a secret joke no one will ever share.

  All through school we slotted into each other’s lives, Mark and Jim. Rarely apart, even our names were synonymous. “Have you invited Mark ’n Jim?” “Where’s Mark ’n Jim?” We sat together, did the same subjects, cheated abominably in exams. We both knew that neither of us would go to university without the other.

  I don’t think there was even a time when I realized I was homosexual, because Mark was there, and I was there for Mark. We never dated, never talked of women—but then one day he turned to kiss me and my lips were there, as if they’d always been waiting for his. As it should be. Perhaps that’s not entirely true; perhaps there was never a time when I doubted I was anything else? It doesn’t matter. It may have done to others, I know it did to some, but it never did to us.

  I’m making it sound simple, and it was anything but. We had all the problems that teenagers in love have, but for us, obviously, they were a hundred times worse. Homosexuality was legal—barely—but certainly not for boys our age, and once we kissed, once I’d held him so close to me that our very breath combined, I knew—just knew—that nothing in the world would stop me spending my life with him. Of course, my parents had other ideas, and once they and Mark’s parents found out, any thought of university was out of the question for both of us.

  Life wasn’t easy, even in a big city like London, but jobs were the least of our worries. We soon found those, Mark in a bank and me in retail. With the “never darken our door again” money that Mark’s parents gave us, we rented a flat, a home of our own. And when the doors were closed and the curtains drawn, we could be ourselves, luxuriating in the castle we’d built. Someplace where we could pull the drawbridge up and send the world back out of our fairyland.

  Life threw rocks at us for a while, big rocks. Mark’s parents tried to reconcile, but only if he’d give me up. It was a nasty time, and they used some pretty vile methods to do it, made it a real smear campaign. We lost our flat, I lost my job, and things were so rocky for a while I turned to drink. Mark stood by me the whole time, facing down every threat his parents made, working all the hours he could to get us a new place. We made good friends during that period, despite how bad it was, friends we still have today, friends with floors and spare rooms, open ears, open minds.

  Finally, Mark’s parents gave up for the second, and thankfully last, time. Mark helped pull me out of the bottle, with his characteristic gentle patience. Helped me dry out and got us back on track.

  Yes, life hasn’t been easy, but I can’t imagine having lived a minute of it without him.

  I came home last night to find him quiet, and only half listening to my complaints of rip-off dry cleaners, while his eyes were lost in some other place or time. I rambled on, because I know my man; he doesn’t want to be cajoled with “what’s wrong?” He wants to tell me, but only when he’s ready. It’s taken us years to find this groove; it’s a circuitous route, but it works for us. It wasn’t until I was checking his case—he was off to stay in the hotel; we’re nothing if not traditional—that his arms went around me and he leaned against my back, his breath soft and warm against my ear.

  “You smell like the city,” he said. He kissed my neck and I had to deliberately close the case and slide it onto the floor. He was still, after all these years, just as capable of melting me with kisses to that part of me (any part of me, actually, but I don’t want to swell his head too much) and I didn’t want to crush the case and contents under our combined weight.

  “Well, don’t smell me then,” I said, turning in his arms and kissing his chin. It was one of my biggest regrets that I’d never grown as tall as he had, but it had its compensations, like now, when I could rest my head on his shoulder. “I need to shower and you need to clear off. I’m not having you here after midnight. It’s bad luck.”

  “That leaves me several hours, but—” he caught hold of me
as I attempted to wiggle free “—I need to ask you something.”

  There was something in his voice that made me stop. His quiet abstraction caused my heart to contract in my chest. “Anything, love,” I said, with a lightness I didn’t feel.

  “I was thinking today, how long we’ve been together.”

  “Forever,” I said softly.

  “And I know that we’ve done this, but I want…” He stopped, frowned.

  I was panicking now, and my mind went to the problems I could foresee. I’m always the one who immediately turns a crisis into a disaster, and all I could see was chaos, and the way his words could ruin tomorrow for a hundred people, starting with me. But his arms were still around me and he looked puzzled, not like a man who was about to ruin my life, so I hung on, desperately. “You want?”

  “It’s just… It’s just I know we’ve done this, but it was at the restaurant, and we never talked about it, and the families got involved—and the guys…” He pulled me tight. “Because I want you so badly, Jim.”

  “You’ve got me, you plank,” I said, my words muffled on his shoulder. “What’s brought this on? It’s natural to have doubts, I hear.” I never had, didn’t think he had, but he wasn’t making himself clear.

  He turned and, for an answer, pulled us down on the bed, cushioning me with his body. I’m ashamed to say that we bounced once and there was a fair bit of scrambling before we were in place, wrapped around each other, each part of us a perfect fit, made for each other in every way. His mouth sought mine, warm but scratchy skin rubbing against my face. Even after all the time we’d been together, sex with Mark never felt routine. We might do the same stuff again and again (and dear Lord, again, please) and there was little we could do to each other that would surprise us, but it was never dull. The touch of his hand on my stomach, inching its way under my shirt to find my hardening nipples, it was heaven, familiar heaven.

  “I love you,” he murmured against my ear.

  “I know—” I started, but it was hard to concentrate with his fingers running circles around a nipple. He knew it drove me mad, and would often do it until I ended up assaulting him.