From the notes of Dr. Kelsey Ransom, PsyD
After some delay, I was finally able to schedule a one-on-one session with Bertie. Based on previous meetings, I’d identified him as the part of the couple more likely to speak, but less likely to share. I was curious as to what I should expect in this session – his partner Rachel had dropped an accidental truth bomb in an individual session two weeks earlier, and had promised to come clean to Bertie in the aftermath.
Much to my surprise, he straightforwardly told me that he and Rachel had talked, and there was no longer any reason to talk around “this thing we do”. I informed him that I’d helped many couples who had unconventional sex lives, and that we didn’t need to talk about it at all, unless it was pertinent to the continued health of his relationship.
His expression faltered.
To cut short the preamble, he had cheated on Rachel with a friend from work, about six or seven years ago. She was the first woman to spank him as an adult, but they had since lost touch and Bertie had not thought of her in a long time. Rachel had never found out, and Bertie was asking me if she deserved to know.
My answer surprised him. I replied that he was asking the wrong question – questions, really. The indiscretion was one-off and long past, and in the meantime Bertie had dedicated himself to his relationship and had been a supportive if not perfect partner.
The first question he should be asking was the easy one, why now? The guilt that had eaten away at Bertie for years had abated while his relationship deteriorated, but now that they were starting to heal together, he was reminded of his previous betrayal. He felt that they could never fully recover with that secret between them still buried.
Which led to the key question, would his confession help to heal their damaged relationship, or would it sabotage the progress they’d made here? That decision, unfortunately, was one that Bertie would have to make on his own.
Bertie came home to an empty apartment. As the door boomed shut beside him, as it did whenever the windows were open on a windy day, he reminded himself that Rachel would be at work until seven o’clock. It was great that she had a job again, but her absence at this time only increased his feeling of alienation. He reached into his fridge and withdrew a cold beer to help him think.
What was he going to tell her? It was one thing to spill his secret to Dr. Ransom, but to Rachel, knowing how much the truth would hurt her?
Why should he tell her? The doctor had so easily sussed out his intention, that his infidelity had been easier to forget when he and Rachel had been on the outs. So they weren’t having sex or spanking each other anymore – he had this memory to keep him warm!
Of course, it didn’t work like that – Sophie had been one of his best friends, and while they’d been enthusiastic in the moment, she at least had realized afterward that they’d crossed a line. After all the time they’d known each other, she’d left him without a word.
Bertie found himself pacing the carpet holding an empty bottle, and decided to keep himself busy with laundry. For all her self-improvement since their therapy had started, Rachel had never outgrown the teenage habit of leaving clothes strewn across the apartment. It took no time at all to fill their basket, and only a few minutes to find an unused and working machine in the basement.
Should he tell her at all? His sins were entirely separate from the issues in their relationship. Dr. Ransom might well be right, telling Rachel might do more harm than good, especially after all this time.
What he really wanted was to tell her how sorry he was, how she had always been the one for him, how much he wanted her now in this moment. He wanted to take her here, right in the laundry room, wrap his hands around her waist and haul her on top of this machine. He wanted to feel her legs shaking as he buried his face between her thighs and forget all of the hurt he’d inflicted on himself and that she would never need to know about.
Sure, they’d be evicted, but wouldn’t it be worth it?
Maybe he’d bring her down, still spasming from the ride and post-orgasmic high, and they’d fuck on the dirty tile floor…
His reflection in the machine’s porthole shocked him back to reality. The early spring humidity had not been kind to him, his hair wild and at split ends – he needed a haircut, he reluctantly admitted – and the deep bags under his eyes noticeable even against the tinted glass. It was a face fit for a mug shot.
He left to let the load finish. When he returned to the apartment, he found he was not alone.
“Honey? How was the session with Dr. Ransom?”
He let his face go blank. There was no point in having this conversation until he was ready for it. He’d kept quiet this long, what was another day… or month… or year?
“Honey? What’s wrong?”
He dropped the façade and reached into the refrigerator for another bottle of liquid courage.
“Rachel… there’s something I have to tell you.”
***
“I always thought there was something between you two.”
Once he’d started, the confession had come out easily. So easily, in fact, that he couldn’t stop it if he’d tried. He had hoped that Rachel would stop him, would interrupt, even bang the table. But she’d sat there, her face as impassive as he’d tried to make his own, until he’d spilled every sordid detail.
And those were her first words since.
“Do you know how proud I was of myself,” she continued, “That you could have had someone like that – someone cheerful, and tall and beautiful – and you still chose me? Do you understand how that feels?”
“Rachel, there was nothing between us-“
“Until there was!”
“You were the one I chose. What happened with Sophie was a one-time thing. It was a mistake.”
“That’s the worst part of it, Bertie – it wasn’t a mistake. I can’t help but think, if she hadn’t spanked you then, you never would have let me do it.”
“Rachel-“
“If anything, our relationship got better because you stepped out on me. Don’t you think that’s fucked up?”
In truth, Bertie had the same thought while compiling reasons against telling Rachel. It was a perversely compelling argument, but in the end, had not been enough.
She was trying to keep her composure – Bertie could see it in the trembling of her tiny fists, the moisture rimming at the corners of her eyes. Rachel never had any talent for hiding her feelings. It was something he loved about her, but at the moment all he could see was how much he’d hurt her.
“Rachel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I accept any punishment you think I deserve.”
She blinked, wiping away vestigial tears. “Punishment? You think you’re going to get a spanking because of this? You didn’t ‘misbehave’, you went behind my back and didn’t tell me about it for seven years.”
“Would you have preferred me not to tell you?”
“Maybe.”
He’d run through this conversation several times in his head. He’d expected her to be angry or despondent, even relieved, and he thought he’d known what to do if she was. He had no plan for “you shouldn’t have told me”.
He needed time to regroup his thoughts and reconsider his approach – but it was already late. Rachel didn’t seem to want to pursue this any further, either.
“I’ll… I’ll take the couch tonight,” he conceded.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Half the couch is covered with my stuff, and you’d barely fit on it anyway. Just close the bedroom door, I’m going to be up for awhile. I need to think.”
He reached for her shoulder. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” she whispered, “But it doesn’t change anything.”
He went to bed early. As punishments went, it was little more than a token effort, but it felt necessary. And it certainly didn’t help him get to sleep any sooner.
***
The door slammed open. “Bertie, wake up!”
He did, groggy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the digital clock beside their bed, its readout flashing 9:31 PM. He’d been asleep for less than thirty minutes.
“What is…” he tried.
“You left your phone in the kitchen when you went to bed. Guess what went off a half hour ago?”
His bleary eyes finally clocked Rachel, standing in the doorway. She’d changed into an oversized off-shoulder tee and tight-fitting boy shorts – not her typical sleeping outfit, but one she’d wear if…
… shit. The laundry!
Suddenly alert, he leapt out of bed in his boxers. He sailed past Rachel, missing whatever she was shouting at him, making for where he’d left his keys beside his phone.
He stopped at the living room. Every surface with space was covered in damp clothing. Shirts splayed over the backs of chairs. Underwear and socks draped over lamps and hanging from cupboards. He even saw some of his and Rachel’s pants hanging from the overhead light in the kitchen like some bizarre chandelier.
Rachel caught up with him.
“The laundry room closes at ten, I didn’t have enough time to get them in the dryer.”
“I’m sorry,” he sputtered, “I should have taken my phone with me.”
“I’ve heard a lot of ‘I’m sorry’ tonight, Bertie. Frankly, I’m tired of hearing it. I don’t feel like waiting until tomorrow to deal with you anymore.”
She grabbed him by the wrist. Despite his being almost twice her size, he was off-balance from sleepiness and the drink and didn’t have the leverage to keep her from dragging him away with her to the couch. The one piece of furniture, it dawned on him, that wasn’t covered in clothing.
A familiar sinking feeling took hold of his stomach.
“Honey, I have to work tomorrow…”
“And you should have thought of that first.” She didn’t relinquish her grip as she sat down in the middle section, twisting his arm. “You know the position.”
The pain caught him by surprise, and he could do little more than nod. She released him, almost too quickly, and pointed to her lap. He hesitantly took the familiar spot, his pelvis braced over her knees, his head pushed against the couch cushions, arms tucked under his chest.
She considered his predicament for a moment and then, on reflection, whisked his boxers down to his ankles.
“If you need to use your safe word, I will honour it. But,” she added, spearing her fingernails into his newly bared backside, “Understand, you have earned this.”
The pressure of her nails vanished, only to be immediately replaced by a slap that took his breath away. When the next struck just as hard, Bertie knew he was in real trouble – Rachel had tended to save her energy when she had him over her knee, so she could stretch the spanking out over time. This time, she was looking to leave an impression.
In the first dozen smacks, Bertie could already feel himself squirming in her lap. Her whole body moved with the force of her arm, and he could feel the next blow coming from the tensing of her thighs. Each draw rubbed against his naked member, and he would have been elated if it were not for the barely-suppressed rage that Rachel was running on.
“I didn’t even ask you to anything,” she seethed, punctuating every other word with a fiery slap, “You just took it up on your own, didn’t you?”
The sting in his bottom was building up to a fine smolder now. She gave him two in quick succession, and he realized that she wanted an answer.
“Oww! Yes, yes!”
“You didn’t even tell me what you were doing, did you? I never needed to know! And then the moment you slip up-“
“Rachel, I’m sorry-“
“Don’t interrupt. The moment you slip up, you suddenly depend on me to make it all better! “
She said something about how her clothes would have been ruined after a night in the washer, but this no longer felt like this was about the laundry. In any case he couldn’t hear her – he’d lost her under either the sound of her palm on his flesh, or his own moaning. He’d never cried out before, and wasn’t about to now. Whatever she laid into him, he would take it-
-And then she stopped.
“You noticed I cleaned up while you were in bed?” Her stomach pulled away from him. Stretching?
“Yes,” he quickly piped up, wanting nothing more than to rub the heat from his backside. “It looks nice.”
“Thank you. You know what I found buried under the couch cushions?”
Bertie didn’t know if he should have an answer or not. Rachel tended to leave a lot of things in a pile on the couch – cell phone bills, loose change, empty chip bags, flash drives… nothing that should matter at the moment.
Smooth, cool wood massaged his aching buttocks for an all-too-short moment of relief.
The hairbrush struck with the sound of a pistol shot. Bertie could feel the force of it all the way up to his teeth. The smoulder he’d felt before leapt into a backdraft, blazing with each following swing. He held on to his dignity with everything he had – he didn’t scream, but a high-pitched whine still escaped him.
Another hard smack caught him in the sit-spot, and he reflexively jerked. It wasn’t until he brought his lower half under control that he found that the assault had ceased. He craned his neck to find Rachel rubbing her nose. Blood dribbled from between her slim fingers.
“Rachel? Are you okay?” he asked despite the irony.
“Yeah, I think. You kicked me in the head.”
“I’m sorry, it just hurt really bad…”
She gestured for him to stand, and he did, stepping to the side as she dashed to the bathroom to find a tissue. His hand found its way to his aching behind, and rubbed gingerly – there was no way he would be sitting tomorrow.
Minutes past as he waited. Should he take his accustomed spot in the corner? She hadn’t told him to do so. He saw the bathroom light shut off, but she didn’t return.
Bertie eyed a pair of briefs hanging from a nearby lamp. The damp cloth might be a welcome comfort about now… if Rachel had decided they were finished. He rubbed again, the sting refusing to abate. Much as he wished for his punishment to be over, it didn’t seem right to end like this. Especially since he’d only just hurt her again.
A clinking noise alerted him that Rachel had returned. A stain on her lip was all that remained of the nosebleed. Her oversized shirt had shifted from exertion, with her left nipple barely peeking out from beneath the neckline. But it was what Rachel was holding that caught his attention.
She’d bought it years before at a country fair, hoping to incorporate it into a stage outfit, only to be disappointed when she got it home – at the width of four of her fingers, it was too wide to fit the loops of any of her jeans. Now, she’d found another use for her “cowgirl belt”.
He hoped she couldn’t hear his whimpering.
“We’re going to try something a little different,” said Rachel, “Bend over the arm of the couch.” Then as an uncertain afterthought, “Please.”
Bertie did as instructed, his legs wobbling as he raised his ass into position, his eyes firmly shut. He felt Rachel’s hand on his brow and opened them again.
“Bertie, do you need to use your safeword?”
He wanted to. But it wasn’t what he needed. He shook his head.
She stepped away.
The first lash was sloppy – Rachel wasn’t used to the weight and missed, skimming Bertie’s tailbone.
The second caught his right side, but with no impact behind it.
The third took a torturous few seconds as Rachel adjusted both her stance and her grip. The leather tapped against his aching cheeks, then it drew back.
The impact slammed him against the armrest, leaving a sear that both amplified and overrode the effect of Rachel’s hand and hairbrush. His legs shot out of their own accord, but this time she’d given herself space.
The moment his kicking stopped, she let him have it again. She got in two more lashes before he started kicking again and she stepped off to the side. Bertie was in raging-hot agony, but he got the message: Stay still and this will end sooner.
He took a deep breath and planted his feet.
She struck again, a swat that covered both sides of his ass in one swing. When he didn’t move, she gathered up the belt again and rolled her shoulders with the same motion. Again, and again.
He’d swallowed the pain up to this point. Every reflex urging him to fight back, he’d bitten down. But as her belt bit down in its merciless rhythm, his long-held composure finally broke down.
He cried. He wailed, thick tears pouring salt down his cheeks and soaking his beard.
And then Rachel was back in the seat beside him, holding his head, kissing him softly and promising him it was all over. Bertie couldn’t reply; he couldn’t even stand.
Some quiet minutes later, he asked, “What changed your mind?”
Rachel didn’t answer immediately. “Bertie, I… I would have forgiven you anyway. I’m mad at you, I’m going to be mad for a while, but you… it ended, and you put our relationship first. Even when it looked like we were falling apart, you put us first.
“You could have said nothing,” she added, “But then you’d have gotten away with it. And that was what was tearing you up so badly.” She kissed him again. “Don’t make me do that again, though. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now hold that pose a minute longer, I’m going to get you some arnica gel.”
“And then?”
“And then, we should probably both get to bed.”
Bertie tested his legs, and found them still lifeless. He wasn’t going anywhere.
And he was content. Sore, but content.
