But after ten minutes the mortification began to ease. Or maybe that was the wine. (I wasn’t driving.) Plus, for everything they knew about me, I knew all about them. I knew that Prissy (which is what the wife called herself – still don’t know her real name) was punished for obsessive-compulsive behaviour as a kind of therapy, as well as for missing meals. She was a recovering anorexic, and she was recovering well, looking healthy and happy and full of the joys. She credited domestic discipline with saving her marriage, her sanity and her life. I was impressed.
‘It’s not that big a deal for me,’ I said, ‘but it’s certainly smoothed out a few rough corners in our relationship. Now I’m less grumpy and Dan’s less anxious and we’re both a lot closer, I think.’
Prissy and I paired off while Dan and her husband (‘Slowhand’) did the same and then, after a couple more drinks, we merged back into the original quartet.
Slowhand asked Dan if he’d ever considered punishing me in front of anyone else and I began to bristle, thinking that invitations to swing weren’t far off. He shook his head, though, and said it was private and he wouldn’t want to do anything I was too uncomfortable with.
‘Dan’s the only man I’ll ever let near my bare bum,’ I said. ‘Ever.’
And they left it at that.
It’s nice to have friends in the ‘community’ though and, while that particular aspect isn’t for us, I think a lot of our online contacts enjoy a ‘spanking party’ now and again.
So that’s my update.
And now it’s Christmas Day, and the best one ever.
We’re at my parents’ house in the spare room, and Dan is still downstairs watching some crappy film with a mince pie and the last of several festively flavoured brandies. It’s the first year since we married that he hasn’t had to be on duty for at least some part of the holidays, and we’re making the most of it, before he has to go back and do the whole of the New Year.
I’ve crept up for a bit of peace and quiet and because I hate shoot-’em-up movies and … well … I’m feeling reflective.
Literally reflective, because as soon as I got up here, I went to the wardrobe mirror and lifted up my dress and had a look at my bottom. It’s still a tiny bit red and there are bruises here and there.
I’m on Santa’s Naughty List this year.
We spent Christmas morning at home before driving up here for lunch and I had some interesting stocking fillers. Dan made me look in my stocking before I could even give him his Christmas blowjob. I woke him up with a snog and a ‘Merry Christmas’ and I was slithering down his stomach, kissing all the way, when he put his hand in my hair and said, ‘No, not yet.’
‘But it’s traditional,’ I said, wide-eyed. ‘If we’re together on Christmas morning we have … breakfast in bed …’
‘We can still do that,’ he said. ‘But I want you to go into the living room and see what’s in your stocking.’
‘Oh.’ I began to see the way things might be going. ‘Santa’s been to the adult shops this year? Or did he get the elves to make them? Poor corrupted elves.’
‘Go and see.’ He gave my bottom a smack.
I jumped, naked, out of the bed and hotfooted it to the living room. My stocking hung, as usual, on the corner of the mantelpiece. Something was protruding from the top, the handle of something tied with red and green ribbon.
I dipped in my hand and brought out a supple leather riding crop. It looked and smelled expensive – a proper one from a tack shop, not a cheapy X-rated special.
Why did Dan think this would make a good present? I didn’t have a horse and I didn’t like riding … oh.
I was the horse. I was the one getting ridden.
I put it down and delved further. Tiny thong knickers in bright red velvet with white marabou trimming. How festive. I put them on; they barely covered anything. Then there were red sequinned pasties with beaded tassels to put on my nipples – this wasn’t easy as I had to get the suction right but I managed in the end. A headband with little fuzzy antlers was easy enough to work out, but what was this?
The final ingredient was a butt plug – a butt plug with a plaited horsehair tail attached. It seemed I was coming as Rudolph. Rude-olph.
I stuck the antler hair-band on and marched into the bedroom, brandishing the plug.
‘Is this your idea of festive?’ I said, pouting, and he laughed uproariously.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Totally. And you look gorgeous, but your outfit’s missing something. Get the lube and bring it over here.’
‘I’m not wearing a butt plug on Christmas Day!’
‘Yes, you are,’ he said, brooking no argument. ‘Get the lube.’
I had to fight the smile off my face but I managed somehow to turn it into a heavy frown and I took the lubricant bottle from my bedside cupboard and thrust it at him.