Milestones

by Hensley, Alta

  She knew some women in domestic discipline relationships would sooner die than admit their dynamic to outsiders, but she wasn’t above using it when the moment served. If she remembered right, the officer had a streak of machismo, and she hoped her little plea would soften him as well as jog his memory that she belonged to the mayor.

  He gave a surprised chuckle and she could see recognition dawning. He grinned at her. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Promise me you won’t talk on your phone while driving again.”

  “I promise, Officer Mora,” she said, looking as solemn as she could muster.

  “All right. Have a good day,” he said.

  She beamed. “Thanks. You, too!”

  She rolled up her window, saving her smirk for later, when she shared the story with Luis.

  Except by the time she got home, she was too exhausted and depressed to have a laugh with her husband.

  ****

  The house was a wreck when he got home, another sign of Claire’s anguish. His heart broke for her—the stress of trying to conceive had taken over her entire life, as evidenced by the way she crumbled every time she got her period.

  He cleaned the kitchen and cooked dinner for the boys, noting how unusual it was for Claire not to have left them something. She normally prided herself on keeping delicious home-cooked meals available at all times in the house. He certainly didn’t mind pulling his own weight with the housework. He had no sexist ideas about cooking and cleaning. It was Claire who had begged for the role, along with rules he was meant to hold her to with spankings.

  And he’d certainly enforced with great pleasure in the past, but it wouldn’t be right now. Not when she was suffering emotionally.

  She came in looking dead to the world, giving him an exhausted, “Hey,” as she walked past him to the kitchen. He trailed behind her, leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, watching as she poured herself a bowl of cereal and ate it standing up.

  “How was rehearsal?”

  “Okay.”

  He tried again. “How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged. “I got my period.”

  He took a breath. “Claire… don’t you think it might be the stress about trying to get pregnant that could actually be preventing it?”

  Her face contorted. “Yes!” she hissed, throwing her spoon into the sink with a clatter. “It’s my stress. It’s that I don’t have enough body fat. It’s that I’m too old. It’s that I was on the pill for twelve years. It is certainly all my fault!”

  Or it could be that I’m too old.

  He was twelve years older than his new wife, which meant he could be shooting blanks. He wanted to draw her into his arms, but she was far too prickly to accept it. “Claire,” he said in his most reasonable tone. “You’re totally off-balance. I can tell just by the state you left the kitchen—”

  “Well, why don’t you man up and do something about it?” she cut in.

  He recoiled. “Did you really just say that to me?” he hissed.

  Her eyes were wide as if she’d shocked herself, and remorse was plain in her expression, but no apology came forth.

  “Go to the bedroom and prepare yourself,” he said in a soft, dangerous voice.

  She swallowed, the color draining from her face, but still, she did not say she was sorry.

  “Now, Claire.”

  “Yes, sir,” she muttered and set her cereal bowl in the sink, giving him a nervous backward glance as she departed.

  He met it with one raised eyebrow.

  Taking a deep breath, he calmed his heart rate, though truly he was more shocked than angered. Apparently, Claire had been begging for a spanking all along, when what he thought she needed was a dose of compassion. He poured himself a glass of water and sipped it, giving her time to stew in anticipation.

  Domestic discipline was much harder than he’d imagined. When she’d asked him for this arrangement, he’d jumped at the chance, having always been into spanking, but never before having a willing partner. And it had been easy and fun at first—defining rules, punishing when they were broken. But it was always with the light-hearted knowledge that it was all erotic fodder. He loved watching Claire’s eyes dilate when he turned Dom on her, or seeing the evidence of her arousal drip down her leg when he had her stand in the corner with her panties down.

  But this… this was different. This was a territory where he could easily make the kind of mistake that caused resentment. Do you punish your wife who is depressed because she can’t get pregnant? His rationale had been an emphatic no. And yet, she just dared him to.

  It made sense, he supposed. Maybe she needed the release. Maybe she needed someone to take charge. She was a woman trying to control too much in her life. He drank the rest of his water and put the glass down. The boys were absorbed in their tv show, and he had sound-proofed the master bedroom so they wouldn’t notice anything.

  He entered the room and closed the door softly behind him. Claire sat on the edge of the bed in her panties, looking supremely uncomfortable. Her breath moved too-frequently in her chest and her eyes were fixed on his face. He kept his expression inscrutable.

  “Stand up.”

  She jumped to her feet, fingering her panties. “I left them on because…”

  He gave a single nod. She had her period. Well, it wasn’t intended to be a sexy spanking, anyway. Still, the sight of her undressed body made his cock spring to attention in his pants, her dancer’s physique giving her a body worthy of worship. But in giving her a real spanking, all eroticism would fade. He opened the implement drawer and pulled out the leather strap and the pocket paddle, sensing Claire watching. He took his time--letting her anxiety build was part of the experience.

  He sat on the side of the bed and patted his knee. She walked to him and dove over his leg as if in a hurry to avoid eye contact. He scissored her legs between his and picked up the strap, bring it down with a snap.

  She gasped. He snapped it down again two more times and she bucked. “No warm-up?” she complained.

  He began to spank with vigor, striping down her panty-clad bottom with rapid strokes, smarting the backs of her legs several times for emphasis. “Are you seriously still topping from the bottom?”

  “No!” she squeaked. “I mean, sorry!”

  “Are you sorry, Claire?”

  “Yes!”

  He pulled the edges of her panties up into the cleft of her buttocks to expose more bare skin, then resumed spanking with the strap.

  “Oh… oh!” She wriggled on his lap, her gasps making him grow hard. He continued at a slow and steady rate watching as her skin took on the pink “tanned” appearance particular to leather on flesh. She settled into the spanking, holding still for him and biting back her gasps, showing him she welcomed the punishment in some way. Only after a solid two minutes of continuous whipping did she start to make little pleading cries after each swat and he could tell the pain was getting intense. He stopped and rubbed her heated bottom, releasing his hold on her legs.

  “On your knees,” he commanded.

  ****

  She slid down to kneel at his feet, tentatively leaning her cheek against his thigh, needing to feel the close to him.

  “What are you sorry for, Claire?”

  Luis’s face was still unreadable, his dark eyes penetrating. She felt her face grow warm and dropped her gaze, but he cupped her chin and lifted it, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I said that.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, the look that always made her tummy flip. Clearly her answer was not sufficient.

  “I’m sorry I told you to ‘man up.’ I didn’t mean to imply…” She trailed off, because in fact, she had meant to imply it. “It was emasculating. And wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  Luis gave a small nod. “What else are you sorry for, Claire?” His deep voice was silky and she thought she recognized the hint of dominant seduction in it. She was relieved--he wasn’t angry. Or at least not
too angry.

  “I’ve been horrible. I’ve snapped and snarled. And I haven’t been a good wife.” Her eyes filled with tears as the oppressive weight on her chest returned in full force.

  Luis gave stern shake of his head. “Enough,” he said and her eyes widened, not sure what he’d had enough of. “Come here,” he said, reaching for her.

  She climbed into his lap, curling into him, attaching herself like a burr to a sock.

  “You cannot be a good wife if you’re not good to yourself, mi amor. You are blaming yourself over not getting pregnant and it’s tearing you apart.”

  She opened her mouth to reject his assessment, but he cut in, “Not a word out of you.” He lifted her from his lap, turned her and placed her face down over his thigh again.

  She sucked in her breath, guessing the paddle was coming next.

  The unforgiving wood struck her sit spots and she yelped. “You are officially removed from this project for the next month,” he said, smacking her again.

  The pocket paddle was ping-pong sized, but ¾ inch thick, making it a formidable implement for punishment. Wider than a hairbrush, but still perfect for striking one cheek at a time.

  “I forbid you from even thinking about getting pregnant. You’re going to go back to drinking coffee and wine, you’re going to stop taking your temperature every morning, and,” he began paddling her rapidly, “you’re going to concentrate on the things you can control.”

  She let out a long low moan into the covers, which she had twisted into knots in each fist. She wanted to protest—how would they ever have a baby if she stopped trying? But she couldn’t speak with the rate he was spanking.

  “I will worry about getting you pregnant. It’s my job, and I take it seriously. You are simply my breeder. Your job is to give me your body anywhere, any time I demand it. Comprendes?”

  “Yes, sir!” she gasped. Something in her lifted. It was something small—yet she felt it rising, a new freedom, a distant sense of floating or soaring. Perhaps it was sub-space from the spanking, but no—it was different—a release of responsibility. Luis was taking care of it. He could be her hero in this, as in all things.

  “You will keep this house clean,” he continued lecturing and spanking, the pain of the paddle satisfying to her on some level, a meeting of some dark need. “You will have dinner ready on time or you will leave it prepared for me to warm up.” He paused and she realized he waited for her acknowledgement.

  “Yes, sir!”

  It was becoming more difficult to speak as she did seem to be moving into the pleasure of sub-space.

  “And there’s one more thing.” He paused in his spanking as if he wanted her full attention. “I want you to choreograph a dance—a solo you can perform in the show.”

  She came out of her bliss, turning her head in confusion. “Sir?”

  “A dance. You told me our first night together you missed performing. I want to see what you do. You will choreograph and perform a dance in the Ballet Arts show next month.”

  Her mind whirled with the possibility as she lay limp over his lap, her body soft and relaxed as if she’d just had a massage, rather than been paddled raw. She had considered choreographing a solo for herself, but she’d had too much on her plate with her worry over getting pregnant.

  Luis shifted out from under her, pulling her knees up so she lay curled on the bed where he settled beside her. She nestled in close, snuggling her nose against his chest, relishing the warmth of his embrace.

  “I love you,” she murmured, overwhelmed with appreciation.

  He stroked her hair. “You are everything to me, Clarita,” he said, the deep rumble of his voice soothing like the purr of a cat.

  She drifted a while on an ocean of warmth and love until her mind gradually returned.

  “What if the dance sucks?”

  “Nothing you do ever sucks, querida. Have faith in yourself.”

  She smiled and remembered the incident that morning which seemed so long ago now. “Er...Señor Alcalde? The entire police force may now know that you spank me.”

  He pulled away, looking amused. “Qué pasó?”

  “I got pulled over today for talking on my cell phone while driving. I told the officer not to tell you or you’d take me over your knee.”

  Luis gave a short bark of laughter. “Who was it?”

  “Officer Mora. Arturo?”

  “Artie.”

  “He snickered and let me off with a warning.”

  Luis kissed her nose. “Nice work, mi corazón. I’ll be the toast of the force now.”

  “I wonder how long before the entire town of Taos has heard I’m a spanked wife?”

  “If anyone asks I’ll tell them they have it wrong. That you dress up in tight a leather skirt and bustier and beat me with a crop.”

  ****

  He hadn’t brought her to tears, which he’d found beneficial in the past for relieving her of pent up emotions, but considering how changed she appeared, he figured he’d done his job. He held her until she fell asleep, then got up and made sure the boys had gone to bed.

  He gave the situation some thought over the next few days, and the following week he called his ex-wife. “Hi Melissa. I’d like to switch weeks with you. I can keep the kids this coming week, and you can have them the following.”

  Melissa blew out her breath with a hiss. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you, Luis. I might have plans, already. You can’t just call up and tell me we’re switching weeks. Why do you want to change?”

  “Claire will be ovulating.”

  It was a dangerous bomb to drop. It could go either way, but he had a feeling Melissa would sympathize. She still felt guilty for leaving him for a woman, an event that had caused an avalanche of gossip and jokes nearly burying him in his last election as mayor.

  “Oh. Whoa.” She paused. “You’re trying for a baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another silence. “Well, sure. She probably wants her own.”

  “I want another, too. We both want it.” He didn’t know why it felt important to declare it, but it did. Maybe because he had just promised Claire he would take the lead. He’d left her alone in this endeavor for too long already.

  “Yeah, okay. We can arrange schedules based on your wife’s hormonal cycle.” There was snarkiness in her tone, but he knew he’d just won. In fact, he would be able to arrange for sharing custody according to Claire’s needs going forward.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

  “You’re welcome. Good luck with that, Luis. Really. I wish you all the best.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Claire made an effort that week, but he could tell she was going through the motions. Though she kept the kitchen clean and cooked meals, the furrow between her brows never left and when he asked how the dance was coming, it only seemed to further stress her.

  His heart began to ache. This seemed to be a problem he could not fix. He wracked his brain for what he could do besides turning her on and having a lot of sex. He’d had his sperm count tested and deemed adequate when they first were married, so there wasn’t something for him to work on physically. He wondered whether getting her hormones checked would be worthwhile.

  Picking up the phone, he called a doctor friend of his in Santa Fe, asking for a recommendation for the best fertility doctor in the area. He waited until after dinner, when the boys were occupied with homework, and he and Claire were settled on the couch to discuss it with her.

  “I booked an appointment for you with the best fertility doctor down in Santa Fe. It’s for next Monday, your day off. I’ll take the day off, too, and drive down with you.”

  She stared at him. Her expression was not appreciation. It was something more akin to betrayal.

  “Claire?”

  She stood up and walked away without a word.

  “Claire?” He followed. Danny and Sam looked up from where they sat at the dining room table working, not missing a single nu
ance.

  He ground his teeth and followed Claire into the bedroom, where he shut the door. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t just get up and walk away from me when we’re in the middle of a conversation—you know better than that.”

  She averted her face and waved a hand in his direction. “I—can’t—talk to you right now,” she said in a choked voice.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, only to feel her muscles tighten under his touch. “Claire. I’m sorry, but you must.”

  She pulled away.

  A spanking would work in this situation. It would change her mood, open her up, get communication flowing. By rights, she had violated a tenet of domestic discipline by distancing and discipline was warranted. Even if it weren’t, he could give a non-punitive, maintenance spanking to get her talking. But causing his troubled wife even one more bit of pain was not something he could stomach.

  He took her arm and tugged her toward the bathroom. He could see her blinking tears as she stumbled beside him, probably expecting a punishment. He went with it. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered.

  She did not meet his eyes, keeping her chin lowered as she stripped out of her clothes, her posture showing total demoralization. He turned on the shower and waited until the water heated, then urged her into it. She looked at him questioningly, but he just pushed her forward and stripped of his own clothes to join her.

  Their first date had included a shower. Not that he imagined he would be able to get her turned on now. He just hoped the water would change her mood. He picked up the bar of soap and rolled it in his hand to gather lather, then turned her around and stroked the back of her neck toward each shoulder and down her arms. He slid his hands over her slippery skin, leaving soap and, he hoped, the warmth of his love in his trail. He explored the long ropes of her back, her firm ass, his favorite part of her anatomy.

  He lowered himself to one knee and soaped down each leg, picking up her feet to massage the soles. When he stood again, Claire had returned to her body. She met his eyes and he saw the warmth of her love there. He helped her to rinse, then turned off the water and fetched a towel, drying her like a hand-maiden. She leaned her full weight against him, practically falling forward into his chest. He caught her up and held her against him, the baby softness of her freshly washed skin intoxicating against his own.