There is something about this empty road through the fields at the back of our house that whispers to Abel: “Spank your wife, now.”
The emptiness of the road is really open to chance. Plenty of people drive there and back along the unevenly paved track, and it’s a great quiet spot for joggers, dog walkers and riders. But not, as we have often found, at eight o’clock on a Saturday night.
We were at a drinks party at our friends’ house, and I was flagging.* We were lazily gearing up for the walk home, when Abel leaned close to my ear and said: “You’re getting your bottom smacked when we’re in the lane.” The promise gave me a pleasant chill, and sure perked me up enough to go looking for my boots and coat. I would normally feel apprehensive about this, but we’d had a few vanilla days before that, and the evening had been mostly vanilla too, so I quite fancied a reminder that I was, in fact, kinky.
There are no streetlights along the road. When we turned into it from the village green, the first few paces were still lit from behind our backs, but all the rest was darkness. The trees ahead were obscuring the lights from our village ahead, and the town that lies across the fields was curtained with mist. We walked and held hands. I was still warm from wine and anticipation, but Abel was shivering.
“I think, I need that spanking now,” I said, without adding: to warm you up, mate.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Bare your bottom.”
“Huh? What? It’s February!” I can’t pretend I hadn’t counted on this, but foregoing the haggling part is like cheating at spanking.
He heaved a very put-upon sigh and reached under my short coat to unbutton and unzip my jeans. Rolling my eyes,* I wriggled them down together with my panties.
Abel’s hand pressed into my back, and I bent down with my hands on my knees, while he swept my coat up onto my back. His other hand cracked down onto my cooling behind; the pain was startling: bracing, like the cold of the evening. I couldn’t help dancing around a little as the smacks descended. Slightly out of breath, Abel ordered me back into position, and spanked on. I yelped, but there was a wide grin on my face.***
“Right, this is enough. You may dress,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “Ouch, this hurt!”
“No. Really? Poor you.” I pulled my jeans up again with a hiss, and gave Abel a hug and a pat on the head: “Aww.”
We walked on. He rubbed his hand, and I rubbed my bottom. We weren’t cold any more.
P.S. The next morning we had to walk back again to collect our car, and I got a few licks of a switch while watching out for joggers and riders, but that’s a different story.
* My switch-off time is 9pm, after which I turn into a pumpkin, or some sort of vegetable, anyway; it was nearing eight.
** Which I’m sure he didn’t see: it was dark.
*** Which he also didn’t see.