Confessions of a Kinky Wife

by Justine Elyot

  I tossed the book back on to his bedside table and tried to arrange myself into as alluring a pose as I could.

  I heard him call my name.

  ‘In here.’

  He was smiling broadly when he appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  He came in and started to undress.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘I thought for a moment I’d gone too far this morning and you’d walked out on me. I had nightmares about you citing what we did in the divorce petition.’

  ‘That would hardly be fair,’ I said, enjoying the striptease. ‘Since it was my idea.’

  ‘I know. But it’s so unusual in this day and age. People would be shocked.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably more than if it was me spanking you. They’d probably think that was fine.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t appeal to you then?’

  ‘No. Because I haven’t got a cute, round arse that turns bright red really quickly.’

  He was undressed now and he reached out for me, so that I giggled and hid under the covers.

  ‘Lie on your front,’ he said, coming in after me. ‘I want to make sure I didn’t bruise you.’

  I rolled over and let him inspect the state of my rear. He rubbed and patted and prised the cheeks apart to check inside them.

  ‘No visible damage,’ he said. ‘You’d never know it happened. Maybe it’s slightly pinker than usual. Were you uncomfortable today? Sore?’

  ‘No, not really sore. I was just a bit more aware of it than usual, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I thought people were meant to not be able to sit down for a week after a good hiding. What the hell would you have to do to achieve that, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose you do. So, what did you have for lunch?’

  ‘Falafel from the van across the road. Orange juice. Pear.’

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’ He pushed my thighs further apart and crouched down, examining the scene. ‘Oh, look. Nice and wet.’

  He kissed me between the lips and stuck his tongue deep inside me. I moaned and raised myself slightly, begging for more.

  ‘Have you been hot for this all day?’ he asked, pulling me up on to all fours.

  I nodded and wiggled my hips.

  ‘So have I,’ he said, gliding into my well-lubricated passage without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Get ready, love. I’m going to give you what you’ve been waiting for.’

  27 July

  I woke up all stiff and sore between the legs, with a big smile on my face.

  What a night.

  But what a day I was going to have. I’d say, Thank God it’s Friday, but I work Saturdays too, and Dan often works Sundays, so that five days on, two days off thing isn’t really us.

  He was already at work, so I started my day with only the memory of a long, hot night spent mainly on my knees, with occasional moves on to my back. It seemed that what we did yesterday morning had really started a fire in Dan. He couldn’t get enough of me.

  I made it through the working day without falling asleep somehow.

  When I got home, he was there, and dinner was in the oven, judging by the savour of the air around me.

  ‘Oh, smells lovely,’ I said, coming in and putting my bags down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Yeah, I thought we could have something special tonight. All your favourites. There’s an open bottle in the fridge, if you want to pour yourself a glass.’

  I have to say, whatever this domestic discipline thing was doing for me, it was also turning him into the ideal husband. There were fresh flowers on the living-room mantelpiece too.

  I sat down on the bench with a large glass of Pinot Grigio and watched him flit around with his apron on until he was satisfied that everything was under control.

  Then he pulled a notebook and pen from the drawer and sat down opposite me.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I asked, a little confused. ‘You going to interview me?’

  He smiled. ‘I’ve had enough of that for one day, to be honest. Massive haul of stolen goods, six guys in for questioning … anyway, never mind that. This is about us.’

  ‘You want to make a list?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I do. You brought this whole discipline thing up because you said there were things you wanted to change about yourself. Well, not yourself, but, you know, you wanted to modify your behaviour in certain ways.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, tell me what those ways are. I’m thinking we need a sensible list that we can refer to, otherwise I might accidentally punish you for something you don’t think is fair, or I might let something slip that you really want help with. Make sense?’

  ‘Yes. God. What is with you? You’re like the man with the plan. I never thought it’d take you this way.’

  He put down the pen, looking mildly injured.

  ‘I’m doing this for you.’

  ‘I know. OK. Well, the main thing was my temper. I get irritable and snap and lash out at you for things that aren’t your fault. I want to stop doing that. But counting to ten and all that doesn’t work. So that’s number one.’

  ‘Right.’ He started scribbling in his book. ‘I’m going to add the one about not eating. And not taking care of yourself in general. Getting enough sleep, not working two hours past hometime, that kind of thing.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ I protested.

  ‘No. My shift ends and I head for the locker room. No exceptions. It’s a good working rule and worth keeping.’

  ‘But I don’t have a new shift coming to relieve me.’

  ‘No, but you’re not superhuman and you need to know when to stop.’

  I huffed a bit, but he had a point. I’d worn myself down to a tearful nub last Christmas and spent the holidays in bed with an exhaustion-aggravated bout of flu.

  ‘Go on then,’ I sighed.

  ‘Anything else you want to add?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t think of anything specific. Can we add to the list as we go along? As things occur to us?’

  ‘Of course.’ He shut the notebook. ‘Now, would you lay the table for me, love? And after that, I’m going to type all this up. I’m going to make a proper contract type of thing. A list of rules.’

  ‘Rules for me?’

  ‘Yes. Rules for you.’

  ‘How formal,’ I said with a light shudder.

  ‘I want to do this right.’

  ‘I know you do,’ I said. ‘I should have known you would.’

  1 August

  I’ve followed the rules pretty well over the last few days. Summer holidays are coming up, which has kept my mood upbeat and my temper sweet.

  A couple of times I’ve almost fallen off the wagon – a few minutes late here and there, nothing more – but Dan has just uttered a word of warning and I’ve jumped into line.

  It’s exciting. I like the feeling of being on a tightrope, trying to keep my eyes ahead and my head level. I mustn’t fall!

  But of course nobody can walk a tightrope forever, and my balance is getting very, very wobbly.

  I got home yesterday and found one of those ‘While You Were Out’ delivery notes on the doormat. Always annoying, at the best of times, and I’d had a hard day so I swore at it as I read the instruction to come and collect it from the post office.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Dan was right behind me, frowning over my shoulder.

  ‘Oh. That’s for me. Can you pick it up tomorrow?’

  I tutted.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said ungraciously. ‘It’ll mean going into town after work though.’

  ‘Never mind, eh?’ said Dan, in a tone that I was starting to recognise as dangerous. ‘If you’d rather, I’ll get them to throw it through the area car window while I’m out chasing down a twocker. Would that be easier for you?’

  I didn’t say anything but flung the card at the hall table, not botheri
ng to retrieve it when it missed and fluttered down to the floor.

  ‘I’m considering issuing a warning,’ said Dan. ‘You need to calm down. It’s a minor inconvenience, not an outrage.’

  What was a bloody outrage was the way he thought he had the right to lecture me.

  Oh. But I’d given him that right, hadn’t I? I wanted him to work with me on minimising precisely this kind of overreaction. But in the heat of my irritation I couldn’t find that headspace and instead I sulked and flounced around the kitchen, banging pots and pans when I emptied the dishwasher.

  This seemed to do the trick and, by the time he came in to help me prepare dinner, I was all smiles and ‘how was your day?’ again.

  So I got away with that one.

  Or so I thought.

  Today was hot – the hottest day of the summer so far – and lunch at the lido was looking very, very good. I grabbed a sunbed, slapped on the lotion and settled down, waiting for the café waiter to come out with my order of a crab salad and a glass of sparkling orange juice. This was the bloody life, no two ways about it. Splashing from the pool, warmth on my skin, pure chill-out away from the city stress …

  Oh, shit. I sat upright. I was supposed to go and pick up Dan’s parcel.

  Ugh. I was supposed to pound the burning concrete all the way up to the sorting office, sweating like fury, and then lug the thing – which could be any inconvenient size or shape – back. And eat lunch. All in one hour.

  It was too much to ask. He’d have to wait. Why couldn’t he have it redelivered, some time when his shift pattern allowed? He was unreasonable. It was not my job to run around after him. Etcetera. Ah, here was my crab salad. Yum.

  Well, maybe I could pick it up after work. Except the office, I dimly recalled, closed at four. There definitely wasn’t time now. I had to get back a bit early to set up the mock job interviews I was running.

  I tried to forget about it, tell myself it would be OK, I could do it tomorrow, but the crab salad didn’t go down quite as well as I’d hoped because I was suddenly very nervous, in a gastric kind of way.

  Deep down, I knew that I hadn’t ‘forgotten’ to pick it up. I’d deliberately chosen to go to the lido instead. The question was, should I tell Dan that? Or should I pretend it had completely slipped my mind?

  This dilemma kept demanding that I wrestle with it between mock interviews, all afternoon. It was tough pretending to be the boss when I suspected I might be spending the evening with my knickers around my ankles and my bottom on fire.

  I made my final decision in the ladies’ toilets at the end of the session. I wanted Dan to know the extent of my defiance. I wanted him to punish me.

  I was going to tell him.

  I was almost too anxious and excited to keep still on the bus home. It was so hot that I could imagine the window frames and fittings melting around us and I shifted my damp thighs uncomfortably on the fuzzy upholstery, wondering how much more uncomfortable they might feel tomorrow morning. This thought was disturbingly arousing and I hoped my fellow passengers, wedged up against me on both sides, couldn’t smell anything untoward.

  I found myself wondering if anyone else on this bus was in for a spanking tonight. What about the bored-looking young woman in the office suit, texting away? Was she trying to plead with her partner to be lenient with her? Or the middle-aged hipster with the sideburns and the sweary T-shirt – was somebody going to put him over their knee for being provocative in public? Or perhaps they were doing the spanking. The woman with the half-dozen shopping bags at her feet looked as if she might wield a mean strap.

  By the time we reached my stop, I’d involved practically everyone on the bus in my secret world of fetish. I felt a bit guilty about it, to be honest, but it was so much on my mind I couldn’t think of anything else.

  Dan wouldn’t be home till eight, so I made sure I had his favourite meal on the go and a glass of wine poured, soft music pouring from the speakers, and so on. Not that he really likes soft music. So that was probably not the best idea. The visible stockings, promising interesting underwear at the top of the suspenders, were sure to stand me in good stead, though. Distraction was always a good technique.

  He might even have forgotten about the parcel.

  But no, if he had, I was still going to bring it up. Otherwise I would feel that I had wasted all this effort, somehow.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, what’s all this?’ he wondered, walking into the living room and sniffing the air. ‘Mexican steak?’

  ‘Your favourite,’ I purred, standing in the kitchen doorway in the most siren-like pose I could muster.

  I wanted to laugh at the instant suspicion that clouded his eyes.

  ‘Have I forgotten something? An anniversary or birthday?’

  ‘No. I just felt in the mood for something special.’

  He was right in front of me by then and he grabbed my arse and pulled me into a long, sultry snog, the kind that usually ends up on the sofa with clothes strewn all over the floor.

  Much as my body and mind chorused, ‘Yes! Hot sex! Result!’ I could still perceive the nagging voice of my conscience behind it all.

  But sex first, yeah? Why not?

  Because the steak was burning – that was why not!

  ‘Ohhh,’ I wailed, running back into the kitchen, where flames had started leaping around the edge of the pan. I doused it with a damp cloth, but the steaks weren’t exactly as rare as Dan usually liked them.

  Never mind. He made a valiant effort with his knife and fork and we laughed it all off. ‘How-was-your-day?’ took us through the meal to ice-cream, and that was where the road started to get rocky. (It was Rocky Road ice-cream too – appropriate.)

  ‘Oh, did you pick up that package?’ he asked.

  He posed it as an afterthought but, in retrospect, I think he’d been building up to it, lulling me into a false sense of security before pouncing. There was a certain brightness to his eyes despite the casual tone.

  ‘Oh! Oh, God, no, sorry. I –’ I was so close to saying ‘forgot’‘– didn’t.’

  He didn’t say anything, damn him. I needed him to throw me a lifeline, ask me if I had forgotten, say it didn’t matter and I could do it tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I offered.

  ‘Yes.’ That was it. No more.

  He dug his spoon into the ice-cream and left it there.

  ‘It was such a beautiful day,’ I said, half in defence, half as a change of subject.

  ‘Too beautiful for keeping promises.’

  Oh, if he was just going to sulk instead of … the other thing …

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t suppose another day will make a difference.’

  ‘No, Pip, don’t take that tone with me. I’m not in the wrong here.’

  ‘In the wrong? It’s a stupid fucking parcel, that’s all. What’s in it? Explosives?’

  ‘Philippa.’ A low growl.

  But somehow I couldn’t stop talking myself into trouble.

  I stood up, eyeing the door to the hallway nervously, my fight-or-flight response signalling ‘flight’.

  ‘If it’s so important to you, why don’t you get it redelivered? You’ve got the day off on Friday. You can reschedule it online. That would have been the obvious thing to do anyway, but it wouldn’t occur to you, I suppose, when you’ve got Muggins here to run around after you.’ I started walking away.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  He sounded calm, but absolutely authoritative.

  I halted in my tracks.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re going nowhere.’

  ‘What? For God’s sake, forget it, Dan. You’re ruining what could be a lovely evening.’ I’d lost it by now, shouting and gesticulating like Basil Fawlty. I disliked myself for it, but how could I make myself stop?

  ‘I’m ruining it?’

  ‘You’re overreacting!’ I bawled.

  He laughed at that, then
pointed to the sofa in our open-plan lounge-diner.

  ‘All right, Philippa, overreact to this,’ he said, not raising his voice a decibel. ‘Go and bend over the arm.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Now.’

  Here I was, at a crossroads that felt enormously significant.

  I could say no. He had no recourse, after all. I knew he wouldn’t force me. It would take just a few calm, reasonable words. Or, if I carried on shouting and screaming, he would probably just walk away, go to the pub, like he always used to.

  But I didn’t want that. I hated those hours he spent at the pub while I paced the flat, full of rage, then full of remorse, then full of facepalm.

  I hated having to apologise and have him wonder aloud what got into me.

  Of course, I loved the make-up sex.

  But perhaps we could have that too, without all the icky in-between stuff?

  I looked at his face. It was resolute and stern. It was everything I had fantasised.

  I went to the sofa.

  I looked over my shoulder at him. He was watching me.

  It was a giddy feeling. If I voluntarily put myself over the arm, I was making a profound statement. I put myself in your hands. I accept your authority.

  It was too hard. And I felt ridiculous, like a character in one of the hokey spanking stories I was always browsing online. And I felt guilty, as if I was dancing on the Pankhurst graves in hobnailed boots.

  But, look, I had asked for this.

  ‘Philippa.’

  His voice acted like a hand between my shoulder blades.

  I bent, feeling the swishy hem of my dress rise up my bared thigh.

  I listened to him walk up to me.

  ‘It’s not that you’ve done something terrible, Philippa,’ he said.

  I flinched when he put a hand on my thigh, just where it met the dress, and stroked through the material.

  ‘Of course it’s not that. That’s trivial. It’s the way you behaved when I asked you. Defensive, straight away. Trying to blame me. Getting yourself wound up. This is what you want to change, isn’t it?’

  I nodded, too embarrassed by my position to speak.

  ‘It’s like the divisional Christmas lunch. Remember that? You were too hungover to go. But that was my fault, apparently, because I should have somehow stopped you from drinking too much with your girlfriends the night before. I should have picked you up earlier. I should have called you to make sure you weren’t too legless. I should have done this, I should have done that. No, Philippa. I’m not having any more of it. You are going to take responsibility for your own behaviour, and if I have to make you, then so be it. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’