Unexpected Consequences

by Cara Bristol

  Now, however, she had a vested interest in learning as much as possible. As the saying went, her ass was on the line. With Liz following, Melania strode to one of the antique mahogany cases. Her eyes rounded as she peered though the bubbled glass. Paddles of various woods, shapes, and sizes filled the cabinet. Long ones, short ones. Wide ones and ruler-thin ones. Round and rectangular. Many were obviously antique and had been well used, while others were brand spanking new. Holes perforated some of them.

  Melania sneaked a glance at a young woman wearing a pink badge and an expression of nervous fascination. She figured she had the same look on her own face. As she stared at the paddles, memories of the one that had been applied to her backside roared back with a vengeance. Her knees wobbled as her stomach practiced backflips.

  She swallowed and turned to Liz. “Why do some of the paddles have holes?”

  “It decreases wind resistance. It hurts more.” More? Melania knew without a doubt she never wanted to be spanked by a paddle with holes—or any paddle, for that matter. She exhaled in a vain attempt to relieve her tension and crept to the next case. She found thin rods—some with handles, some without.

  “Caning is a form of spanking,” Liz answered her silent question.

  Another cabinet contained an eclectic assortment of items: hairbrushes, wooden spoons, spatulas, rattan rug beaters, and rulers. Melania frowned.

  “Common household implements,” Liz explained. “Sometimes for expediency, a husband will use what is handy. Other times the implement holds a symbolic significance, such as when a wife is spanked with her favorite hairbrush.”

  Melania forced herself to breathe normally. The reality of what she’d consented to by marrying Jared was becoming impossible to avoid. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. It was hard to reconcile the two sides of her husband: the strict disciplinarian who believed it was his right and duty to spank her, and the protective, tender husband who sheltered her in his arms and brought her to ecstasy night after night. Unfortunately she couldn’t have one without the other.

  “I’ve seen enough here,” Melania said. She was an Alice in Wonderland, only this was no work of fiction. It was the real life she’d unwittingly chosen for herself.

  “Let’s go this way.” Liz headed left down a hallway. Heart pounding, Melania followed. Liz gestured for Melania to enter through an open double door off the corridor. “This is the general membership parlor. It’s for men only; women are not permitted except for special membership events this like one.”

  Melania stepped into a room furnished in dark, rich woods and man-size leather sofas. A massive stone fireplace was readied for a roaring fire should one be desired. A well-stocked wet bar occupied a corner. A carved humidor of some old wood rested on a massive coffee table, and large, clean ashtrays lay in wait throughout the room. The smell of wood fire, cigars, pipe tobacco, and a strong dash of testosterone permeated the atmosphere.

  The room epitomized an old boys’ club sanctuary from feminine influence—exactly what Melania had imagined when she thought of the Rod and Cane Society. Exactly.

  Except for the artwork.

  Her gaze zeroed in on the large, ornately framed photographs of women—some naked, others demurely draped in silks and satins, but all with bare bottoms bearing the telltale stains ranging from pink to red. Reclining, standing, and squatting, their bodies modeled rounded, feminine curves. Artistically lighted and shot, the photographs drew the eye to their blushing bottoms, celebrating the female form and discipline in a sensual, even erotic way. The photographer—whoever he was—had captured the women’s images from the viewpoint of a lover, a spankophile.

  The photographs mesmerized Melania, who couldn’t help but contrast the sensual appeal with her own painful disciplinary experience. A curious ache, almost a longing, stirred within her.

  “This is what I wanted you to see,” Liz said quietly. “It shows you spanking from the man’s perspective.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Melania admitted. If this was how a husband viewed spanking his wife, it was no wonder he wanted to lay the paddle to her bottom.

  Despite Liz and Candi’s advocacy, Melania had steadfastly refused to consider spanking as anything but painful and humiliating. But she couldn’t ignore the photographs. A picture really was worth a thousand words. The women in the photographs exuded the satisfaction of being loved—physically and emotionally—displaying their rosy bottoms proudly. Melania recalled Jared’s look of passion and awe when he had caught her examining herself in the mirror. The sex that followed had been scorching and hadn’t cooled since. Even when they weren’t making love, he continued to touch her, particularly her bottom. He seemed fascinated by her derriere. Could their enhanced intimacy be related to the spanking?

  And if it was, was it worth the price? Could she bear to pay for it with her body’s submission?

  She studied the photos again. One woman peered over her shoulder, a Mona Lisa smile curving her lips. In another’s eyes, she saw glints of light hinting at a pleasurable secret. It was hard to look away from the photos. “Something about these is…captivating,” Melania murmured.

  “Yes, they are,” Liz answered. “Shall we move on?”

  Liz showed her the governance chamber, where important business meetings were held. Dark, heavy drapes covered a large portion of the wall.

  Melania frowned. The governance chamber was located in the interior of the building. There was nothing to look at. “What does the window view?” she asked.

  “That’s a two-way mirror,” Liz explained. “It looks into the next room, the disciplinary chamber.” Liz did not offer to show her that room.

  Melania toured a library, briefly noting a wide variety of materials but especially books on spanking and discipline, and a couple of smaller meeting spaces. Finally they followed the sound of feminine chatter and laughter to a large parlor decorated in pink and rose florals and arranged with luncheon tables.

  Perhaps seventy-five women occupied the room, most seated, some congregated in small groups, visiting. They all looked like perfectly normal women. The kind Melania would expect to meet at the supermarket, in church, at a shopping mall. Liz led the way to a spot near the front. Melania was pleased to see Candi seated at their table.

  “I’m so glad you came.” Candi leaped up and hugged her.

  Melania hugged her back. Besides Liz, Candi was the only other person she knew. She was introduced to the four other women at the table. One of the women wore a pink badge like herself, but it bore her own name: Emma Dupree. Melania wondered why she rated a given name.

  Melania had settled into her seat when she noticed the city’s mayor enter the parlor. Her eyes widened with newfound awareness as the mayor eased herself into a chair across the room. That the mayor was there at all was shocking. But the way she moved so gingerly…

  Melania’s tablemates followed her gaze.

  “That’s another reason for privacy and confidentiality. Can you imagine what would happen to that woman’s career and reputation if word got out she’s a spanked wife?” Liz said.

  Melania looked at Liz. “How does Rod and Cane advocate discipline and spanking yet keep it a secret?”

  “Person to person,” Liz answered with a smile. “You’re right. We don’t openly publicize our existence. We approach it on a personal level, one to one.”

  Just as she and Candi had done with her, Melania realized. Across the room, she spotted another face she knew from sight—a municipal court judge. Before joining a private court reporting firm, Melania had worked at the courthouse for a short time. She remembered the judge from those days. Melania swiveled her head around the room. “All these women are spanked wives?”

  “Most of them. A few, like me, are just hoping to be,” said the petite blonde named Emma. “I’m single, but I’d like to marry a strong man who knows when and how to take control.”

  “I see,” Melania answered. But she didn’t. She folded her hands in her lap, trying no
t to stare at Emma as if she’d sprouted a second head. Actively searching for a husband who would spank you was as crazy as asking for a spanking. Melania didn’t want to be spanked. Plain and simple. She might have to allow it, but she wouldn’t ever want it or request it.

  Or would she? Unbidden, images of the artwork from the men’s parlor invaded her mind. She couldn’t deny she’d found the pictures sensual, erotic even. Was she insane? How could she have hated her own spanking so much yet admire its aftermath in others? Melania pressed two fingers to her temple in a vain effort to reconcile her seesawing thoughts and emotions.

  Her turmoil must have shown on her face, because a woman with a rose-colored badge spoke up. “You’re new to domestic discipline?” she asked, looking at Melania.

  Melania nodded.

  The woman touched her name badge, which said Mrs. Edward Hart. “I’m Jonée, by the way… The domestic discipline lifestyle can be an adjustment at first. Even when you think you’re committed to it.”

  “I’m having a bit of a problem with that.” Melania shocked herself with her admission. “Everybody speaks of it…spanking”—she stumbled over the word and glanced at Liz and Candi before returning her gaze to Jonée—“like it’s the most wonderful experience in the world.” She flushed. “My husband spanked me, and it was awful.” Saying it was embarrassing still.

  “It was for me too—at first.” Jonée nodded. “I met my husband, Ed, when I was thirty-five and he was forty-two. We’d both been married before. I was a single mom, and Ed had two kids. We both carried some emotional baggage, but neither of us wanted to repeat our mistakes. Ed suggested we try domestic discipline.”

  Jonée chuckled. “I don’t know what I thought I was going to get. I had never even spanked my kids. So it was an eye-opener. The first time Ed spanked me, I thought I’d made a huge mistake. I wanted to call it off—not just that particular spanking, but the entire domestic discipline agreement.”

  Her face turned serious. “Only Ed wouldn’t allow it. He made it plain he was in charge. That shocked me more than the actual spanking.”

  “What do you mean?” Melania asked.

  “When a man puts his foot down and means it, you learn what commitment really is. I had two choices and two choices only: accept it or leave.”

  Emma Dupree spoke up. “You obviously accepted it.”

  “I almost didn’t.” Jonée glanced at Emma. “But, I’d been married before. I knew what it was like to butt heads and be unable or unwilling to reach an agreement, so I decided that perhaps enduring—that’s how I thought of it, enduring—one spanking wasn’t giving domestic discipline enough of a chance.”

  She smiled. “We’ve been married ten years now. I respect Ed so much for having the guts to take a stand and not give in to me. Besides making our marriage operate more smoothly, having Ed as the head of the household, the leader, makes me feel protected.”

  “You don’t ever want to rebel?” Emma asked. Melania arched her eyebrows. Emma’s question was one that had weighed on Melania’s mind too, but it surprised Melania that the younger woman would ask it since she wanted a domestic discipline marriage. But she could understand ambivalence—boy, could she understand ambivalence.

  The other women at the table laughed and nodded. “Of course,” Jonée answered. “Old habits die hard, and it’s only human to want the easy way out. But Ed won’t permit it. And I respect that.”

  The conversation shifted, with the women recalling their memorable spankings. They spoke fondly and with humor, adding to Melania’s amazement. Only she and Emma had no stories to share. Melania had no desire to revisit her close encounter of the discipline kind, let alone share details.

  Melania’s tablemates continued to chat through a lunch of Caesar salads with grilled chicken. As a dessert of chocolate mousse was being served, the president of the Auxiliary took the dais, and conversation ceased. The president welcomed the new members, encouraged them to get involved with the Society and Auxiliary activities, and had each of them stand to introduce herself. Melania counted twenty-five newbies, mostly in their twenties but several in their thirties and forties. Normal-looking women, all of them.

  The president introduced the keynote speaker, who talked about how to achieve balance in life. The women in the audience seemed to appreciate it, but Melania couldn’t concentrate on the speech. She thought of Jonée, who embraced domestic discipline after one failed marriage, of Liz’s and Candi’s commitment to the practice, and of Emma, who’d probably never been spanked but thought she wanted to be. Melania wanted to warn her to be careful what she wished for, because she might get it.

  Melania surveyed the women at her table and the others in the room. Lawyers. A judge. Nurses. Teachers. Career women and homemakers. Single women and mothers. Smart, sexy, self-assured, poised, humble. Seemingly ordinary women. She couldn’t get over how so many embraced domestic discipline, raved about it, credited it with improving their marriages. Could so many women be wrong?

  Chapter Eight

  Chocolate chip cookies were baking in the oven as Melania tidied the kitchen. If she had a lot of dirty dishes to do, she used the dishwasher, but when there were only a few like now, she appreciated the simple task of washing by hand. Baking and cleaning usually calmed her, but not today. Operating on autopilot, she found her thoughts flew at Mach speed. She couldn’t let go of what she’d heard and experienced at the meeting. Like some amusement park Tilt-a-Whirl, her emotions careened from one extreme to the other.

  She was wiping the counter when two strong hands slipped under her skirt and seized her butt cheeks. Melania shrieked. A male voice laughed, and the hard body that belonged to the voice pinned her against the lower kitchen cabinet.

  “Jared!” She squirmed. “You scared me.”

  He nuzzled her neck. “I love a woman in a thong. You have the most delectable ass, do you know that?” He cupped and stroked the curves of which he spoke so highly.

  As if under a magician’s spell, her roiling thoughts and emotions quieted, and she relaxed under his hands.

  “How was the meeting?” He nibbled on her earlobe.

  “Good,” she said. “I met a lot of nice people. It was interesting. I had no idea there were so many spanked wives.” She’d had no idea she’d one day be one of them.

  “I know you were…shocked by the spanking.” Jared’s caress of her bottom paused.

  “I’m okay,” she said. She was because his hands on her ass were arousing sensations completely different from the ones the spanking had inflicted.

  “We haven’t talked about the other night,” he said. “I figured you needed some space to process what happened. I hoped if you attended the meeting and talked to wives who experienced discipline, it would be a comfort to you. I don’t want you to think I’m an ogre because I spank you.”

  Her stomach clenched at the mention of the dreaded S word, but she turned her head around and met his gaze. “Jared! I’d never think that. Never.” She shook her head.

  “That makes me feel better.” He squeezed her bottom, then moved his hands up, around, and over her breasts. He unhooked her corset top and pulled it off her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” Melania whispered. The kitchen window had no blinds. Although a tall, thick hedge shielded their house from curious eyes, she still felt uneasy.

  The hooks on her bra released under Jared’s expert fingers. Despite her exposure, a quickening of desire stirred in her stomach.

  She relaxed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Jared, it’s the middle of the day. I’m standing in front of the window,” Melania protested weakly as her inhibitions slipped away with her clothing. Jared only had to touch her, and she softened into putty, his to mold as he wished. She arched, pressing her breasts into his palms. He leisurely rolled her nipples between his fingers, squeezing and tugging. Melania closed her eyes, letting his fingers work their erotic magic. As her nipples grew tighter and harder, an electric current of desire sizz
led from the tips into her core. The folds between her legs swelled, her pussy preparing for him with a release of moisture.

  Dimly she heard the oven timer ding, signaling the cookies were done.

  “Jared…cookies…somebody…will see,” she murmured, feeling her sanity melt like chocolate chips in the oven.

  “Nobody can see.” His breath blew hot against her ear. “We don’t have any close neighbors.” He laid waste to her modesty, continuing to tug on her nipples, elongating them to hard, red, aching beads. A pinch of pain and her responsive pussy pulsed in yearning.

  She leaned into him. His erection, as rigid and thick as a length of pipe, nestled between the cheeks of her bottom as if it belonged there. She thought perhaps it did.

  She knew where else it belonged and wiggled.

  Jared pinched her nipple hard. “Hussy.”

  She giggled and opened her eyes. “I am what you made me. I was an innocent, remember?”

  “Sweetheart, there’s nothing innocent about what you do to me.” Jared chuckled, a rich, low rumble that lit a fire in her belly. It wasn’t only this man’s touch that aroused her, but the sound of his voice, his smell. Everything.

  Jared moved his teasing hands under her skirt and stripped off her thong. Eagerly she stepped out of the scrap of fabric. He turned her to face him, then lifted her easily, plopped her bottom on the counter, and balanced her on the narrow ledge of granite in front of the sink.

  She squealed. “It’s cold.”

  “I’m hot,” he said. “Hot for you.” The carnal glow in his gaze made her heart race. Jared bent his head and captured a nipple in his mouth. His shadowed jaw scraped her skin, igniting delicious tingles. He drew on the bud deep and hard as he shoved her skirt up and found the wetness of her sex with his fingers. She spread her legs with a sigh of satisfaction.