Confessions of a Kinky Wife (2 page)

I shut my eyes for a second of unspoken prayer, then reached down for the gift.

The shop had been a high-end establishment and they had put the belt in a smart silk-lined box with a gold monogram. When Dan unwrapped it, I think he was expecting something you’d find in a jeweller’s, like cufflinks or a watch.

He looked surprised when he opened the box.

‘Oh,’ he said, pulling it out. It was rolled up like a coiled snake, a deadly spiral in his hand. ‘This is a very de luxe number, isn’t it?’

‘Do you like it? I just thought it would look really good on you.’

Suddenly I was desperate that he didn’t guess my true intention. I wanted to turn back that tide, ignore my stupid repressed fantasies and live with what I had.

‘It looks vintage,’ he said.

God, he had uncoiled it and was letting it slide around his palm, then he pulled it taut between his hands and I nearly doubled over with arousal.

Surely he must see the effect this had on me? Instant wetness, so much so that I worried about leaving a damp patch on the chair.

‘It’s pretty sexy,’ I said.

He gave me a crooked smile. ‘You think?’

Waiter-with-chronic-bad-timing appeared to take our order and the sexual vibe lowered to a simmer, but it was nonetheless there all the way through the three courses, especially since the belt lay on the white tablecloth for all to see.

I imagined that everyone knew what it was
really
for.

Everyone knew that it had been left there, in my line of sight, to remind me what awaited me after the meal. They were all aware that, once the last mouthful of dessert had been swallowed, I was going to be escorted out through the kitchen to the back yard, bent over a barrel with my dress up and knickers down and strapped long and hard by my elegantly besuited husband.

What for? I tried to make up a reason, but I was fatally distracted by my own lust and the growing excitement in the pit of my stomach. It made for an uncomfortable eating experience, but three courses were a challenge for me anyway, so I picked and pecked at my food.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’

Dan, his appetite as reliably healthy as always, plucked a tuile biscuit from my plate and bit into it.

Some of the other diners had left the restaurant now, and we had a little more latitude for un-eavesdropped conversation.

I stroked the edge of the belt with one finger and said, ‘Do you really like it?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve wanted to get you one just like it for ages.’

He just held his smile, expectant, waiting for me to elaborate.

‘I think it would feel nice,’ I said hesitantly. Oh shit, now it was coming out. Could I take that back?

‘Feel nice?’ he said.

I stared down at the melted ice cream on my plate, too mortified to continue.

‘You’ve gone bright red,’ he said, but his smile slowly widened. ‘OK, I think it’s time to get the bill and get the hell out of here. Things just got interesting.’

The restaurant was a short distance from our flat by the harbour. Dan walked me back with one hand around my elbow, the new belt wrapped around his other set of knuckles. Damn, it looked good there. Man and belt in living harmony. I was wildly optimistic as we headed into the lift and, as was our tradition, snogged all the way up to the third floor.

We tipped ourselves out and fumbled the key in the lock and somehow didn’t collapse on the hall floor. Instead we made a kissing, grabbing, lunging progress into the living room and managed to stay upright all the way over to the sofa.

He pinned me to it and I felt that soft leather brush my wrist.

‘So, then, Pip,’ he said, his wide white grin inches from mine. ‘Tell me what you meant when you said my belt would
feel
nice. Because, as far as I’m aware, belts are meant to keep trousers up. How could that make you feel nice? Hmm?’

‘I just thought … you know … it’s so soft and it smells so good …’

‘Don’t. I know what you thought.’

‘Do you?’

My heart jumped high, sealing up my throat so I could barely breathe.

‘Fancy a bit of slap and tickle, do we?’

I giggled, writhing happily underneath him. Yes! This could happen. This was starting to happen.

‘Maybe more slap than tickle,’ I whispered.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do I have to sign a consent form?’

‘Story of my life. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. But no. I think in this case a verbal agreement holds good. Go on then. Turn over.’

He let go of my wrists and knelt up, watching me flip myself on to my stomach. My face rested against a velvet cushion, handy if I needed anything to yell into. We didn’t want to disturb the neighbours, after all.

I felt the tickly swish of my skirt being raised. It was a shame I had to imagine the look on his face as he uncovered lacy briefs and matching suspenders and stockings, but I’d seen it often enough before and at least I got to hear his low sigh of pleasure.

Rather than any sharp and sudden smack, the next physical contact was his lips on the low curve of my bottom, kissing their way over every inch of the flesh my knickers weren’t protecting. This kindled an amazing tingle, flooding my pussy and making my skin super-sensitive until I began to rather dread what I’d asked for.

Could I take it back and just carry on with this instead?

His fingers slipped inside the lacy elastic of my knickers, then down the suspender straps, pulling them out and letting them snap back so that I squealed.

‘Thought you’d like that,’ he said, his hands between my thighs now, pulling them apart. ‘Since you’re into pain these days.’

‘It’s not that I’m into pain,’ I said, my voice muffled by the cushion.

‘No? What then?’

‘Just … the whole idea turns me on, that’s all.’

‘The whole idea?’

‘Yeah. Being, I dunno, taken in hand. Dominated.’

‘Oh, so it’s a headspace thing.’

‘Totally.’

‘And I’m in charge, am I?’

‘If you want to be.’

‘So what if I just want to order you to get on your knees and suck me off?’

I huffed. I hoped he wasn’t going to miss the point now.

‘If you want to do that, do it. But it’s about both of us getting what we want, not just one of us.’

‘Right. And what you want is a good, sound spanking, is it?’

Oh, just hearing the words, spoken by him in his ‘arresting officer’ voice, could have got me off then and there.

‘Mmm, oh, God, yeah.’

‘Well,’ he said, his fingertips grazing the crotch of my knickers, stroking it up and down, up and down until my hips were undulating in sympathetic rhythm. ‘I’m not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Apart from buy me a lovely anniversary present and give me three terrific years of marriage but … let’s say that you’re in trouble for having a bum that stops traffic.’

I snorted and tried to kick my legs but, as he was kneeling on them, that didn’t make much difference.

‘Oh, yes, you stand accused of conducting your arse without due care and attention, so that everyone on the public highway was distracted by it. How do you plead?’

‘Guilty,’ I proclaimed, steeling myself for the first blow.

It was much lighter than I anticipated, a little exploratory slap, so flimsy and weak-wristed I twisted my neck and frowned at him.

‘That’s it?’

‘Thing is, love,’ he said, his face crumpled in apology. ‘I’m not sure I can hurt you. Do you really want me to make it sting?’

‘Don’t hold back,’ I urged him. ‘I’ll tell you if it’s too much, I promise.’

‘Well, OK.’ He tried again, and this one made a most satisfying echo, his hand falling quite heavily across the meat of my right cheek. Oh, it hurt, but not too much. Really, just enough. I wondered how much it would take to get my arse really bright red, because that was what I wanted. No half-hearted blush pink, or rapidly fading warmth. I needed the full effect.

‘Harder,’ I said. ‘I’ve been bad.’

‘Have you now?’ More deliberate, forceful smacks landed on my rear. ‘You’ll have to tell me all about that. What have you done?’

‘I had bad thoughts,’ I gasped, starting to feel the burn spread through my lower body. ‘When you were on night shift, I thought about things you could do to me. All the time. And it made me touch myself.’

‘Oh, you naughty thing,’ he tutted, spanking steadily. ‘Perhaps we should have a rule. No touching, except by me. What do you think?’

‘Yes, yes.’ I grasped on to this eagerly. I had often fantasised about being punished for masturbating.

‘So we have a genuine rule break to address,’ he said. ‘I think that calls for no knickers, don’t you?’

He paused and pulled the stretchy lace down to my stocking tops, baring my now rather warm bottom.

‘You’re wet,’ he said, crouching to inspect my exposed pussy. He prodded at the lips, holding them aside for a better view of the hidden guilty secrets. One long finger glided easily up inside me. ‘Very wet,’ he amended. ‘Not much of a punishment, is it, if it’s turning you on?’

‘I can’t help it,’ I protested. ‘My body does it for me.’

‘Perhaps we’ll have to think of something else. Something you really won’t enjoy. A nice big pile of washing up, maybe.’

‘Perhaps you’ll just have to spank harder,’ I prompted. This wasn’t funny, no matter what he thought, chuckling away up there with his finger shoved inside me.

‘Well, it’s worth a try, I suppose.’

He emptied my pussy and reverted to heating up my arse, but this time his technique was different, much faster and less predictable. It was infinitely more difficult to take and I was quick to squirm and yelp and try to pull my legs out from under him. He was having none of it, though, and he held me down, his fist in the small of my back like a human paperweight.

‘Feeling it now, are you?’

‘That. Really. Hurts,’ I complained, jerking my hips as best I could.

‘Do you want me to stop?’

I shook my head. The heat was building beautifully and I didn’t want to call time until my skin was tight with it.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure about this to begin with, but I think I like it now. I think I could take to this.’

I stuffed the cushion into my mouth, suppressing a howl as he laid a particularly wicked volley on both cheeks.

Be careful what you wish for.

‘Your arse looks gorgeous, all lit up and glowing,’ he gloated. ‘I think you might have created a monster, love. And we haven’t even got to the belt yet.’

‘Ow,’ I said. It seemed to encapsulate my emotions.

‘OK, let’s temper justice with mercy, shall we? I think that’ll do for your first time. Now.’ He put his forearm under my stomach and encouraged me gently on to my knees, with my face still buried in the cushion.

I heard the business of trousers being unzipped, fabric falling behind me.

‘Poor little pickle,’ he crooned.

I felt the tip of his cock butting into my juices.

‘God, you are so wet!’ he exclaimed, obviously impressed. ‘This’ll be like a knife going into butter.’

And it was. An exceptionally blunt, thick knife, right into my slippery slick butter dish, so to speak. I couldn’t get enough of him, pushing myself back on to him, especially when he rammed himself right up against my hot cheeks. He held my hips tight and I felt taken, owned, mastered. God, it was the hottest thing ever. When I came I bit into the cushion to stop myself screaming.

Afterwards, lying on the sofa all rumpled and hot and tired, he picked the belt up off the floor.

‘Didn’t even get to use this,’ he said, yawning. ‘But it’s coming to you. Happy Anniversary, love.’

I can’t wait.

We’ve had a busy few weeks, lots of overtime for Dan, and I’ve been trying to put together some summer-holiday workshops for my adolescents. Some additional family stress surrounding my mother-in-law (who else?) has also been ongoing, taking our attention away from our marriage and sex life to an extent.

We’ve fooled about a bit, but any kinky stuff has been spur-of-the-moment and limited to a few smacks with the wooden spoon while I’m making dinner or whatever.

And, while I like the fun aspect of it, and can’t complain at how it seems to have pepped up our bedroom activities, I can’t help craving something a little
more
. Do I mean more? Or do I mean different? I don’t know.

The thing is, I’m not good with stress. In my day job, I have to model absolute patience and absolute tolerance, but this has always made Dan laugh because he knows that I’m actually extremely
im
patient and
in
tolerant a lot of the time. I nearly ruined our relationship in the first year of marriage by constantly blowing my stack over the slightest little thing. I kept blaming him for everything – if I couldn’t find the scissors,
he
must have put them in the wrong place, though half the time it was me who’d done it.

I did this so often that we ended up having a blazing row that must have kept the neighbours awake, with him threatening to move into the section house. Since then, I’ve tried to work on my temper, but I’m not sure my strategy of passive-aggressive stomping around and silent moodiness is really the best one.

Ever since he spanked me on our wedding anniversary, I’ve had this mad fantasy about him doing it as a genuine punishment. Not in an overbearing, patriarchal sort of way, but from a desire to help me overcome my faults and be a better person. Loving discipline, if that makes any sense at all. I’m tired of feeling guilty about my outbursts, or simmering and keeping all the resentment and irritation inside me. Perhaps, if he spanked it out of me, I’d be able to address my petty annoyances with openness and honesty, like a proper adult. Not that I’ve ever felt like a proper adult. Does anyone, ever? I constantly feel that events are spiralling out of my control and I want someone to take that control for me. I want it to be him.

But I’m afraid to broach the subject with him. I think he’ll feel weird about it. So I’ve kept it to myself so far.

I’ve ordered a book, though.
The Guiding Hand – A Disciplinary Manual for Loving Husbands.
Sounds like some kind of crackpot 50s-throwback thing, doesn’t it? But the blurb alone turned me on so much I had to order it.