“Yes, Mistress,” I answered, choking down my humiliation at the idea of her punishing me somewhere in public.
Without another word, she walked behind me and applied the hairbrush to my buttocks. The spanking stung, but the pain was much more emotional than physical. After perhaps a dozen sharp, quick strokes, she stopped.
“That’s enough,” she said. “You may pull up your trousers.” She sat down on the couch and picked up the remote control to the TV. As I zipped up my fly, she said in the same confident voice as before, “Now, go dish us up some ice cream. And make me a cup of tea while you’re there.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I replied. It hadn’t taken long for me to start to get used to the phrase. I turned and walked to the kitchen.
Well, I suppose that wasn’t too bad, as far as punishments go.
But we both knew that it wasn’t the nature of the punishment or its severity that was important. What was important was that my wife had, for the first time, unambiguously claimed the right to punish me at her discretion. And by putting my hands on the coffee table, I had just as unambiguously ceded her that right. Not once, but for all time.
Everything was different now.
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