Swinging In The 70S Ch 09

That afternoon I got my first "B" on a test since I had started back to school after separating from the Air Force. I was so distracted, picturing what was going to happen when I got home, that I couldn't make the questions make sense. It was just my ridiculous levels of preparation that managed to pull the grade I did.

For the classes I taught, I just sent them on a field trip. We were in the "Age of Jackson" in class so I told everyone to go over to the library and find an article in a scholarly journal on the topic and write a brief, one-paragraph summary of the article. I followed them to the library and initiated my own research.

Today, as I write, I just Googled "How to properly spank your wife." and started scrolling through hundreds of articles. Interestingly, the first Google page was devoted primarily to "domestic discipline in a Christian household."

But that was then and "how to properly spank your wife" was not something that I found in the card catalog (I know, I looked). But I am a good researcher. It turns out that in those long-ago days a half-century ago, most of the studies on the topic showed up in obscure psychology and sociology journals. The articles addressed the psychology and sociology of this "deviant" lifestyle. It took a full hour before I came up with what I was looking for.

The article was full of psychological jargon to the point of being almost unintelligible but, by the time I waded through it all, it boiled down to - Remember the story of how you boil a frog.

You know the story?

Well, you can't just drop the frog into boiling water. Even a creature with a brain the size of a pinhead will jump out of that.

So you put him in a pan of cool water and turn the heat on under it. By the time Kermit realizes what's happening, he's too relaxed to do anything about it.

I had the sense that the "Christian" who wrote the story had a pretty deep sadistic streak. He used terms like "deeper," "more painful," and "more meaningful" to describe a "properly" administered spanking.

I got home before Monica. Friday was her day with a late, three o'clock, art class. That gave me time to, well, "set the stage" is, I suppose, as good a way to describe it as any.

I got one of the chairs from the kitchen table, actually one of the few "sturdy" pieces of furniture we owned. We bought the dining room set at an auction.

I set the chair as nearly in the middle of the front room as I could judge, got a beer, and waited.

In a life that now spans three-quarters of a century plus one, I have never felt more anticipation than I did in the 20 minutes before Monica got home.

I went over it, over and over, in my mind as I drank my beer and listened to the music I had softly playing.

I heard the car pull up, that crackle of tires on gravel unmistakable.

I stood, waiting just inside the door.

Her eyes got big when she saw me.

I watched as she looked past me to the chair in the middle of the floor and I saw recognition dawn.

"David, I," she started and I slapped her.

It wasn't a particularly hard slap, certainly not as hard as I had taken from time to time in karate classes.

But it was the first time I ever struck her. The shock in her eyes was obvious and down at the bottom of my brain, down where that caveman claimed his cavewoman by knocking her on the head with his club, I liked that look.

She stood still. "Shocked" is the only word to describe the look on her face.

"Speak when you are spoken to," I said, trying my best to sound like some preacher out of Puritan New England.

I reached down and took the books from her hand, said, "Stay," and put the books in the little homemade box she used for her school stuff.

I moved to sit on the chair, and just looked at her for a long time. I suppose it was only a minute or so, but it seemed longer.

Try it, sometime. Set an alarm for 60 seconds and then just stand still. It seems like a very long minute.

"Come here," I said, pointing to a spot about a foot in front of where I sat.

She came, silent, holding my eyes.

I said nothing, I just reached up, unbuttoned and unzipped the baggy jeans she wore, and pulled them down to her thighs.

"Stand here," I said, pointing to a spot about a foot from the right side of my chair.

She moved, kind of sidestepping awkwardly, to the point I indicated.

I took her hand, pulling not yanking, pulling slowly until she overbalanced and had no choice but to lay across my lap.

I got instantly hard. I was no longer a 20th-century college student. I WAS that caveman. And my woman had been disobedient. But I knew I had to discipline her properly, there was that much modern man left in me.

"Count," I said, the single word loud against the soft music.

My hand fit her ass perfectly. Christ, maybe too perfectly. I was suddenly hard, my erection bound in my jeans, hurting.

The first stroke was hardly a "stroke" at all. It wasn't even a slap. It was more of a pat.

She flinched dramatically, anticipation doing more than I could have done with a strap.

"One," she breathed.

I was caressing her ass now, feeling how tense she was, and the caveman LOVED that tension, that fear.

The spanking lasted almost an hour and, God help me, I enjoyed every second of it. I liked the color I brought to her pretty ass. I enjoyed the little sting in my palm as I struck her. I was captivated by the way she squirmed as the strokes got harder. The sound, that meaty "SMACK" as my palm connected was almost musical. I couldn't look away from the soft shudders as she started crying and then the harder shuddering of her body as she was bawling.

Mostly, it was knowing she could probably get away, or at least try to get away, but that she didn't that got to me.

I'm not sure which one of us was more surprised when she came as she was crying "FORTY-SIX." Jesus, it was spectacular. Later, when the internet was fully developed and it seemed that porn was everywhere, I watched several videos that featured women "squirting." I've always found that to be especially beautiful. I suppose some of those women in the videos used special effects. I can imagine how it would be done with filled balloons and a woman with excellent muscle control.

I've watched several of those but none has ever come even close to what happened when I gave Monica her first spanking. When she came she didn't "squirt." Christ she "sprayed." There was an audible spattering sound and I could see the line of thick, oily, white cream, looking like nothing more than the hair conditioner I used sometimes.

Her body arched backward until I was afraid for her spine and then forward, bending her almost double. Her mouth was wide open and she let out a sort of soundless whistle.

And all the while she was cumming in waves, spraying and then pouring, that white cream running down her thighs.

She collapsed, limp across my lap.

I forced down the temptation to deliver more strokes.

She breathed in harsh gasps, her body tensing with each one, for a long time.

"Make love to me, David," she said, softly, still hanging limply across my knees.

She flinched when I touched her ass and, oddly, I found that tiny movement to be about as sexy as anything I had ever seen.

"Tell me you'll be a good girl," I said, caressing lightly where I had hurt her.

"I'll be a good girl," she said, her voice steadier now.

"Stand up, Honey," I said.

She stood and I stood with her.

God, she was a mess.

She hadn't gone full "hippy" with unshaved legs and armpits and a refusal to wear any makeup. The mascara she wore ran down her cheeks in streaks painted by her tears. Her nose was running and she swiped at the long rope of water-clear snot that hung from her chin. Her eyes were red and swollen.

Yes, she looked ridiculous standing there in her halter top and her jeans around her knees.

She looked defeated and sexy.

I kissed her.

"God, you are beautiful," I said.

She smiled then.

"Yeah," she said, wiping at her nose and cheeks with her hand, "I'm a fucking peach."

I laughed and scooped her up in that classic carrying-the-bride-across-the-threshold carry you've seen in old movies.

"Come on, Bride-o-mine," I said, kissing snot snot-slick lips and carrying her to the bedroom.

I laid her on the bed, being gentle, aware of how sore her ass must be.

"You're beautiful," I said, working her jeans and panties down and off.

"Thank you," was all she said. There was a lassitude on her face that made me wonder if she wasn't going into shock from the trauma to her ass.

"Sit up a little," I said, pulling her with my hand and then untying the halter top when I could reach behind her.

She looked tiny and sexy when she laid back. Her nipples were hard with her excitement and I always found her breasts to be sexy, her B cup looking oversized on her small frame.

It was almost automatic to use my thumb and forefinger to pinch lightly and then twist her nipples, making her squirm and groan.

The love we made that afternoon ranks among the most tender and gentle I have every experienced.

I released her nipples and began stroking her face, my fingertips lightly brushing her forehead and eyelids.

"Just pleasure," I breathed very softly, "No more pain today."

I kissed her breasts, soft, dry, butterfly kisses.

I kissed that soft hollow under her chin, the

submental space

if you're interested in the nomenclature.

I kissed every square inch of her body, her armpits, her belly button, her knees, her feet, all of her and then I rolled her over and did the same thing to her back.

She giggled when I kissed her butt and squirmed prettily when I tickled her back, my fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps.

I rolled her over then, onto her back, and slipped inside of her where she was slick and wet and ready.

There was no urgency. I felt no need to hurry or even to finish.

That afternoon was "making love" in the purest sense. I realized that I was beyond the posessiveness of a male Baby Boomer raised in Denver where a strong Mexican community - Bobby Valdez was my best friend and Paulette Padilla was one of my first crushes - with its culture of machismo that included owning your woman.

I had spanked her, yes, but it wasn't punishment. It was a mutual reaffirmation of our, as strange as it sounds, "faithfulness" to each other. Honestly, I kind of looked forward to being turned over her knee in my turn.

But the remainder of this afternoon and evening was the opposite form of affirmation. I nuzzled the hinge of her jaw, just below her ear, my tongue tracing the tender skin there. I whispered, "I love you," and punctuated it with a nip to her earlobe. I made her giggle when I traced the hollow of each armpit in turn with the tip of my tongue. I kissed her breasts and sucked her nipples, all the while being gentle and telling her I loved her and that she was beautiful.

When I felt the little trembling that I knew signaled her approaching orgasm I lifted myself enough to focus on her eyes.

"Share breath?" I asked.

She smiled and hissed a long, "Yessssssssss."

My rhythm was very slow by then. My hips were the only thing moving as I would slowly pull out until just my glans remained encircled by her educated vaginal muscles, and then just as slowly ease back inside of her until our bodies were as perfectly joined as we could make them.

I know my wife well, and I could see the little thought lines on her forehead and that little vertical line between her eyebrows that told me, as clearly as words could have, that she was concentrating on her control.

Time, as they say, stood still. I can't say with any reliability how long we stayed like that. Minutes? Easily. An hour? Maybe.

Light still filtered through the window when her control failed.

I felt that special tension of her body's orgasm as she pulled her knees back and dug her heels into my ass.

Her release was hot and wet and when she gasped her pleasure I covered her mouth with mine and used the thumb and forefinger of my left hand to pinch her nose shut. Her left hand did the same to my nose and we were left with that single breath to share.

As I breathed in, drawing our air from her, I remembered the first time we had done this. Afterward, spent, I asked and she told me, "You'd be amazed what a dozen wives 8,000 miles from home talk about at the Enlisted Man's Club while you guys are up there making the world safe for Democracy."

Our lovemaking hadn't been terribly energetic, but we did have an oxygen debt to pay off and our single breath was quickly depleted.

But we didn't break the kiss or release each other's noses.

As my body started to panic from oxygen starvation I came. My ejaculation was powerful. I swear, I felt my prostate, deep in my belly, contract and my balls ached with the need down at the cellular level to impregnate my mate.

I broke the kiss and we both gasped like swimmers underwater too long breaking the surface.

I came a second time, hard, the muscles of my ass almost cramping the way they clenched to force myself even deeper into her.

My third wave surprised me. I'm male, after all, and subject to a male's biological imperative. As far as Nature is concerned, you understand, the body's sole function is to procreate. The other things you do, eating, sleeping, all of it, are simply a way to promote procreation. Nature doesn't even care about your brain except insofar as it promotes efficient procreation. It's the ejaculation Nature is concerned with. The second wave is a bonus, but not, as far as your body is concerned, necessary.

That third wave moved beyond the pleasure of ejaculation into pain and then back as my body tried to answer Nature's demand but lacked the resources.

When I opened my eyes she was smiling.

"Let me have your weight," she said.

I relaxed, slowly, settling onto her, nuzzling her neck as I let my muscles go slack.

We cried out together as I softened and slipped out of her, her sudden squeeze giving me one final rush of pleasure.

"You forgive me?" she breathed, her voice barely audible.

"Nothing to forgive," I said.

I felt her struggling to breathe, my weight pressing her into the mattress.

But when I started to lift myself she pulled me down, whispering, "No, let me have your weight."

The sound of the soft little sips of air she was managing started getting to me and I felt myself starting to get hard again.

"Yesssss," she whispered.

"Relax," I said, lifting myself and smiling down at her as she gasped a breath.

My wife had never been pregnant or delivered a baby vaginally. She will never be "loose" in any meaningful sense of the word.

But between her natural lubricant and my semen that was leaking out of her, when she relaxed she wasn't "tight" either. I slipped in easily.

After another of those timeless times, she whispered, "Let me on top, Baby."

We disentangled and switched positions. She mounted me cowgirl fashion and then slowly bent forward until we were in the missionary position but with her on top.

We kept that up until it was dark and hunger drove us out of bed and into the kitchen.

It was a VERY good day.