Ironing as an act of submission

We have surfed upon this beautiful entry over on Tea and Oranges

I heat the iron and test it.and my mind wanders to last night – on my hands and knees… trying to calm the giddy longing rising in me… giggling and fidgeting… twisting for a glimpse of you behind me

I shake out your shirt and lay it across the board.

“stay still” you say in your serious voice, and I do… I close my eyes and hear the sound of your watch unclicking from your wrist, the clack of it when you place it on the table and then… the sharp flick of a first light slap of leather across the back of my thighs

I flatten one sleeve and stroke the fabric down along the board with my palm.

And so she continues, making the most ordinary household job sound deliciously sensual.

I found myself nodding as I read the entry, because I too always daydream my way through domestic chores. I don’t think I’ve ever made it through five minutes of washing-up without getting two spankings and a good talking-to.

Abel irons his own shirts, though. I bet he doesn’t think about getting thrashed at the time.