Back Down with a Bump

Like many before me, I find myself in a rut. Same-old day-to-day frustrations at work, nothing seeming to inspire me and nothing to look forward to saving the day I can chuck it all in and walk away a free man. I do my best not to bring my gorgeous wife down with me, but the emptiness pervades everything I do so it is inevitable that she is affected by my malady. She tries, bless her, to raise me out of my doldrums, suggesting various activities that should bring us together and remove my focus from the mundane. I endeavour to generate some of that joie de vivre that we used to share, but feel I’m trying too hard and it shows; the resultant guilt drags me further in to the self-generated abyss.

It was last Sunday evening, when I was staring blankly at Amazon, wondering what I could buy that would provide temporary respite to counter-balance the dread of work the next day, when Karen walked in and sat down. After 20 years of marriage I recognised the indicators; something was on her mind that needed my attention, so I turned away from my screen to face her.

“You need to take a day off work”. Slightly nonplussed at this demand, my quizzical expression drew further explanation. “You and I are going to have a day to reset. You’ve been morose for too long now and despite your efforts, you’ve not been able to shake it off. I know you’ve tried, love, but it’s affecting me too so I’m going to dedicate a whole day to altering your perspective on a few things”.

This piqued my interest! Normally we are like two gravitationally-balanced planets orbiting independently but in harmony, every now and again though one of us will blaze a trail that the other must follow. “Ok, Friday’s quite clear, I’m sure I could make it happen. Are we going somewhere”? But that was all I got apart from a shadow of a smile as she left me to my thoughts.

***

So, here I am, still in bed at 8am when normally I would be at my desk drearily working my way through my in-box. The aromas of toast and coffee drift in to my consciousness shortly before Karen glides in with a tray supporting the source of my olfactory delight. She places the breakfast on my lap and affixes me with a look I haven’t seen for many years; underneath the duvet my cock wakes.

“Today, you will do what I say. You are no longer the boss-man at work, you are here to do my bidding without question”. I haven’t taken my first sip of the coffee yet, but if I had I’m not sure it would’ve stayed in my mouth. Again I see the faint smile as my apparent perplexity registers; on the other hand a different reaction is occurring under the covers. I say nothing, but my non-verbal acquiescence is accepted as she continues. “You’re going to experience an acuity that will relieve you of your self-centred malaise, and go some way to restoring the balance of the most important aspect of your life, us”. It is with both excitement and trepidation that I realise what is going on here.

Several years ago, Karen was prioritising everything in-front of me, so-much-so that I felt like a spare part. After much talking she’d accepted she had been neglecting our relationship and taking me for granted. We resolved it one very memorable weekend when she dedicated herself to me and as part of that I took her over my knee and spanked her hard until I felt she could take no more. It was all I had planned, but she showed me exactly how much she cared about us by ripping a garden cane from a floor-standing plant and handing it to me. A very special bond was formed that night as she prompted and accepted a caning from me in recompense for her behaviour. To further her reparation, the following morning she’d gone to the bathroom and douched before returning to bed and insisting I fuck her welted arse, something that had always been a penchant of mine. We’ve occasionally indulged in less-intense DS play since then, and enjoyed it, but never got close to recreating the depth of those two days.

As this realisation dawns, I sense a level of doubt in Karen’s demeanour; has she over-stepped? How will I react? But, I know I have to do this, how can I not? How could I hold my head up beside her if I could not meet this challenge as she did? Right now, I need to act to reassure her that I understand and accept; I lean forward and kiss her gently, not passionately, “Guilty as charged”.

***

It is somewhat comforting to know that she has been planning this for some time. All those days when I was wrapped up in my own thoughts, she was thinking about me, about us, and about how she can bring about change. Even though I know that what is to come is likely to cause me to redress my self-image and if history is to be repeated, will involve an element of pain, the over-riding emotion is that of love.

With those three words, I passed her the baton and now I am standing naked in the bathroom with a newly-purchased enema bag full of warm soapy water. The mischievous grin that accompanied the apparatus left me in no doubt that the piper was getting paid in full, my surprise superseded by my admiration. The nozzle slides in and I am soon struggling to relax through the cramp-inducing pressure; this is only the first of three that I have to complete, but eventually the last is done and I am clean. The subsequent shower is hot and thorough with scrupulous attention paid to every nook and cranny of my body as instructed, so that by the time I present myself to her, I am relaxed yet nervous.

I am naked, she is not. She is dressed comfortably in jeans, tight around her curves, and a simple blouse that neither hides nor accentuates her wonderful breasts. Her light brown hair hangs loosely around her shoulders; she wears no shoes but sitting at her desk the six inches between us is not apparent. As I stand there, the power dynamic is evident. She tells me to sit on a straight-backed chair that she has set in the middle of the room, and as I sit, she stands to gain the height advantage.

She walks behind me and ruffles my hair in an affectionate and almost maternal way, clearly warming to her task of bringing me down to earth with a hefty bump. “First, I’m going to spank you, with this”, she holds a leather paddle in front of my face and then hands it to me so I can feel the quarter-inch thickness. Again, like the enema equipment, she’s evidently done some on-line shopping here; I’d love to see her browsing history. “Then, in deference to your Scottish roots, I’m going to tenderise that self-obsessed rump of yours with this”; an eighteen-inch tawse is placed in my lap and I am now starting to doubt my ability to see this through. “Finally”… The swish of the cane through the air behind me is all it takes to send a shiver down my spine.

A light sweat forms on me as she directs me to hand back the paddle and tawse, stand and position myself over the back of the chair with my hands on the seat. I must do this in order to attest I am equal, that I can take responsibility for my actions, and that our relationship is everything. Yet while the impending ordeal is ominous, the chance to prove myself is providing a small level of exhilaration, as is being naked and bent-over in front of my clothed wife. Any visible evidence of this soon disappears though as the paddle makes contact with my proffered backside. The noise is loud but thankfully the pain is minimal, so much so that I immediately feel a fake for fearing the spanking. The second and third increase in snap but are very manageable; the fourth, fifth and sixth however seem to break through my outer skin to agitate the flesh below. I start to gyrate a little, but there is no respite as the swats get harder. By twelve it is all I can do to keep position; by eighteen I am grunting with each smack, and by the twenty-fourth I cannot stop myself crying out.

Remaining behind me, she has me stand. The blood has run to my face, but I stand proud; I have come through the first part with dignity intact. My bottom is sore but nothing that would trouble more than a few hours. I know there is worse to come, but I’m ready for it and relish the challenge and the chance to prove myself. Already the humdrum world beyond these four walls seems a distant dream and my breathing begins to calm as she hands me the paddle and asks me to replace it with the tawse on her desk. Karen keeps herself at the edge of my peripheral vision by design, which suits me as we have each assumed a role in this play that I don’t want dissolved by familiarity. However, I’m overwhelmed by the shared respect as our eyes meet while handing her the twin-tongued strap.

Again I find myself facing the seat of the chair, wondering what sort of view I’m presenting. As if reading my mind she tells me to lean forward more and I find that I have to open my legs a little further as my cock and balls are forced against the back of the chair. I feel more vulnerable like this and it is slightly more uncomfortable, but that is probably her intention. Despite expecting it, the explosion of pain as the tawse lashes in catches me unawares and I immediately cry out; I feel like I let us both down here and resolve to take the next ones with more control. Fortunately Karen waits while the nerve-endings dance their prickly way around my nether regions. I take a deep breath and hold, waiting for the second, but it doesn’t come; she’s testing me. Eventually I have to release the hold on my lungs and as the breath subsides, so the leather wraps itself around my cheeks. I have nothing to give and can only draw in air while flames are overwhelming any aches of maintaining position. I don’t know if I’m coming or going and instead concentrate on seeing the pain for what it is, just jolts of electricity. Disassociating pain from nerve activity allows me experience objectivity as though looking down on myself; I start to relax and accept my lot.

Karen sets about my arse with the tawse, dealing in sets of three each harder than the last, before a slight reset for the next three. I manage to breathe through it until we hit eighteen, at which point she drops her aim and lays in to my thighs. I’m gripping the chair, no longer relaxed, barely able to hold position, tensing in anticipation of each smack of the leather. The final stroke lands right at the top of my left thigh and catches my balls with the tip of the strap; I shoot up howling in pain. I’m sure she did that on purpose to test my metal, and I failed. No longer composed, hands clutching my rear, my attention is on one place only. Personal pride is not a consideration while you’re dancing naked around the room with your hands attached to your butt.

It is arrogance coupled with a sense of seeing this through that drives me to return to standing in front of the chair awaiting instruction. This comes quickly with direction to remove the chair from the centre of the room, which I am relieved at as I would far rather be caned over the arm of her nice leather sofa; this is not to be! I am told to kneel on the rug in the middle of the room and go down on all-fours. I do so with confusion as this position could lead to her hitting parts of me that really shouldn’t be struck; I trust her but that is being tested right now. Instead I feel a cold gloop of lube slide down my arse crack and suddenly her intentions become clear. Is she going to fuck me now? Was the cane just to scare me? Did she go harder with the tawse than intended and has had a change of heart? I’m on the verge of protesting; while I know it will hurt, I have to take the same punishment as her. Does she expect me to ask for it as she did?

As these questions are scooting through my mind, I feel something cold and hard invade my anus. I’m hoping it’s a butt-plug as it would be a little unfair to fuck me cold. We have experimented with anal play together before; I knew to relax and that I could comfortably take any of the plugs we owned, so I welcome the pop as the wide part sinks home. But she’s still pushing, and I feel my hole widening again. I come to the conclusion that her shopping didn’t end with a paddle and a tawse. The stretch starts to burn and I lean forward to avoid the pain, so she slows and waits for me to relax again. I feel the relief of my sphincter closing around a second larger flange, and try to loosen up my muscles to accept the new guest. Karen is rotating the toy to assist my efforts, but seems to be screwing it in as it dawns on me that there is still another party to follow. The elasticity of my rear aperture is now being tested to the full as I struggle to take the third swelling; it’s like someone is running a hot knife around my entrance. My trust in Karen’s judgement is well-founded though as she eases the plug past the last hurdle and home, and with it comes a mix of compliance and fortitude.

With her hand on the small of my back, I could’ve been forgiven for expecting a minor respite from activities while getting used to being filled and stretched more than I ever have been; apparently not! “Stand up, bend over and grip your ankles”. So, no chair and the ignominy of being treated like a recalcitrant youth, but with a huge butt-plug wedged in; maximum humiliation is being demanded, and I’m ready for the challenge. No part of me wants sympathy; all focus is on the interaction between us and the need to atone.

I stand where indicated and place my feet apart wide enough to allow me to grab as far down my shins as possible. It seems a while ago that my buttocks were strapped raw and now I’m hoping I can withstand the onslaught to come. I feel the cold of the rod as she lays it on my arse, and am then aware of the knots in the rattan as she torments the welts by moving the cane laterally across them. When the roles were reversed I gave her twelve stokes, but she has given me twenty-four each of paddle and tawse already, so I’m not holding out hope that this will be over quickly.

By the time the first one comes I am relaxed and at least on the way to reaching a trance-like state through deep and measured breathing. The whistle-crack indicates it is starter-stroke, wristy, stinging, but not slicing; a courtesy I inexpertly neglected to afford her. The second, likewise, and the third too. The fourth has no more force but is directed at the top of my thighs causing me to jump, and letting me know that this is a permissible target. After that, the strokes get harder and it is a constant battle to hold physical and metal states in check. My limits are tested again and again, despite the numbness that comes, each cut delivers a little extra from the last. The pitch of the cane slicing through the air increases as does the protest that involuntarily escapes me; my state is suspended between wanting the torment to end and willing each stroke as a measure of my allegiance.

I have no idea how many strokes she’s delivered, but I’m aware they have stopped and she is dabbing at my bottom with a tissue. I am past caring what I look like or how I present myself, I’m just there with a mass of welts and bruises to support my absolution…but it’s not over yet.

***

Karen bids me stand up, which I do slowly to avoid the dizziness that comes after a while spent with one’s head between one’s legs. As the world around me settles she hands me a glass of water to sip and I’m reacquainted with the pressure of the foreign body currently wedged between my battered cheeks. She notices my discomfort and leads me over to the sofa where she has me droop over the arm, head on a cushion; slowly she eases the plug out and I know my gape is her invitation. I rest like this a while with the sounds of preparations going on behind me, my sphincter gently spasming as it contracts. Soon, I feel another dollop of cold lube slide down and into me and cool air is replaced by man-made cock worrying my recently vacated cavity. While probing away, I’m reassured by Karen’s hands holding my waist and pressing down on my back to alter the angle of entry. With the fire in my bottom receding, and nothing demanding immediate accommodation in my butt, I am able to sink in to my cushion relatively content as I welcome my wife’s now near naked body fold around mine.

Evidence of the virtual shopping cart is again apparent though as the probing becomes more urgent. The few strap-ons we’d tentatively tried had a lesser circumference so it was now clear why the larger plug had been necessary. But, try as she might, this appendage is not playing ball so we relocate to the floor with me kneeling, arms and head resting on the seat of the sofa, and her behind me. By pressing on the small of my back she eventually gets me in to a position where penetration is possible and I feel her slowly working her cock in to me. The ache returns, closely followed by the now-familiar burn, but resistance is futile and soon I am accepting the increased girth of her as the strokes get a little deeper each time.

I guess when you’ve been fucked in the arse a few times, you know what works and what doesn’t, so actually I am being fucked more expertly than I had ever managed to achieve as the fucker, and I resolve to learn from this. Each push stretches and burns a little more, but by this time I’m just an open cave to be explored and it’s not long before she is pistoning me like a steam train at full tilt. I feel very tender around the whole area, but I’m also aware of a warmth coupled with a need to pee as my prostate is agitated. Finally as the pain of being fucked roughly is superseded with the pleasure of being fucked roughly I reach back between my legs and at a stretch manage to make contact with Karen’s knicker-covered crotch. I can only reach when she slams home but this provides an incentive and soon she is grinding in to me and against my two fingers. I feel cramp but this final act of contortion is required to ensure a selfless end to the morning as she eventually shudders to halt and collapses on to my back.

***

As we snuggle in to the sofa my arm around her shoulder, her head on my chest, I feel euphoric. A weight has been lifted from me and I am no longer concerned at the prospect of a dull, mundane and boring job. Through my humility she demonstrated my strength, and re-established the bond that has been tested over the last couple of years. As long as we have each other, everything else is of little consequence. It is in this Zen-like state that I utter the ultimate proclamation of love, “How about a blow-job then”? I chuckle until the cushion hits me square in the face. Life is good again.