Wedding Day No. 11

What is it about a wedding?

I suppose it's the event, sort of a celebration of love. Everyone is happy, congratulating the happy couple.

There's the alcohol, of course. The bar had been open since my son dipped his new bride at the end of the aisle and then emitted a war whoop and yelled, "LET'S PARTY."

There's the pot and, I suppose, other drugs although I didn't participate in those. I was flattered when invited to join a circle passing around a big bomber joint and was pleasantly buzzed after a couple of tokes.

There were, most definitely, the pheromones thick in the air. I was reminded of that as I stood, watching the dancers, and one of the bridesmaids walked by, the womanscent of her arousal following her like a cloud.

The reception had reached that point where clusters had formed. The biggest, of course, surrounded my son and his bride of ((glances at my watch)) a little over three hours. There was the college-friends-group in one corner, raucous, almost enjoying a final fling since they were all approaching their 30s. Two separate family groups, the bride's around one big table, and the groom's, which is to say my ex and her family, standing along one wall, had formed. Youngsters ran around in the feral way of children when parents think it's a safe environment and are enjoying a break from responsibility.

I was alone, not in good favor with the ex's family, having met the bride's family only the day before, and knowing the younger crowd not at all. So I was starting to think it was time for my graceful exit. I did my duty, drove the more-than-800 miles to attend the wedding, and now it was time to head back to my wife, stuck at home, nursing her arthritis.

I was finishing my beer, watching the party, when I saw her approaching. She met my eyes and it was obvious she was coming toward me. I strained my memory, but couldn't come up with her name. I remembered being introduced when I arrived, my son walking me around and introducing me to the two dozen people directly involved in the wedding, of whom I knew five, my ex, my ex's new husband, my son, the bride-to-be, and one cousin who would be in the wedding party. She was one of the groomsmen's mother, as I recalled, but her name escaped me utterly. I was just blank.

So when she walked up and touched my arm, obviously wanting to start a conversation, I said, "I am sorry," in my best hangdog tone, "but your name escapes me."

She smiled at that, and said, "Now that's disappointing."

I chuckled and, by way of explanation and apology, said, "Forgive me. I'm running on about eight hours of sleep in the last three days and," I lifted my beer in a toast, "a bit tipsy."

She laughed at that.

"Tipsy?" she asked.

I grinned, my best boyish grin, the one I used to practice in the mirror, and said, "Yes, I'm THAT old."

"Oh," she said, moving closer and touching my arm, "What about the old saying - just because there's snow on the roof don't mean there's no fire in the furnace?"

I touched my hair, mostly grey since I turned 40 and now a nice silver, flashed the grin again, and said, "Is that a challenge?"

She matched my grin, making me wonder if I was the only one in this conversation who had practiced a grin in the mirror, "Maybe. It's been a busy three days and a girl has needs."

Okay, I was WAY out of practice for this sort of banter so I bought a little time by taking a step back and deliberately looking her up and down, slowly, making it obvious I was taking inventory.

And, well, I liked what I saw very much.

The first impression was that she was short and cute. I guessed her at 5'2" in the moderately high heels she wore, and maybe not quite five feet tall in her bare feet. She wasn't pretty, her face was too round for that, but she was cute with big dark eyes, a button nose, and a cupid-bow mouth dressed in very red lipstick, all framed by an amazing mane of auburn hair shading to red in some light. In her dress, it was clear that she was a pear-shaped woman with small breasts and big hips. Her arms, displayed by the spaghetti strap top, were an athlete's arms, toned and, I guessed, strong. I noticed the wedding ring on her left hand but kept looking anyway. The skirt spread across her hips, and ended above her knee, showing off heavy legs. In many ways, at first look, she looked like two halves of a woman put together at the waist. The top half was athletic, trim, small-breasted, and almost slender. The bottom half was big hips, heavy thighs, and those very shapely calves some chubby women develop that tapered to small, almost delicate ankles.

When my eyes made it back to hers she was smiling now, not the grin.

"Well?" she asked, "Do I pass?"

I chuckled and said, thinking of an episode of Big Bang Theory when Sheldon was interviewing potential new roommates, "You have passed the first level."

She giggled and said, "There are more?"

"Oh, yeah," I said, fully into the sexually-charged banter now.

I placed my beer on a nearby table, took the glass from her hand, tasted it quickly, and thought, "Screwdriver," set it carefully by my beer, took her hand, and led her to the dance floor.

The DJ had slowed the pace following the Chicken Dance-YMCA-Hokie Pokie medley, and Etta James was doing At Last as I held my left arm, bent, palm up, and waited. She smiled, laid her right hand on my left, her left on my shoulder, and I put my right hand on her waist, right where her hips flared out.

"It's Priss," she said, as I led her into an easy box step.

I smiled. "Short for Priscilla?" I asked.

"Nothing so simple," she said, smiling, "Short for Persephone."

I grinned and said, "Phillip. Short for Phillip."

"I know," she said, smiling now, the grin replaced.

"So," I said as we settled into the rhythm of the dance, "Why me?"

She chuckled at that, a throaty sound I liked.

"Because my spies told me you were here alone," she said, meeting my eyes, "Because my husband thinks golf is more important than attending one of his son's best friend's wedding."

We took another couple of steps and she added, "And because I'd kinda like to get laid."

I laughed.

"And you chose me?" I asked.

"Well," she said, and what came next was ego-deflating even if I did see it coming, "It's not like there's a lot of age-appropriate, unattached men wandering around in this group."

"Are you settling, then?" I asked, my always-fragile ego a bit bruised.

She smiled up at me, patted my cheek, and said, "No, Phillip. I'd have chosen you in any crowd."

Ego soothed, I said, "Well, about that age-appropriate thing. From my point of view, you look like a barely legal girl."

She giggled at that, a very girlish sound, and said, "With that delightful compliment, Phillip, you've won my heart. Your place or mine?"

I laughed, and said, "Are you in the hotel?

"Yes," she said.

"Then mine, of course," I said. "I rented an Airbnb downtown. I don't know about your husband, but my wife would castrate me if I got caught."

She laughed at that.

"Well," she said, "I don't have anything to castrate but he might slice my tits off."

I lost it. My laugh was loud and a lot of people were looking at us.

"Slap me," I said.

"Huh?" She asked.

"Slap me," I said, "then storm out. I'll meet you in the parking lot in about ten minutes."

POW!

The slap was hard enough that my head snapped around and loud enough that all conversation stopped.

By the time my eyes cleared, the slap had them watering, she was across the dance floor. I watched as she stopped in front of the young man in his rented tuxedo that I thought I remembered was her son, exchanged a few words, and drew his glare at me.

"It was a joke," I called.

She moved to the bride and groom, exchanged a few more words, and was gone.

I did my best embarrassed, hangdog look and slowly approached her son, ready to block, or anyway try to block, if he decided to punch me. It had been years since I stepped into a karate dojo, but I thought I still had one block and one punch in arthritic bones.

"Tell your mother I'm sorry, it was a joke," I said.

He surprised me by smiling, patting my shoulder, and saying, "She's a little high-strung, but I'll give her the message."

I mumbled, "Thank you," and headed for the group surrounding the bride and groom.

"Dad," my son said, trying to stifle his laughter, "What the fuck did you say?"

I put on my best sheepish face and said, "I just pointed out that the pear is my favorite shape for a woman."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"God, you can be such a dick sometimes," he said, wrapping me into a big bear hug.

"Look," I said, "Congratulations and all that. Keep in mind, you're the lucky one in this couple, and I think I'll head out. I've caused enough disruption."

He laughed, grabbed Meg, his bride, and said, "Dad says I'm the lucky one."

She smiled at that, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and said, "He's right."

They were pulled back to their group and I said a few more goodbyes and left.

In the parking lot, I looked around and spotted Priss leaning against a Toyota so beige it was perfectly anonymous. It almost disappeared when I tried to focus on it.

"Hey, Sailor," she said, walking toward me in that exaggerated way a model might use, "Buy a girl a drink?" As she said that she laid her hand on my arm and pressed herself against me.

"Jesus, lady," I said, "I said 'slap me,' not, see if you can knock a few teeth out."

She stepped back, looked at the ground, and said, "I apologize if I misunderstood or disobeyed."

And just like that, I knew what she wanted. Well, check that. I knew what she "needed." The question of "want" would be determined later. Toward the end with my first wife, she had developed similar needs and I recognized the signs.

"Welllllllll," I said, drawing the consonant out, "You were a naughty girl," making sure to use the word "naughty." I knew it would be a trigger for her, and it was. There was a little shudder that ran down her body.

"Yes," she said in a voice so soft I could barely hear her.

"Follow me," I said, "That's my truck over there," I pointed to the big red Ram 2500, my travel-trailer-hauler.

I took three steps and heard the click as her car door unlocked.

I stopped, turned, and walked back to her.

"Give me your panties," I said, "Naughty girls don't need them."

The trigger word and the direct order got to her. Her eyes were on the pavement as she bent, worked the panties down and off, and handed them to me.

"Now follow, and don't get lost," I said, and headed for the truck.

The big diesel engine started with its normal clatter. While I let things warm up for a few seconds I hung my latest trophy, those lacy black panties, on the mirror.

When the needles on the dials moved off of their stops I took off. I saw her car in the backup camera image on the screen, moving to follow closely.

I grinned to myself and thought, "Be careful what you wish for, Priss, my dear, you just might get it."

It was interesting and exciting, letting my inner sadist out for the first time in almost a half-century. My first wife, a good Catholic girl who descended into alcoholism, drugs, and wife-swapping with me during our 13 years together, had discovered that punishment and pain, along with humiliation and degradation, took her to sexual release on a level she had never imagined. It turned out, we were a good match, because I loved her, but I loved satisfying her too.

That second spanking still lingers in my memory. The first had been before I studied and learned techniques and while she came hard as I spanked that pretty little ass, it wasn't close to what we would develop later. So I studied. That had been before the easy access to information. Today, for example, Google "The proper way to spank your wife" and then start working your way through the 129,000,000 (yes, that's a real number, try it yourself) hits. In the 1970s when I was in my 20s, I spent time in the card catalog and journals.

It turns out, the basic rule for a proper spanking is summed up in the story of how to boil a frog. You don't drop the frog into boiling water. Frogs aren't the brightest creatures in God's world, but even a frog will jump out of boiling water. But if you put him in a pan of cold water and then turn on the burner, by the time Kermit figures out what's happening, he's too relaxed to jump out and you can have frog stew. So the second spanking with my young Catholic wife had lingered as I slowly brought her along until she came like a goddam garden hose at stroke 76. After that, well, Domestic Discipline became a regular part of our life.

I had to laugh. I was so lost in my reverie I missed a turn and that required a series of rights and lefts on narrow streets since in this old river town most of the streets in the downtown area were designated one way.

I finally made it to the little Airbnb shotgun house, Priss's little invisible Toyota right on my bumper.

I dismounted the truck, being careful on the big step down, the alcohol and pot still working on me.

I was struck, again, by her size. Well, by her lack of size, as she walked to me, eyes carefully on the ground.

"Lift your dress so I can see that pretty ass as you walk to the door," I said.

She said nothing, just reached down, pulled the skirt of her dress up until it bunched around her waist, and started walking up the sidewalk to the front door.

And, DAMN, I was glad I had her do that. Her ass was two perfect melons, very oversized on her small frame, her gluteal cleft, the crack of her ass, was about a foot long, and each of those melons seemed to move separately. It was a fucking GORGEOUS ass. I couldn't wait to get my hands on it.

She waited, eyes still on the floor, as I worked the digital entry code and opened the door.

"Kitchen's in there," I said, pointing, "Go fetch me a beer."

While she went to do my bidding, her skirt still held bunched at her waist, that gorgeous ass on display, I turned on the television and scrolled through the menu, looking for the music channels. As usual, they were up in the very high numbers and there it was - Torch Songs. I selected 785 and the soft, slow music started up.

Sarah Vaughan's version of Smoke Gets In Your Eyes was just starting as Priss brought my beer.

I took the beer, patted that big ass, and said, "You hear the music, strip for me."

She didn't hesitate. She ran her fingers through her mass of thick, auburn hair, apparently getting a couple of pins undone because when she shook it loose it hung well down her back. She was careful to not meet my eyes as she swung her head, that great mass of hair flying. I realized she had practiced this and wondered if there was something like a "strippercise" class in her background somewhere.

Regardless of how she had learned it - I had another odd thought and wondered if she had been a stripper, or maybe even a hooker, working her way through college - she was damn good.

It wasn't one of those easily removable stripper dresses, but she got the zipper down as part of her dance and then just allowed the dress to fall to the floor in an oddly graceful movement.

She was so damn sexy in just her bra and "fuck me" shoes I said, "That's far enough," just as her hands were starting that double-jointed thing women do to remove their bra.

She was gorgeous, perfectly smooth, and so wonderfully bottom-heavy with short legs, heavy thighs, and almost delicate ankles that I thought she was female incarnate.

When the music ran down I said, "Don't stop," and she picked up the slightly faster temp of Peggy Lee's incomparable version of Fever followed by Dinah Washington doing What a Difference a Day Makes, Jo Stafford's I'll Be Seeing You, and Julie London's Cry Me a River. By then she was sweating and panting a little and I thought she looked absolutely terrific.

"Okay," I said, "you can dance."

I crooked my index finger, beckoning her and she came, eyes still carefully downcast.

"On your knees, Priss," I said.

She dropped to her knees before me.

"Look at me, Priss," I said.

Her head came up, very slowly, her eyes even more slowly, until they finally met mine.

I used my fingertips to gently brush a few stray hairs from her face. I remembered what a special intimacy a spanking is, and, more importantly, I remembered how important the preparation was. And I remembered how important tenderness was as part of it.

"Confess, Persephone," I said in my most gentle voice, the one I had developed a half-century ago with my first wife, being careful to use her full name.

She held my eyes. As I watched, tears welled and overflowed and her nose started running, water-clear mucus flowing over her upper lip.

"I acted like a whore," she said in a clear voice, "I offered myself to a man I didn't know. I'm a married woman and I broke my vows."

Her voice didn't break or even tremble, and I was proud of her on one level as, on another level, the palm of my hand literally itched to get at that beautiful ass.

"Anything else, Persephone?" I asked, holding my voice low and gentle. I knew there would be, just as I knew she needed to say it.

Her voice broke for the first time.

"I - I - I liked it, Phillip," she said, "I WANTED to do it."

"Say it, Persephone," I said, holding her eyes.

"I was a naughty girl," she said, her voice steady again.

"Say it all, Persephone," I said.

"I deserve a spanking," she said, and let out a long sigh.

"Go stand in the corner, Persephone," I said, "and think about what you did while I get ready."

She stood, holding my eyes until she turned far enough that eye contact was no longer possible, and walked to the corner.

DAMN! In her bra and those fuck-me shoes, and nothing else, she was so damn sexy I couldn't look away.

I finally managed to tear my eyes away and get up. I went into the bathroom, peed, and got my prescription bottle out of my shaving bag. I shook one of the almond-shaped Cialis pills, thought for a second, and shook out a second, popped them into my mouth, and washed them down. At my age, I've tried them all and prefer the lingering effects of Cialis. Viagra gets me hard, but it's a chemically induced hardon that goes away instantly after I cum, Levitra does nothing, and about all that those various herbal concoctions manage to do for me is make my heart race and my face flush.

The pills down, I walked into the kitchen. I remembered seeing an eclectic variety of cooking tools and rummaged through the drawer full of miscellaneous tongs, spatulas, and spoons. I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face when I saw the wooden basting spoon.

I picked it up, feeling the weight of a good hardwood. The spoon was about a foot long, the thin handle had a hole in the end with a leather loop for hanging or to serve as a lanyard around my wrist, and the business end was a flat circle about three inches in diameter. I swung it once, enjoying the little "whoosh" it made, and smiled.

I had a thought and went back into the bedroom quickly stripped out of my wedding suit and put on jeans and a T-shirt, this one proclaiming Molon Labe over a silhouette of a Model 1911 semi-automatic pistol. I took off my socks as well.

Back in the front room, I felt a little rush of pride as I saw how she stood in the corner, shoulders back and back straight. Spanking is a very intimate experience, and I felt the same rush of pride I used to feel when watching my daughter collect a trophy.

And she was right. Well, her husband was right. That ass, that wonderful ass, absolutely begged for a spanking.

I looked around and realized there was no appropriate chair in the front room so I went into the kitchen, grabbed one of the sturdy chairs at the kitchen table, and walked back into the front room. I placed the chair as near the center of the room as my eye could find. I went to the couch, selected the softest of the half-dozen throw pillows scattered there, and laid it on the floor to the left of the chair. Then I sat and spent a minute or so just looking at her, knowing the tension would be building.