The MOTH Group Ch. 01

"Resolved," I said, opening our weekly meeting since it was my turn to sit at the head of the table, "that there is nothing more beautiful than a woman's ass the morning after a proper spanking when the bruises are dark and fresh." They're not really, you know, "meetings." More like discussion groups or, well, just groups of friends getting together. We might have been a Mustang Club or Model Airplane Group. But we weren't.

The MOTH group, Man of the House, gets together every Thursday. We thought about calling it the Lepidopterists, but figured no one would get that. Too subtle.

Ours is a group of men with wives who understand a woman's proper role. But when one chooses The Life the number of people you can be, well, open with, is limited. So we have our clubhouse where we can be free, and these weekly get-togethers at the local restaurant where we can just talk, without being judged.

It's not a formal group and on any given Wednesday there might be fifteen or there might be two. Today there were six so we kept the little private room.

"Well," Danny said, "that's a good look but, honestly, a freshly slapped cheek when it's such a lovely red is better I think." Danny is one of the younger members of our group and his wife is twice his age and twice his size but regularly showed up at the club with a swollen cheek.

I chuckled and said, "well, LaVerne does look good that way, I'll give you that."

"A well-striped back is better," Chet chimed in. Chet's the oldest member of the group and Marie, his wife of 50 years, I know that because we had an anniversary party for them at The Club, always wore backless things to The Club. They are proud of their relationship.

"No," Frank interjected, "David," referring to me, "is right. It's the ass."

I laughed and high-fived him.

"Easy for you to say," Danny said, "an ass like Paula's absolutely begs to be spanked."

Everyone at the table said some version of "that's right". Paula, Frank's wife, is a delightfully pear-shaped woman. A perfect pear if we're being honest here. No boobs but one of the most magnificent asses the world has ever seen.

"What about you, Thomas?" I asked. He had been quiet so far.

"The most beautiful thing in the world is a woman, her feet in the stirrups, and her pussy so swollen she can't even pee without a catheter," he intoned in that college professor's voice, well practiced since he was, after all, a college professor. Valerie, his child bride, once a student, now his wife, is a big woman in her early 20s. She has the biggest hips and ass among the group. Those shelf hips, you know, a shelf you can set your beer on? would handle a 12-pack. I suppose we had all noticed her walking funny from time to time, you tend to notice when she walks by, but this was new.

"Tell us more," I said.

He grinned, took a drink of his coffee, and started his story.

THOMAS'S STORY

Valerie surprised me one day, she called it our six-month anniversary present, when she led me into the basement of our faculty housing and showed me the plus-size gynecological exam chair she had made up. At her size, she had to have it custom-made. She always complains when she comes back from her annual exam about how the armrests at the OB-GYN's office cut her hips. So this one fit her.

I admired it. It was quite a piece of workmanship. It looked like it had started as an old-style barber chair, all shiny chrome and white porcelain and dark leather. The stirrups were heavy-duty things, They looked to be stainless steel with heavy leather restraining straps attached. I walked around it slowly, enjoying the combination of surfaces, the soft leather contrasting with the hard, cold porcelain and chrome.

When I looked up she had a wooden case, the sort of thing you would expect a custom gun or maybe a pool cue crafted from exotic, and expensive, materials, to be in. It was Walnut, to my fairly practiced eye, with brass hinges and corner reinforcements. It was a beautiful piece in its own right.

She was holding it out to me, smiling, and when she opened it there was a paddle. And again, it was a beautiful thing in its own right. It looked like it had started as a piece of heavily spalted oak, the black lines running through it highlighting the figure of the wood, cut to the size and shape of a slightly oversized paint stir stick but then polished and dipped in varnish until several ounces of weight had been added to it.

"Beautiful," I said, "but what do you have in mind?"

She smiled that smile she has, the smile that meant I could never say "no" to her.

"Two more presents, baby," she said, that smile melting my heart.

She went to the corner and rolled out a stool, something that matched the chair, and took a small clear Ziploc bag from a drawer.

I watched, fascinated now, as she pushed her slacks down and off and then those ridiculous granny panties she wears. She kicked the slacks away but held on to the panties.

Then she got up, into the chair.

"Lock my feet in, baby, please," she said, and I could hear an odd mixture of excitement and fear in her voice.

I spent a few minutes working out the controls, how the chair reclined, how the little foot pump worked to raise and lower it, and how the stirrups were raised and lowered and moved and locked. It was fun, actually, and I could smell her growing excitement.

I reclined her in the chair, finding it oddly sexy that she was still dressed from the waist up, and strapped her into the stirrups, liking the way she sort of moaned as I drew the leather tight. Then I moved them until her legs were as far apart as the stirrups would hold them and tightened the thumb screws, locking everything in place.

"Tell me what you want," I said, my lips close enough to her ear that I knew my breath would be warm and moist.

"I want to be swollen and tight for you," she said.

"And this?" I asked, still not sure what it was in the Ziploc bag.

"It's a catheter, honey," she said, "and I want to be so swollen for you that I'll need it."

"Oh," I said, demonstrating that I'm not always the brilliant conversationalist you see before you, and I finally opened the bag and pulled the contents out. I still wasn't sure what I was looking at then, but the use was pretty obvious. It turns out it was what they call a Foley Catheter. The tube runs into the bladder and then a little balloon blows up to keep it from slipping out.

"How," I asked, because I really had no idea, "do I put it in?"

She smiled, that great smile, and reached down and pulled herself open.

She coughed then and said, "look for the wink."

"Sorry," I said, "again."

She coughed again and I saw it. Once I saw it it was pretty obvious. Right there, among the folds of her labia minora, those delicate inner lips I spotted her urethra. I went back to the drawer where she had taken the catheter from and got the tube labeled "Surgigel." Then I adjusted the stool until it was a good height for what I was going to do, loaded the top of the Foley with the thick lubricant, and said, "deep breath."

I used two fingers to open her up, spotted the little opening, and began working the catheter in. She groaned a little and her fingers gripped the end of the armrest hard enough that her knuckles were white. I knew I was in when I saw pale yellow urine start to fill the clear tube and I tightened the little clip before I had a mess on the floor. Then I squeezed the little ball at the end of the tube, inflating the little balloon to lock everything in place.

**He took a drink of his coffee and his eyes looked up and to the right, organizing his thoughts before he went on.**

So I made sure the straps on her ankles were tight and that the stirrups were apart as far as they would go.

**He grinned at each of us around the table.**

She was so gorgeous like that. I worked the tube down the crack of her ass so it was out of sight and then got that paddle she gave me. Sure enough, when I laid it against her pussy it fit just perfectly. I figure she had experimented several times before she was sure she had it just right.

Her eyes held mine as I moved around the chair, first securing her wrists to the armrests with the leather straps built into them, making sure they were tight. Then, not being completely stupid and certainly not wanting my neighbors bitching about the noise, I carefully folded the panties she had kicked off and moved to stuff them in her mouth. When she wouldn't open her mouth I did the pinch-her-nose-shut thing and since she had pissed me off doing that I pulled the belt out of her slacks and tied her head to the headrest with the belt passing across her mouth, holding the panties in nice and tight.

**Around the table we all kind of nodded appreciatively. I mean, seriously, who, in The Life, hasn't had to deal with a screaming wife?**

I pulled the little lever, laying her back in the chair, and then stepped on the foot pedal, pumping the hydraulics up and lifting the chair. I moved the stool a bit, sat, checked the angles, and then pumped her up a little higher.

It was all very clinical up until that point. Almost like I could imagine a trip to the doctor's office.

Once I was comfortable and everything was set up to my satisfaction I laid the paddle against her, holding pressure with my right hand, my dominant hand, while I pulled back on the tip with my left.

When I just let my left hand slip off the paddle hit with a satisfying smack, and she flinched.

And you should have seen it. Those big lips of hers turned red immediately.

So I took my time, looking at the results, and waiting for her to quit squirming, before I did it again. This time I pulled back a little farther with my left hand, and put a little more pressure with my right.

I released and there was that beautiful sound again. And that beautiful redness. And God, the way she writhed and shuddered, the way her fingers flexed and squeezed on the armrests, was SO damn sexy.

By about the tenth stroke, and by then I was hitting pretty damn hard, she was crying seriously so I stopped and just, you know how you do, "comforted" her.

I brushed the hair back from her face and told her she was beautiful.

And she was.

I mean, seriously, we're talking about what makes a woman look her best, right? Her face was red and tears were streaming, leaving mascara trails down her face. When she huffed out an enormous gout of clear snot, trying to clear her breathing, I kissed her forehead and told her she was beautiful. I kissed her then, come on, who hasn't given their wife a slick, snotty kiss, and then went back to what I was doing.

I fell into a rhythm then. I'd use that pussy paddle, that's what I was calling it in my mind then, watching the way her swollen lips rippled and the way her body writhed, and then do a slow count in my head to twenty-five, you know, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and like that.

By the time I got to twenty-five, she would be settled down, stopped writhing and her fingers would be done making those claws, and I'd do it again.

She came at the fifty-fourth stroke and Jesus, it was spectacular. It looked like she'd pulled a 10-man train. When she came it was thick and white and ran down the crack of her big ass until it started hanging in a long thick string.

**He smiled and took another drink of his coffee then.**

I took her over the top like that twice more. It was a long session. But we both had what she said she wanted.

Her nether lips were so swollen and bruised they hung visibly and were so swollen I couldn't even slip a finger in, and she was slick by then with the way she had cum.

But it wasn't just what was between her legs that got to me. Her face was a wreck. Her eyes were swollen almost shut, her nose was running like a damn fountain and she was drooling. She was lovely in other words.

BACK TO THE GROUP

"Well, all right then," I said, chuckling and lifting my coffee cup in a toast, "I think we have a winner."

Cups were raised around the table.

"So Thomas's breakfast from club funds, right?" I asked and heads nodded.

"And Thomas," I said, smiling at him, "any chance I can borrow that chair? I think Arlene would look good in it."

"Any time," he said, "want to come for dinner on Friday? We can make a weekend of it."

"It's a date," I said.