The Good Wife Ch. 01

I love my husband. Hell, I'm in love with my husband. But his attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, you know, that ADHD you read about all of the time, is a problem that I have to keep under control.

So I was sad as I made dinner. Nothing fancy, just a meatloaf, canned corn, and instant mashed potatoes. I set the table, even gathering a few flowers from the garden and putting them into my one fancy crystal vase as a centerpiece.

I looked at the clock. As usual, I was right on time and it showed 5:10 p.m. That gave me about fifty minutes before he would get home.

Upstairs I stripped, peeling off the sweat-damp T-shirt I wore through the day as I did the housework or the laundry or worked in the garden, and the Daisy Duke cut-off jeans I like to wear because I think my legs were my best feature and I enjoy showing them off. I pushed my panties down and off and they joined the T-shirt in the dirty clothes hamper. I hung the cut-offs on a little hook by the bed and then padded into the bathroom to shower.

I think it's important to look my best for my husband.

I showered, scrubbing my face, shampooing my hair, and washing my body with the bar of Zest soap the doctor had prescribed years ago for my oily skin. I used a little dab of my Venus shaving gel on my armpits and shaved them, and then did my legs as well. I looked down and carefully trimmed that thatch of my pubic hair into a tidy triangle.

Satisfied, I dried, put a heavy layer of deodorant in my armpits - I figured I would be using quite a bit of energy tonight and didn't want to get all stinky - and set about getting ready to greet my husband.

I started with a hairbrush and blow dryer. I think my hair is one of my best features, next to my boobs actually. It's black, suggesting the family legend that somewhere back in our family tree a French trapper took a Sioux squaw was true, and shot through with silver. I had seen the first of those grey hairs when I was 20 and now, well, I wasn't quite salt and pepper but I was definitely pepper and salt.

I worked and brushed and sprayed and brushed some more until I had it fashioned into a Victory Roll hairstyle that would have been at home on the streets of any city in the 1950s. I liked the look, kind of stark but also very very feminine. I know my husband likes it too. I think he appreciates the work that goes into it.

Then it was the underwear. The girdle went first of course. I favor the heavy, traditional style, waist to ass, open bottom, with suspenders for the nylons built into the girdle. I couldn't resist watching myself in the mirror as I squirmed into the damn thing. There's something sexy, I think, about a woman getting into a girdle. In my case, my boobs, saggy pancake boobs courtesy of my son, with oversize, dark areolas and nipples and a tracery of blue veins showing clearly in the pale skin, swayed in interesting ways as I worked the tight elastic and whalebone, well, probably reinforced plastic these days, garment up.

Panting a little with the effort, I looked at the results in the mirror and thought I looked pretty damn good. My breasts hung loose and fallen, a gift from my son, and a ring, what I guess they call a muffin top these days, squeezed out above the girdle where, another gift from my son, my once 26-inch waist was now 30 inches and, if I didn't watch my weight, would soon get bigger. My pubic hair peeked out shyly under the white material.

My bra was next, heavy and white. A well-padded torpedo bra that took my 38D real size to 40EE. I hooked the six hooks in front and then jerked it around to get the cups in front, shrugged into the straps, and then worked my boobs into the cups.

The black nylons were next. I smoothed them up, making sure the darker toe and heel reinforcements were smooth and straight, and then hooked them to the girdle. I did that twist-and-look-over-my-shoulder thing and tugged gently until my seams were ruler-straight.

I pulled on my lightest petticoat to make sure that the skirt of my dress would flare nicely.

I selected my pale pink dress with the notched white collar and the twelve big white buttons in the front. I slipped it on and buttoned it, adjusting the little white turnups on the short sleeves so the notches were perfectly aligned with the seams down the sides.

I stepped into the white pumps with their over-tall 5-inch heels, feeling that pain every woman knows as her toes are squeezed into the ridiculous pointed toe-boxes, made even worse because the heels were so high all my weight was on that pad just behind my toes. God, the things women do for our men.

I sat at my little makeup desk and started to work. At 50, well, at 49 but 50 is close enough as to make no difference, it takes time to make myself seem, at least, age-appropriate for my 30-year-old husband. The base, carefully applied, hid the worst of the wrinkles, and the ridiculously expensive le Parfait under-eye cream tightened the bags that I hate so much. A carefully applied blush highlighted my cheekbones. Pale blue eyeshadow highlighted, I thought, my brown eyes and eyeliner gave me a slightly exotic look. Mascara filled my lashes out, giving them body.

I lifted my chin, wishing there was something like the le Parfait that would help with my wattle, and for about the bazillionth time thought about going ahead and making the appointment to have the work done on that. It was my worst feature.

I stood then and went to the full-length mirror to check.

Okay, I smiled.

Sure, I looked like I was stepping off the set of Leave it to Beaver or or even The Donna Reed Show. But my husband likes the look and, if I'm being honest, I think the 1950s were the best decade for women.

Satisfied, I went to my jewelry box. I selected my single strand of pearls and put the necklace on. Pearl ear studs drew a little frown as I noticed, not for the first time, how at 50 (okay, at 49) my ear lobes seemed to droop. My small Elgin watch went on my wrist. And then I smiled as I put the heavy white leather bowling glove on my right hand. I knew I would need the support for my wrist and couldn't help the smile that crossed my lips as I thought that my husband would know what it meant as soon as he saw it.

Downstairs, I mixed myself a screwdriver adding a double shot of the Grey Goose we kept in the freezer to the tumbler of orange juice, went into the living room, and turned on The View. I watched the girls, laughing, not with them but at them.

My husband is prompt. He knows better than to dawdle on his way home and, regular as clockwork, at 5:54 by the clock on the DVR, he pulled into the driveway, the loud pipes on his silly old car announcing that he was home.

I went into the kitchen, got a heavy mug out of the freezer, and poured a can of George Killian's Red, his favorite beer, into the mug, fascinated as I always was by the little rim of ice that formed as the beer met the freezing glass.

I greeted him at the door, looking like Donna Reed or June Cleaver, holding the beer out to him and taking his briefcase, a gift from me when he got promoted to Head of Special Projects. I liked the little sag in his shoulders as his eyes noticed the brace on my wrist, but he recovered quickly.

My husband is a handsome man in that boy next door way, not a rugged guy like Sam Elliot, or a pretty boy like Brad Pitt. He's more, well, boy next door, think Tom Hanks. At 30, he has been very successful on his weird career path, as a planner working for a regional organization that, as he puts it regularly, "perveys common sense." Only five years out of graduate school, he was recently promoted to his job doing "special projects," and when we talked about it he was sure he would be the next Deputy Director when Ron, the guy who had that job now, retired in a few years.

I set his briefcase alongside the little table in the hallway and then walked him to the couch. As he sat, I got to my knees before him, pulled off the slip-on shoes he wore, peeled off his socks, and massaged his feet in the "getting home ritual" we had developed over the years. He sipped his beer and kibbitzed with the girls on television as I worked on his feet, enjoying the way he slowly relaxed.

"So," I said, standing first and then getting onto the couch beside him, my knees bent and under me, sitting back on my heels and leaning toward him, putting my best adoring look on my face and brushing an imaginary hair away from his face, "how was your day?

And he told me, as he always does.

And I listened, attentively as I always do.

In part, it was that he's witty and has a way of describing things that makes him a good storyteller. I enjoyed it as he told me how he had argued with the state bureaucrat about something to do with licensing or approvals or something. I didn't care what the details were, but I enjoyed the way he described the woman, the expressions he figured she had on her face, and the way her face scrunched up when she got mad. He told a good story and had me laughing.

He described at great length his efforts to track down a particular bit of census data he needed, and the way he told the story made it as interesting as an adventure movie of a big game hunt in Africa that went bad. I was laughing gaily as he described the final stalk and then pounce, bringing that sneaking data set to earth.

When he wound down I said, "Sounds like you had a good day, now come on. Let's eat."

He sat, as he always does, at the head of the table while I prepared plates and placed one before him and one at the other end of the table for me. We ate in companionable silence, kibitzing with the television news and then laughing at the Big Bang Theory reruns that followed the 5:00 news.

As we were wrapping up dinner, you know, down to scraping those last few little bites off of the plates I asked the question he knew was coming.

"What else did you do today?"

"Honeyyyy," he said, using that whiny voice he couldn't seem to help.

"David," I asked, meeting his eyes, "What. else. did. you. do. today?" making each word a separate sentence.

He dropped his eyes, looking at his plate.

"DAVID!" I snapped.

"I lost my temper," he said, his voice very soft, barely audible.

"What else did you do today?" I asked for the third time. I suppose he knew I was starting to lose my temper but, goddam it, he's a 30-year-old man and he was acting like a third-grader caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

"Brenda," he started with that goddam whiny voice.

I jumped to my feet, quickly enough that my chair fell over backward and the dishes on the table rattled.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!" I yelled.

He looked up at me, his face pale, realizing what he had done.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," he said.

I reached down and grabbed and twisted his ear, making him cry out.

"You KNOW better," I said, hissing the words through clenched teeth, in part acting but in part truly angry, "Now do your chores and then get ready."

I gave his ear a shake, making him holler again, and then releasing him.

I went into the living room and sat.

Try it sometime. If you act like you're mad, you know, teeth clenched, words hissed, body tense, voice getting louder, you get physical reactions as if you really were mad.

So, I sat, deliberately relaxing. After a few minutes, I had my breathing under control and could laugh at the antics of Leonard, Sheldon, Penny, and the rest as I watched the Big Bang Theory rerun on the television.

I heard the sounds in the kitchen that told me he was taking care of his chores. As always, the domesticity made me smile and relax a little more.

I watched as he carefully wiped down the table and then set the chairs before disappearing into the kitchen to finish in there.

When he passed through the front room to the hallway leading to the bedrooms I stood and moved the chair I inherited from my mother into its proper spot in the middle of the front room.

I smoothed my dress carefully as I sat. I used the remote control to turn off the television and then turned on the Bose Wave radio and loaded the special CD my mother had given me.

When my husband walked into the front room I hit play, and the soft strains of Landini's Ecco la primavera started drifting through the room, soft as a butterfly.

He had on a onesie, very tight across his athletic frame, with "Bad Little Boy" printed across the front.

I pointed to a spot in front of me and he came and stood there.

"Tell me what you did," I said.

"Bren....Mommy," he said, that whine in his voice pulling the anger back to the surface of my mind.

"Tell. me. what. you. did." I said, again.

"I threw a book, but it wasn't my fault," he said, the child's ready excuse.

"Whose fault was it?" I asked.

"That woman on the phone wouldn't give me the information I needed," he said, "She said I had to fill out a form."

"Why did that make you angry?" I said, working hard to keep my voice calm.

"She shoulda give it to me," he said, his gramma starting to match that whine in his voice and the onesie he wore.

"What else did you do?" I asked.

"Nuthin'," he said, looking down and making little semicircles with his toe on the carpet.

"Tell me," I said.

"I threw a pencil at Becca," he said.

"You threw a pencil at your secretary?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"And what did you say?" I asked.

He didn't answer, just kept making those silly little semicircles with his toe.

"And. what. did. you. say?" I asked again, snap in my voice.

"I said, 'Get out of my office, bitch,'" he said.

I knew all of this, of course. Becca had called to tell me my husband had stepped far out of line. I thanked her, as I always do.

"I see," I said, "You called a woman a bitch?"

"But Mommy..." he started but I screamed at him as loud as I could, making his eyes go big, "YOU. CALLED. A. WOMAN. A. BITCH?!?!"

"Y-y-yes," he said, his eyes on the floor.

"Over here," I snapped, pointing to a spot on the floor to my right.

He moved to stand where I directed and stood still as I unsnapped the two snaps at the crotch of his onesie, freeing his erection and exposing his ass. I took a minute, making him stand there, exposed, humiliated, looking at how smooth he was after those six consecutive Wednesday afternoons with the lasers and chemicals to make sure he was perfectly, and permanently, hairless from the neck down.

I smiled to myself, thinking how small and silly that thing between his legs was. And he was so proud of it. It was smaller than when we had married as the ultra-strength birth control pills I had him taking overwhelmed the testosterone his body tried to produce.

This was the moment every Wife should be able to experience. Her husband, like all men, a boy at heart, humiliated and caught at that moment of surrender.

God knows I love this instant, as I reached up and laid my hand on his back, pulling him forward, feeling the last shreds of resistance before he surrendered and laid across my knees.

I took my time. A proper spanking requires anticipation.

Besides that, I like to look.

His ass was firm, of course. He wasn't old enough for middle age spread or its opposite, middle age atrophy and shrinkage. But his was round and firm, befitting a 30-year-old who had once been a state champion gymnast. And right there on the roundness, right where he sat, was my handprint, tattooed in bright red. The print itself was exquisite art, the fine lines of my palm and even my fingerprints carefully recreated.

"Mommy, I'm sowwy," he said, and I could hear the infantilization complete in his words.

"I know you are, Baby," I said, my words soft and low as my hand lightly caressed those tattoos.

"Pwease," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, Honey," I said, "you know that lessons must be taught."

I heard a little break in his voice and felt the first little rush in my belly.

But I held off waiting for the music to change. Brahms, Piano Concerto No. 2 came on, thick with love.

And I started the spanking.

My touch was light at first, almost caresses, barely pats, warming him up. I didn't count, or make him count. I didn't need that. I'd know when the lesson was done.

In many ways, this is my favorite part of spanking my husband. I love watching the skin around those beautiful tattoos slowly turning pink, making such almost perfect circles surrounding the handprints.

He was almost perfectly relaxed, just the slightest quiver with each little pat, each stroke slightly harder than the one before, as my left hand rubbed his back softly through the thin material of the onesie.

When the music blended into the incomparable Ride of the Valkyries, I began spanking him in earnest. Each stroke, in time with that powerful music, landed with an audible SMACK. His body would shudder, his feet kick, and his hips would rock, his erection hard against my hip as he sought relief from what I was doing to his ass.

He was crying now, wailing really. Almost unintelligible cries of "Mommy," and "Don't," and "pwease," echoed around the room.

By the time Tsaichovsky's 1812 Overture started I knew he was close. My palm was stinging with the wonderful pain I always got from correcting him.

Each blow was as hard as I could administer it now. His ass, his beautiful round ass, was beyond red now. Bruises more or less matched the tattoos, although the bruises' edges were not, of course, as clean and sharp as the tattoo.

And that pressure in my belly was a living thing now, straining to get out, but I held it in, tightening all of those muscles, squeezing hard.

He started squealing, a high-pitched, wavering sound, as his hips bucked and he came.

And that put me over the top as well, driving my need past all of my efforts to hold back. I was cumming so hard I could feel my natural release soaking the inside of my thighs, leaving me sitting in a thick, warm puddle as his spunk left those thick, sticky, white strings across the front of my skirt.

I gave him no rest now. My hand was slapping as hard and fast as I could manage, the stark WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP sound part of what had me so excited.

He was squealing and I was grunting and slapping for some timeless time.

I kept that rhythm going until he collapsed, completely spent, limp as a cat across my lap.

I laid my hand on his ass, so hot, the sensation of the heat and his little twitching made me catch my breath and I felt a final little spasm in my belly as my own release was complete.

We held that tableau. I was relaxing, letting the anger, along with the sexual excitement, slowly drain from my body. He was still crying softly, almost babbling in his childish, post-discipline voice, "I'm sowwy Mommy," over and over between sobs.

I felt tension return to his body and patted his ass, drawing a little squeak from him, and said, "Okay, Baby, stand up now."

He stood and I held his hand while he steadied himself.

Finally steady, tears still running down his cheeks, his nose running freely with water-clear mucus hanging in thick strings from his chin to wet the front of his onesie, I said, "Now go stand in your corner and think about why I had to do this."

He went, walking in short little steps, protecting his very sore ass, and stood in the corner facing away from the television.

My breathing was under control but, if I'm being honest, my own body from the waist down was a little shaky so I took a few minutes, listening to the soft music and looking, lovingly, at my husband standing the corner those two bruises giving me a little rush in my belly, until I thought I'd be okay to make the long, dangerous walk to the bedroom.

I stood and turned, slowly, smiling.