Bringing Her Home Again

I cut the lime for our Tanqueray and Tonics as she stands at the kitchen sink, snapping the ends off the asparagus she is preparing for dinner. She's changed from her office attire into a sleeveless cotton dress, pale blue, the color of her eyes. Her sensible sandals have a modest heel, neither flat nor fuck me, but with a slight lift that accentuates her bare ankles and calves. At almost 50 she is still fetching, with a figure developed as a high school athlete and toned from years at the gym. Lithe and limber, she is the envy of girls a decade younger. She wears little makeup, just a kiss of color on her cheeks and lips and a touch of mascara on her eyelashes.

She smiles in thanks as I hand her the monogrammed glass, and we clink our drinks in an unspoken toast before taking a sip.

"What a day," she says unhappily, as she sets her glass on the black marble countertop and continues her preparations. I smile as my eyes trail down her luscious body, but my smile disappears as I continue to watch her work. She is not focused on dinner, or on me for that matter. She lacks her usual grace and fluidity. It is easy to see her frustration by the taunt way she holds her body. Her mind is still at work, no doubt mulling over the day's events.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She turns to face me momentarily. "No, not really," she replies with a shrug, as she moves to the sink and turns on the water. I feel a flash of anger as she turns her back on me. I am not a man accustomed to being dismissed, and I find it especially intolerable from my Brianna.

My eyes trail down to her right ankle and foot. Her toenails are painted a bright apricot, but her ankle is unadorned, as it has been for the past for several weeks. Absent is the anklet she wears as a sign of her decision. Our agreement is clear: when she wears the anklet she will submit to me, and honor me, as only a wife who is strong enough to submit to her husband's wishes can honor him. But when she does not wear her anklet, she has made the choice to remain the independent woman who does so well in the outside world.

My eyes settle on her backside. Wide through the hips, my dynasty-bearing love has a peach-shaped bottom that I can't get enough of. There are no panty lines, of course. As distracted by work as she is, she knows I prefer a bare bottom. In this request, she always obeys.

I watch silently as she methodically picks up each asparagus spear, pinches it, and lets it break naturally. Then she carefully places each stalk single file in a neat little row on the pan. Olive oil, sea salt, pepper, and nuts will be added before she pops it into the oven.

Yes, I decide, still staring at her as I stir the lime in my drink round and round the edge of the glass. I am proud of my Briana and of her accomplishments in the fast-paced and sometimes cruel business world in which she thrives. But I also know that she is not happy when she is consumed by her work.

Slowly, I make my decision. It is time to bring her home again, to reclaim her, to remind her that she is mine. There are times when she simply cannot ask for what she needs, even by a simple gesture such as putting on a piece of jewelry. And I have come to learn that these times—the times that she cannot ask—are the times she needs me most.

It is not a decision I take lightly. We have an agreement, after all, and I am the one about to break it. But she needs me, and I will not fail her.

I quietly put down my drink, step up behind her, cup my hand on her bottom and squeeze firmly as I sternly whisper into her ear: "Bree. Stop what you are doing. Right now."

She looks back at me, the surprise at my tone evident in her eyes. She starts to speak, her posture defensive, but when she sees my scowl she closes her mouth and stops, half facing me, an asparagus spear still in her hand.

I brush back her blond hair and speak again. This time my voice is soft, but the words are an unmistakable command. "Palms, flat on the countertop."

She sets the asparagus in the baking tray and turns to face the counter squarely. Almost instinctively, her legs separate until her feet are shoulder-width apart. Without a word, she leans over, places her palms, fingers spread wide, on the marble finish, and pushes her bottom out to me. The tie on her dress accentuates her waist, and the soft fabric clings to her like a lover. I trace her curves with my hands.

"Yes, that's right, Bree. Just like that," I say, letting her hear the admiration in my voice. I strive for the balance I want as I begin to bring her home. Lover. Husband. Master.

"Now, let me see your sweet ass."

I could easily lift her dress myself, of course. But there is something delicious to me about making her do it, knowing that her keen mind is processing this evening's directions, even as she performs the simple tasks I am now requiring of her.

She looks back, confused, but then slowly lifts her dress around her waist. I run my hands over her now bare hips and caress her tight bottom. I back up, standing behind her so she cannot see me. I take my time, admiring her for a moment, savoring both her body and her obedience. She is on my schedule now, on my terms, and I am certain that I have her attention. I am in charge, and she will wait, and wonder, and anticipate.

Slowly and deliberately, I begin to unbuckle and remove my belt. Her shoulders tighten as she hears the metal clang of the buckle, then the whoosh as the leather slides through the belt loops of my jeans. She begins to squirm in understanding as she undoubtedly processes the evidence: The dress up around her waist. The belt now wrapped around my hand. The preoccupation she has had with work over the last few evenings. She needs no words to know what is coming. If I were going to fuck her now, she'd already be naked. She knows I prefer the naughty schoolgirl look for what I am about to do.

A serious punishment spanking is an unusual event for us, so I give her a moment to compose and to anticipate what is to come. Her breath becomes quick and shallow as she fights to maintain control.

"I have waited patiently for several weeks for you to come to me."

She nods.

"Now, I must take back what is mine."

I wait.

Finally, she takes a deep breath and holds it in for a moment before letting it out ever so slowly. I smile in recognition of her action: it is the cleansing breath that makes her mine again. It's a precious moment, her acceptance, that instant when she hands herself—body, heart, soul—back over to me. I smile, but she cannot see me.

She screams as the belt strikes her ass. Her knees buckle and her hands coil into fists at the sudden assault to her beautiful bottom. I examine my work. Almost immediately a welt begins to rise, and I rub my fingers over it gently. My girl is unaccustomed to a hard strapping, and I know it hurts. But I am firm in my resolve to make my point.

Gently, sweetly, I shush her, rubbing her lower back, telling her that she is my good girl, reminding her that I love her and that I will always take care of her.

I give her time to settle before lifting the belt to strike again. This time she arches her back and puts her head down between her arms and sucks in air as she adjusts to the pain, but she does not try to get away. Again, I soothe her spine, stoking it gently, whispering my love to her. Tenderly, I rub my lips over the red marks, tracing each welt with the tip of my tongue, kissing around the tender spots. I prefer erotic discipline to the harsh discipline I am now inflicting, but this is a lesson that must be remembered.

"My Bree," I whisper.

"Yes, your Bree," she softly echoes.

She clenches her hands, spreads her fingers wide, and then clenches again in anticipation as I move away. I watch as she mentally and physically readies herself for the next blow. She places her fingers in her mouth and bites down, groaning in anticipation. She's breathing hard, and I can tell that she is fighting within herself. Whether it is the urge to stop me or to run, I do not know. I make the decision for her by giving her two more strikes in quick succession.

"A short break," I explain, as I set the belt on the countertop near her face. I want her to see it, to acknowledge it, to accept its mastery over her. I want her to smell the dark leather of the belt that is branding her backside. I want her to know she belongs to me.

She looks up at me, eyes pleading. "Please," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Please, I'll be good. No more."

"It's okay," I say softly as I stroke her hair. "I'm almost through. Just one more to make sure you understand. My good girl can take one more."

She nods her head in acceptance. I grab the belt and double it over, preparing for the last strike.

The final blow is lower, landing on the soft spot between her bottom and her thigh, and she screams again.

"Shhhhh, baby," I tell her as I help her up and envelope my arms around her. "You'll be alright, I'll take care of you," I soothe. "That's my sweet baby girl."

She wants to cry in my arms, but I tell her it's time for some pleasure. I have her undress and then lean back against the same countertop. As she rests back on her elbows, her breasts are lifted and her nipples protrude at attention. I trace my finger between her breasts, down her abs, and over the tiny bump that defines her belly. Finally, I reach between her legs. She is coated in her own juice, swollen, ripe and ready for me. It's not the pain that makes her wet, I know. It's the control. She is turned on by her submission to me. And she is even more so when she has been forced to subjugation. My two fingers slide inside her easily, and I curl my fingertips to find that sweet spot I know so well.

"So wet, baby girl," I say, the slurping sounds of fingers wriggling in her tight cunt the only other sound in the room. I know she longs for release, both the mental release that only her complete submission can give her, and the physical release from a series of orgasms. A deep guttural moan escapes her lips as my other hand pinches the very tip of an erect nipple. I squeeze it hard, the way she likes it, hard enough to take her mind off the sting of her ass. She whimpers, the sound I adore most in the entire world, and her body begins to shake involuntarily. My cock swells.

As I pinch her protruding areola I can feel her insides tighten on my fingers as if there were a connection between her nipples and her cunt. She adores the pleasure pain that comes from a firm squeeze to her nipple or the slap of my hand against her protruding clit. As I rub my thumb against her clit, her whimpers grow stronger. I bring her close to the brink, then stop, still pressing my fingers to keep her aroused, but not allowing her to come.

I stand there, hand still, fingers inside her, the other hand pinching her nipple almost cruelly. She begins breathing harder and harder as her need grows, but I keep my hand still, refusing to stroke her, denying her the pleasure she wants.

"Please," she begs, as she moves her hips, tentatively at first, perhaps sore from my belt or perhaps simply seeking my reaction before she proceeds. Ultimately, her submission is as much about her pleasure as it is about my own, so I encourage her by stroking her, loving her, urging her on.

"C'mon, baby," I encourage. "Fuck yourself on my hand. Give yourself the hard punishing fuck you know you deserve."

I grow even harder as I watch her begin dancing—a sensual ballroom number—on my fingers. Her hips encircle my hand, figure-eight style, and I wonder how her bottom feels as she pushes up against my hand. She lifts up on her toes and I struggle to keep my hand still as she begins her ride in earnest. She whimpers as she continues to rub against my now-still hand. She is in control now as she fucks my hand, lifting and lowering her body, tightening her musculature.

Her tempo changes to a hot and spicy salsa as she moves with increasing pressure. She wriggles and writhes, desperately searching for her reward. Although it's cool in the kitchen, her body breaks into a light sweat as she works toward the sweet release she seems so eager to find.

Her voice is hoarse and sultry. "Please."

I help her by pinching her nipple again, and her hips rise in response to the pained pleasure I know she finds there. Her whimpers turn to moans. The movements are hard and fast as she rocks back and forth, up and down. Her face is contorted in concentration, her eye on the prize.

I look down at her, my beautiful girl, leaning back against the kitchen countertop, pussy exposed, legs wide, nipples reaching up to the gods, watching her grind on my fingers as she desperately fucks my hand. Her skin shines from the exertion of her work. I put my hand on her back for support.

"Yes, baby. Take it, take your release," I say, and soon I feel the contractions of her orgasm on my fingers. She screams again, this time in pleasure rather than pain, and I hold her up. Soon she relaxes against my arm, relying on me to hold her up, her visage the picture of contentment. I lean over and tenderly kiss her belly before helping her stand.

I remove my fingers and she reaches down for my hand and brings it toward her. Sensually, I rub her juice on her lower lip, and she obediently opens her mouth hungrily like a baby bird. She closes her eyes and moans softly as she takes my fingers in and sucks her juices off my hand.

"Thank you," she says quietly, tears of love in her eyes. Gently I touch her neck and play with the tops of her breasts.

She reaches for the bulge against my jeans. "May I?"

"Later. Now, go upstairs," I tell her. "Change. Take a bath. I'll have another drink and then finish making dinner."

"Yes," she says, as she gathers her dress and heads up the stairs.

I am about to put the tilapia in the oven as she comes back down stairs almost an hour later. I look up to see my lovely wife wearing a different dress, an old favorite, a twinkle in her eye. I glance down at her feet. Her pretty silver chain surrounds an ankle.

"That's my good baby girl," I say.

Her smile is my reward.