I Gambled and Lost

I spanked Anne last night. She says she was beaten and that she’s notified her friends and family to be alert in case anything happens to her. I know she did because I saw her typing away last night after the incident.

The previous evening she’d violated the cellphone rule—the one we’d discussed, negotiated and agreed to about turning off her work devices after 7:30 pm. I saw her checking her phone, and I knew she’d seen me see her. In the morning I told her that she’d be spanked that evening. It was hard going off to work after watching her face fall. When we came home in the evening we both had tasks to do that kept us busy until past eight. She made a couple of light references to her impending spanking, so I knew she knew what was going to happen and wasn’t frightened. When the time came, we went over to the couch. I told her I needed her to take off her jeans. She laughed. “You need me to, huh?” It’s one of our peeves about the way people in service industries speak. They’ll tell their customers “I need to you to sign this for me,” or “I need you to wait,” as if we’ve come to meet their needs. But she took off her jeans and arranged herself over my knee.

“Don’t do it too hard,” she said. I told her quite honestly that this was the last thing I wanted to be doing. I said frankly that it was going to hurt, but not nearly so much as if she’d fought or argued with me. She didn’t say anything. I started slapping her lightly over her underwear, and then after a while, a bit harder. I watched her carefully. She wasn’t crying and didn’t even seem very tense. Her bottom was pink, but I removed her underwear and continued.

She shouted for me to stop, and I did not. Although her legs were pinned, she managed to push herself off my leg onto the ground. “That’s enough!” she cried. I told her firmly to get back up, that we were not finished, and I pulled her back into position. After a few more swats she started crying, and she wrestled herself off again. I didn’t let go of her. I told her we were not finished until I decided, and that it would take longer because she fought me. When I got her back into position, I gave her about eight more swats and told her we were done. She pushed herself off before I could comfort her, pulled her clothes together and fled to another room.

When she gathered herself she told me that she didn’t understand me or how I could do what I did. She asked me repeatedly, shouting, how I could be OK with what I’d done. She said she’d seen a new side of me and that she would never be able to trust me again. That she was frightened of me. Where she came from, women didn’t allow themselves to be beaten. That’s when she went upstairs to her computer.

We didn’t speak after that. When I was in another part of the house, she gathered her things and went to the spare bedroom. I took care of her part of the remaining evening chores and went to bed in our own. I was wrung out. When I was almost asleep, she came in and turned on the light. She reiterated her points and said we should split up. She called me a sadist and said she didn’t trust me because I was “into it.” She asked me if I understood that she could go to the police. I only answered her when there was something simple and straightforward to say. Otherwise, I said we could talk about it later when emotions weren’t running so high.

In the morning, I brought her coffee and kissed her awake as usual, but she avoided me. When I was about to leave for work I went to her and told her that there would be no more spanking unless we were on the same page. She just repeated that she didn’t trust me or understand me. She showed me the small purple marks that remained on her bottom. She said she hadn’t decided what to do next, but that she was this close—she held her fingers half an inch apart—to throwing in the towel on us. That was all she had to say. I went to work.

Please don’t tell me my mistakes. It’s abundantly clear that I didn’t lay the proper groundwork for her, that I wasn’t patient enough, and that I spanked too hard. Did I lose control? No, I just used poor judgment.

It’s clear that the only response that could have mollified her this morning was a display of remorse, guilt, and submission. Instead, I went blank. I listened to her, and spoke small responses in a low voice. It’s my mode of behavior when my feelings are exploding and I don’t trust my heart to keep me out of danger. My feelings are still all over the map. I don’t know what’s next for me and Anne, only that things are very bad, maybe worse than we will be able to repair ourselves. Neither of us have much faith in marriage counselors, even if there were many of them available where we live. I don’t know what I’ll say to her when I get home, or what she’ll say to me. She’s not going to get over this quickly.

A Mile of Effort for One Step Forward

We took a step forward, but in some ways things seem less settled than ever.

Last week was busy and stressful, especially for Anne. On Monday, she learned she’d have a reconfigured role and a new manager at work—one she won’t meet for another several weeks. On Monday and Tuesday, a contractor was at the house, repairing plaster cracks and ceilings, which included a redo of the entire kitchen ceiling. He did fine work, but it left plaster dust all over the first floor. On Thursday, Anne had her annual job performance evaluation. On Friday, by coincidence, she had a job interview at another company.

On Saturday, we worked hard together repainting where the plaster had been repaired and cleaning the house. (It’ll be going on the market in a few weeks—for the third time in three years—so we’re particularly diligent about cleaning lately.)

On Saturday evening, our work week finally over, dinner made and eaten, the dishes washed and put away, I asked her to sit together with me on the couch. I reminded her of all she’d accomplished during the week, and how well. I told her that not only had she handled all those challenges during the week, she’d done so while doing right by me—never taking out her stress, always being sweet. I told her how proud I was of her. We kissed. Then I asked her to lie across my lap.

I made sure she knew it wasn’t a punishment. I planned to be gentle. We’d always discussed spanking in a punishment context, and I wanted her to learn that it didn’t always have to be that way. That it didn’t have to be something to fear.

As soon as she understood that I intended to spank her, she exploded. I tried to be firm, but it was obvious that forcing things would be wrong. So began two hours of anger, tears, and mutual frustration. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand…I don’t understand.” Nothing I say or do makes sense, she said. She is hurt and humiliated by spanking. If our marriage has gotten better in recent months, none of it is because of my dominant attitude or my taking charge—she’s just been nicer, trying harder, going along because I threatened to divorce her in the tough letter I gave her in October. She felt manipulated, betrayed. She doesn’t want to be “hit” by her husband…doesn’t understand why I want to “hurt” her. She doesn’t accept that accepting the pain of a spanking could serve a greater good…doesn’t believe any of what I say about how it can build intimacy, trust, and a deep feeling of connection. She can’t go along with it and try it because “it isn’t right.”

I reminded her about the January incident more than once, trying to see if there was any room in her head or heart for the idea that the evening and day after I spanked her were wonderful for a reason. All she could think of is that she was nice to me because I was nice to her. But of course, I’m often nice to her. I was nice to her that day.

The discussion went in circles until it petered out. I became morose and her frustration started to degenerate into contempt.

She kept saying I don’t understand her at all. Maybe she’s right. She retreated to her computer, and I to mine. Before I knew it, she was sound asleep in our bed. Our cats, the old one and the young one, were where my body and legs needed to be. I gathered my things and went to the guest bedroom to sleep.

At three I felt her climb in with me. We lay skin to skin, wordlessly, until I suggested we return to our own bed together.

She slept late, and when she got up, she was apologetic, if not contrite. We had our “Sunday summit” as usual (our weekly time, originally intended for communication as well as other types of connection, that has become simply a time for lovemaking). As things began to be passionate, she said “You can spank me if you want.” I asked if that was what she wanted. She chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t say wanted…” I had her lie across my knee and I slapped her bottom exceedingly gently, in little bursts, stopping often to ask her how it felt. A couple of times I slapped just a little harder until she said, calmly, that it was starting to hurt a little. I rubbed and kneaded, and she said that felt good. Our lovemaking was more than usually satisfying for her.

We spent the rest of the day doing yard work. Spring is a full month early this year, and every growing thing we usually don’t see until mid-April is not only present but seems to be growing twice as fast. She dug grass out of her flower beds and trimmed the berry canes. I gathered fallen branches and cleared the vegetable garden of last year’s seed plants and weeds.

My feelings were confused. I’m beginning to suspect a pattern where she creates a terrible scene, then is very loving and allows us to move within limits that she effectively controls. Maybe that’s normal; maybe that’s progress. Maybe she needs to feel that sense of control at this stage, in order to handle things. Lord knows she has enough to handle right now.

Her second interview is this week; then we’re leaving to vacation with her parents for several days. We may not have the mental space or the privacy to talk much, much less take the next step, until the end of the month, when we return and make that last mad dash of effort that precedes the first open house.

Wish us luck.

Resolution, Part 2

The conversation was civil but it wasn’t pleasant. I started by letting her know how I felt during Tuesday morning’s incident. I tried to explain that it wasn’t about her needs versus my needs on weekday mornings, but about her being aggressive when it wasn’t called for, treating me as the enemy. I pointed out that it was exactly the behavior I wrote about in my letter: a pre-emptive attack in lieu of simply stating her needs. I told her I’d been beating myself up all week over my not stepping up the way I’d promised to in my letter. That I felt as if I’d failed my duty to both of us by lapsing into our established pattern, defending myself instead of letting her know right away how out of line she was.

She told me how she’d been feeling at the time. That she felt I was just riding right over her (uncommunicated) needs, that the “new regime” (her words) meant that I could do whatever I wanted and she had no say in it. My taking charge—although as yet hardly acted upon—made her feel defensive, leading to her aggressiveness. This was good information for me, and I talked with her about it until it was clear to me that she knew her feeling wasn’t based on fact. I repeated that I viewed my leadership as a serious responsibility that meant making an effort to meet her needs whenever they didn’t clash with mine, which I view as equal in importance, not greater. I understood her feelings, but they didn’t excuse her approach.

When I thought we’d understood each other’s positions, I asked her if she remembered what I said I’d do if she disrespected me the way she used to. “No,” she said. “I said I’m going to punish you,” I said, gently.

“So what does that mean?” she asked, her face hardened.

“I’m going to spank you today. I’m not going to punish you hard, because I should have handled this earlier…”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to punish me hard?” Her voice was challenging.

I was confused by the question. “I’m not going to punish you hard,” I repeated.

“What do you mean, not hard?”

“I mean I’m not going to punish you as hard as I might in another circumstance.”

“But what do you mean by hard?” It was her voice that was hard. I felt interrogated, but I didn’t feel threatened. I tried to explain in another way.

“Well, I’m not going to make you cry…”

“You’re telling me that you would actually try to make me cry?” said Anne, shocked and offended.

It’s a story for another time, but I had spanked her once before, almost two years ago. Just three slaps, exceedingly light. All the same, she had sobbed uncontrollably and told me several times in succeeding months how I’d spanked her hard. Because I literally could hardly spank her any more lightly, I had a good indication that tears were likely to be a part of any future spankings.

“Yes,” I said evenly.

To my surprise, she didn’t follow up on that with a lecture on the innate cruelty of my character. She changed the subject, and the next ten minutes ran the gamut of protests and hard questions. What about the humiliation factor? Did I think she was a child and I was her father? Spanking is for kids. Exactly why did I think that spanking could ever be a good thing in an adult marriage? Didn’t I see how arcane, how weird, how off-the-wall it was? Didn’t it turn me on sexually, and wasn’t that icky?

To say I had good answers for all of these questions would be a lie. Many of them were good questions, and Anne was utterly convincing in her outrage. I had two advantages: I was calm, and I was resolved. I listened to everything she had to say, and gave her the respect she deserved.

“If you can look me in the eyes,” I said to Anne, “and tell me that this isn’t fair, I won’t punish you today.” She looked at me, but she didn’t say anything.

When she’d spent her arguments, I told her that being equal and without a plan for the first ten years of our marriage had not worked out for us. And while she had great talents in business and in many other areas, between the two of us, she was not the most qualified to run the relationship. She didn’t read books about marriage and love, as I did, and when I asked her to read them, she had no comment on them. She wasn’t patient or interested with research on effective communication, either: it was just so much pop psychology to her. By contrast (I told her), I spent quite a few hours a day thinking about how to make our marriage better. I couldn’t keep living the way we’d been living, and I wanted—needed—to give this radical change a try.

“So you’re saying it’s this, or…” Anne said. She meant I wasn’t giving her a choice, that it was DD or end the marriage.

I thought. “How do I put this? If we don’t try this, Anne, I don’t know what will happen. We need a change, and I have no Plan B.”

I could see her think. She had no more questions to ask, no more charges to level, and I was still resolved. Her face changed. It was not a happy face, but she’d made a decision. “All right,” she said. “I have no Plan B, either.” And she was done talking.

I stepped away a few feet and pulled a straight-backed chair from the dining room. She went over my lap on her own. I don’t know how it felt to her, but for me, it was a strangely comfortable feeling, as if she’d always been intended to be there. She was wearing elastic cotton tights over panties. I ran my hand over her bottom and slapped her very lightly, on the left and on the right.

She wasn’t sobbing, but she was weeping softly. She didn’t struggle. I gave her ten, about two seconds apart. I increased the force slightly. The last slap was still short of the force I use when applauding at a concert. “Okay,” I murmured. “We’re done.”

She stood up and buried her face in her hands, crying. I put my arms around her and told her I was proud of her, that she was a strong, adult woman. I held her for a little while, but she didn’t relax into me. I let her go and watched her. I put my hand on her back. “I can stay here with you. Would you rather I go away?” She nodded, still turned away from me, not speaking. “Okay. I’ll be here if you need me.” I went into the kitchen and started doing dishes.

In about ten minutes she came in and silently started working beside me, setting out the ingredients for the meal she’d planned—chicken breasts stuffed with feta cheese and kalamata olives. A few minutes after that, she started conversation, just as naturally as ever. Dinner included not only the chicken, but a great salad with homemade chili-lime vinaigrette, something we hadn’t had before. It was delicious and I made sure she knew it. She seemed happy and easy. We had a normal evening. As we went to sleep, she took my hand. “Good night, sweetie.” Content.