Husband had not given me a good proper punishment in a while. The toll was beginning to show.
Things had been crazy at work, I was slipping in my duties, and I could tell he needed an outlet for his stress. A whipping post, if you will.
He didn't technically need to justify a good whipping. He could have simply told me to lean over the bed and brace, and I would have complied and taken it. But he didn't want a light spanking out of me; he wanted to hear me scream. He wanted tears. And what kind of husband would want to make his wife scream and cry?
A Sadistic Dom, that's who.
That's when things got dangerous. That's when he got playful.
That morning, I let him sleep in, thinking I was doing him a favor.
"Why did you let me sleep for so long?" He demanded, coming down the stairs. "It's late."
"I thought you'd appreciate the sleep?" I asked. He looked at me, clenching his jaw. Not a good sign.
"Did you make coffee?"
He shook his head in disappointment, and I suddenly felt very nervous. It was his "woman needs to learn a lesson" head-shake.
I quickly got up and made coffee. We both drank it, him looking thoughtful, me studying his expressions, trying to anticipate his next move. He disappeared upstairs for a moment, and when he came back down, his eyes filled me with foreboding.
"Get ready to go," he announced. "Be ready in twenty minutes."
Now I knew he was up to something. "I can't be ready in twenty minutes," I said. "I can be ready in thirty." Thirty was pushing it, but doable.
"Be ready in twenty, or pay for every minute you're not ready," he growled. Realizing the smartest move at that point would be to shut my mouth and follow orders, I ran upstairs to comply.
But I soon began to panic when I couldn't find my pants. I was doing laundry that day, and all my other pants were downstairs in the laundry area; but I had left my last pair of pants on the chair where I could find them.
Now they were gone.
With only a few minutes of time remaining, Husband began to call up, "you almost ready to go?"
I frantically began to look for my pants. Not in the drawers, not in the closet, not in the hamper...and then I noticed Husband had made the bed. He never makes the bed, especially not first thing in the morning.
I lifted up the blankets, and...there were my pants.
He had hidden them, under the blankets. To make me late. On purpose.
I was on to him now, but I didn't say anything about his little stunt when I came down the stairs. Anything I would have said would only have been construed as mouthing-off. Another justification for a punishment.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Are you questioning me now?" He asked with raised brows. This was really, really bad. I was walking on eggshells at this point.
"I...I'm just curious...."
"The mall. You said the other day the kids need clothes."
"Well, I'm going to be nice and help you shop. So appreciate my help."
Another shake of the head; my dubious offer of thanks had not been good enough. The sadistic light in his eyes began to turn into a shining gleam.
"You are not being good today, are you? Too bad. Too bad," he said. "Try to behave in the mall."
The rest of the morning was a series of "misbehaviors" and "naughty looks" on my part. Every little thing he could take as an infraction, he did.
By the end, it got somewhat comical. Walking too far ahead? Bad. Walking too far behind? Bad. Taking too long to look at some shoes? Very, very bad. Making a juvenile noise with a straw from a smoothie cup? Oh, naughty, naughty. That one probably got me another five swats right there.
Let's be clear: I knew what he was up to. I knew he was going to hurt me later on because of my so-called "attitude." And I could have protested. Had I protested, we probably would've ended up having a serious discussion, and I would have made him feel pretty damn guilty.
But I didn't protest, because I knew he needed me to absorb some of his stress, and I didn't mind. I wanted him to. If this was the only way he could justify his own actions in his own head, I was willing to play along.
So I began to mouth-off on purpose.
"Oh, look at that," I said, eyeing some hair-product in a salon window. "You should really get that, dear. Your hair is starting to thin on top, you know."
He gave me a thin-lipped grin. He knew I was being smart-assed on purpose--now he was free to plan his torturous punishment without guilt.
"Oh, look, it smells all citrusy," I continued. "You should by it. You don't mind smelling girly, do you?"
That was it.
"Wait till we get home," he whispered, smiling an evil smile. "Just wait till we get home."
"We'll see," I said, further goading him.
"Oh, yes. Yes, you will."
The evening continued, I kept up my naughty behavior, and he kept making mental checkmarks on his list of infractions. But it was a game now, to both of us. One that I would lose, of course. There could be only one winner, Him, and that had been taken for granted from the beginning.
My punishment was awful that night. I cried, and he had to gag me so I wouldn't wake the kids with my screams. The lash-marks lasted three days.
But, as usual, I wore them with pride.
On the face of it, he won the game. But if you're in a BDSM relationship, you know there are no real "losers" in these things. He got to dominate me and hurt me...and I got to be dominated and hurt. In the end, we both won.
I love that man.