Domestic Discipline

I go round the house, giving everything a final once-over. The place is clean, tidy. I've done almost everything I possibly can, but I still feel anxious for his arrival home. My nerves are shot, my mind all over the place. I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. I look pretty, presentable. I've curled my hair, put on a dress. I'm pouring him a glass of whiskey now, anticipating that he'll walk through the door any moment.

This was our agreement when we married; he'd make the money, I'd keep the house. He makes good money, really good money, which means I have to keep a perfect house, be the perfect housewife. And I try, I really do, but I always feel as though I feel slightly short of expectations. That's my anxiety speaking. My mind can never simply tell me 'job well done'. Instead it ruminates on that last book gone un-dusted, the last plate not put away just so.

He helps me with this, though, and I'm grateful to him. He's 10 years older than me; he was already 35 when I met him. Well established, with a good career behind him already. 'I'll pay to keep you,' he told me. 'You just work on giving me a comfortable life to come home to'.

7pm. The front door handle turns; right on time.

"Hello darling," he says, smiling as he spots me there waiting for him. He grabs me by the waist, pulls me in for a long kiss. When he releases me I smile up at him, breathless. I take his jacket off for him and hang it up, he takes off his tie and hangs it up, loosening the top few buttons of his shirt. I pass him the waiting glass of whiskey. This routine is well established, honed and perfected.

He walks to the back of the house, to our open-plan kitchen-diner. Our house is beautiful, spacious. His money has provided us with a lovely home. But it's large, difficult for me to keep up with the cleaning. He runs a finger along the top of the fridge. It comes up clean. Spotless.

"The house looks perfect darling," he says, looking around. His nose sniffs the air."Why don't I smell dinner?"

"I had to order takeaway," I say. "I got a little behind with the cleaning and I ran out of time."

As I say it I flush with shame. I hate not living up to perfection.

His brow furrows. "Go upstairs and put some lingerie on," he tells me. "With a suspender belt and stockings. Be back in the living room in five minutes."

I do as he says, putting on some of my best, lacy bra in a midnight blue with a tiny matching g string, black lace suspender belt, smooth, sheer stockings. Slipping the garter belt shut, I wonder what he has in store for me.

I go back downstairs, walking as quiet as a whisper in my stockinged feet. When I walk into the living room, he pauses the programme he was watching with a nonchalant jab of the remote.

"Come and lay across my lap," he tells me. "Face down."

I do as I'm told. He runs his palm across the domes of my ass cheeks, draped over his lap.

"You're need a spanking for your failure," he says, his tone almost a lazy drawl. "But I need you to tell me... why are you getting a spanking?"

"Because I didn't manage my time well," I whisper, my pulse racing. "I didn't finish all of my chores."

"That's right," he tells me, still caressing my body with his hand. "When a man comes home, he doesn't expect much. A clean home, a warm meal. I fulfil my end of the bargain; I make plenty of money so that you don't have to work. You need to fulfil yours. That's the least I should expect, don't you agree?"

"Yes," I breathe, my eyes closed.

"I'm going to give you ten spanks, and I want you to count each one, ok?"

I nod my head, scarcely able to breathe. He pulls his palm away from the soft strokes he was giving me, tugs the straps of my suspenders away from my ass cheeks. Then his hand comes down hard, with no sensation in the aftermath until suddenly a wicked sting spreads out from where it connected. My skin feels like it's on fire.

"One," I moan, and he immediately brings his hand down again, on the same exact spot as before. The skin tingles in outrage.

"Two..." I say, gasping. The third strike lands exactly as before, and the third and the fourth. By number ten I have tears in my eyes and my mind feels like it's been cleared of worry, all of my thoughts instead consumed by the satisfying pain spreading itself out in waves over the bottom half of my body.

He spreads his palm out over my ass, soft again. I feel him fingering the skin, admiring his work. He gives me a gentle tap on the ass cheek.

"Now go and find some work to do," he says, dismissing me as he clicks his programme back on. I go to the bathroom, lock the door, inspect myself in the beautiful onyx-framed full-length mirror. I look at my behind; his hand print embedded in red, the skin blistering in tiny blood spots. I put my hand inside my g string. I'm soaking wet.

I'm scrubbing the bathroom floor when the takeaway arrives. He collects it from the door, brings it to the kitchen table, watches as I open up tubs and collect a serving spoon to dole it out. I'm still in my lingerie. As I dish up, he comes and stands behind me, putting one hand either side of the violin curve of my waist.

"Just give yourself half a tub," he tells me.

I nod my head yes, and dish out a few spoonfuls of noodles onto my plate. We sit down to eat; he tells me about his day, about another successful merger he has overseen. After dinner he leaves me with the dishes, goes and turns the television onto the Business News. This is his routine; he likes to keep up with recent events.

"Bring me another glass of whiskey and come here, baby," he calls through as I dry the suds off of the last dish. I pour his drink, go to join him. He's sat on the couch, louche and relaxed, his arms spread across the back of it. I hand him the fresh glass.

"Get down on your knees in front of me," he says, using his free hand to open up his fly and pull his big cock out. "Put it in your mouth."

I do as I'm told, taking the whole shaft in my mouth and gagging on it a little. He watches his programme, mostly ignoring me other than glancing down occasionally to mutter little orders my way. 'Soft lips around it baby, suck on the head a little bit.'

Only when he's close to cumming does he look down properly.

"Look up at me babe," he says. "Look into my eyes."

I look up at him, lovingly, gratefully, as he coats my tongue in his warm cum. He gives a groan, throws his head back on the coach, as I swallow everything down.

"Good fucking girl..." he says, zipping back up his fly. He pats the cushion beside him and I curl up against his body, his hand cupping my ass, still clad in lingerie. He makes occasional comments about the show for my benefit.

"They're going to regret collaborating with that corporation, mark my words." "That valuation is nowhere near what they're worth."

As we get ready for bed he eyes me beadily.

"Take the bra and knickers off and just keep the stockings and suspenders on," he tells me, so I obey. I crawl in bed next to him, him wrapping me up in his big arms. He falls to sleep quickly, his breath deep, content. I lay awake thinking about everything I have to do tomorrow. Peel potatoes, clean the bath, wash the windows. It goes around and around in my head like a chant, or a mantra. All of a sudden his deep breathing stops; he rouses. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looks at me.

"Are you still awake?" he asks me.

"Yes," I whisper."

"Have you been to sleep yet?"

"No," I confess.

He sits up, his shadow looming large against the dim light behind the curtains.

"Lay on your stomach," he tells me, and I do so. He sits up on his knees behind me, lifts my ass towards him so that I'm angled upwards. He slowly slides his big cock inside me, taking his time so that I feel every inch enter me. He starts to thrust in and out of me, his stomach slapping against the poor, sore, assaulted skin on my ass cheeks. I'm feeling dizzyingly turned on, loving the feeling of being so full of him. He speeds up, close to cumming yet again.

"Turn around baby, I want to cum on your face," he instructs. "I don't want a baby destroying this fine body."

I do as he says, spinning round onto my knees to face him. He covers my face and my outstretched tongue in cum, groaning loudly.

"Suck the rest of it out darling," he orders, and I put my lips around the head of his cock and lick it off.

He falls back down on the bed. I lay on his chest. Both of our hearts are pounding.

"You going to be able to sleep now?" he asks me, and I nod. As his palm grazes over the butterfly wing of my shoulder blade I start to nod off, contented, satisfied, happy. I fall into sleep and let the clouds of joyful dreams take me.