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Sangria nights, Part 2
"Should I put on a shirt?" "No. You may not." This was an unequivocal order. And that was before. I knew better than to ask again. We were heading out to join our son again. It was one of our favorite movies. We got to the cabin, and I brought in a folding chair from the deck. The First Lady sat on another folding chair, and my son and his friends were on the sofa. We hung out for a little while, laughing and saying the funny bits of the movie, but I was getting more and more uncomfortable. My own fault really, as I was sitting in the chair funny. One arm dug into my thigh, and the other into my ass cheek. I stood up, folded the chair, and leaned it against the wall.
"Why don't you sit on the floor."
I punctuated that correctly. It wasn't a question, there was no upward lilt at the end of the sentence. It was an order. I sat down, leaning against her legs. My son's friends noticed, and one offered me their chair.
"No, he likes where he's sitting," she said, cutting off my response.
My wife answered for me, and again when they offered again. As far as I can tell, there was no awkwardness, everyone was laughing at the movie, but I felt her hand on the back of my neck as she spoke, and the slight squeeze communicated volumes. "I own you," she was saying, with each tensing of her fingers. It felt so ... right. It wasn't anything you could point at and say, "look at her dominating that man." It was all easily dismissed. But it was clear to me, and would be clear to anyone who did know about her relationship. We didn't stay too long out there, heading back in after about 15 minutes. We got into the kitchen, and we just started laughing. It was quite a thrill. It felt amazing. We were flying high. We must have been pretty loud, because our youngest called. She was about 150 feet away, down by the firepit with her friends. Mrs Fillmore shushed me with a look, and told her, yes, everything was fine. After she hung up, she came over to me.
"Get on your knees." Of course, I did without delay. She pushed my neck down until I was face down on the kitchen floor, then sat down. "Why are you there," she asked. "Because you own me." "Why?" "Because I've given myself to you." "Why would you do that?" "Because you have, over the decades, taught me what it means to love someone, to care for them, and to trust them. You make better decisions than me. I love and trust you completely, and want nothing buy your happiness." She was quiet for a little while, then she stood up from her chair and stood over me. I felt her hands run down my back, caressing me lovingly, and then they slid into the back of my shorts and she worked them down, exposing my ass. I could feel her stand up, still straddling me, and I could tell she was admiring her handiwork. "Stay. Don't move." "Yes, Abigail." I heard her walk around the kitchen island, and then heard the rattle of dishes, or something. Then she walked back. "Do you remember that you challenged my decision about our son?" "Yes, Abigail." "We had a discussion, and I gave you instructions. And you still clung to your old feelings of frustration." It wasn't a question. "Yes, Abigail." I could feel her bend over me, straddling me over my head, facing my ass.
The wooden spoon made a loud cracking noise as it hit my ass. It hurt, in a different way than her hand or other toys. It was a deeper pain, without the sting of the cat or sharpness of the crop. As she repeated her blows, 3 or 4 on each ass cheek, the pain built up. I wiggled, reacting, but did not try to get away.
"Are you going to question me again? Are you going to give him the chance to be an adult?" Each question was paired with a caress of the wooden spoon over a sore cheek. "No, Abigail, I won't question you again. Your decision was sound." "Good." And the blows came again, fast and varied, back and forth. It hurt quite a bit. There was nothing erotic in it. I could hear the spoon woosh through the air. The First Lady was making a statement. And then her statement was complete. The blows stopped. I stayed there, ass up, face planted into the wood floor. I heard her put the spoon in the sink, and then come back. Her hands found my ass, and she rubbed me gently. Then gave me a few taps, the signal to get up. Her hands pulled at me, and I got up slowly and stood in front of her. She pulled up my shorts, and then gave me a deep, passionate kiss. "Thank you, Abigail." "You're welcome, my sweet boy." She didn't question whether I got the lesson. She knew I had, knew it had sunk in. Those thoughts were gone, all that was left was love and obedience.
