Turning Her Over
by Jack Lennox* * * * * * *
Usually when people are sad, they don't do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about change. -- Malcolm X
"Fuck!"
Uh oh... The expletive startles me out of my reverie.
It hangs in the air, a flash of lightning holding the promise of its attendant thunder.
So I wait without breathing... thoughts coalesce, time dilates; seconds drip slow as a leaky faucet. Is it worse to be completely surprised? or startled by something half-expected? I've seen storm clouds gathering over this house for weeks.
The word seems to have come from the direction of the kitchen, a juggernaut of invective that walls and distance can barely muffle. Karen never curses in public, but rather saves the words frugally for the rare outburst at home. *Lucky me*. In many homes swearing is probably a common form of expression, words powerless and insignificant, but within these walls, in a quiet suburban neighborhood near the technology mecca of the Silicon Valley on the rugged coast of California, it is a sign -- a forecast for severe weather conditions. Stay tuned to this channel for further updates.
Thunder... My mind recoils as a machine gun fire of profanity follows the silence, each choice word punctuated with a sharp banging. Twelve years together and I've become remarkably adept at reading her moods; my charming wife is not a happy camper.
I hope I'm not being too melodramatic, but her anger has momentarily taken me hostage. It's not hormone-induced; she has the expected monthly mood swings, but they are mostly depression and not very severe. I know the real source, but anger has a way of seeking any and all available targets. Is it a normal reaction for me to personalize the anger? I take quick inventory of all possible culpabilities ...what I may have done that I shouldn't have, not done that I should.
I think I'm clear.
The trash is out...yeah, hallelujah.
I picked up a nice big eight-pound bag of dog food this afternoon...precious little Mimi will continue to reign as America's chunkiest poodle.
I did not eat any of her damn fudge cookies -- Karen's, not Mimi's.
The Readi-Whip incident... no, all traces of that non-dairy disaster have been removed and the area sterilized with disinfectant.
I hear something slam with a bang, as if shut with all the force she can muster. I'm guessing it is the dishwasher, oven, or trash compactor. I have this talent for recognizing sounds--kind of a gift. As I humbly thank nature for the small favor, a shriek, a sentiment of frustration and uncontrolled rage cuts through me as if it were my own pain. There's a crash.
It definitely sounded like glass. I hope it's not my Gary Larson coffee mug, the one depicting the entrance to "Midvale School for the Gifted". Now, that would be a shame. There are really very few kitchen utensils or crockery to which I've formed an attachment, but I do like that cup. Each morning greets me with the sight of the hapless student, arm outstretched, his full weight leaning into the door clearly marked, "PULL". It always seems a good thought to start my day facing a world that has never made much sense to me.
I'm not sure, but I think it may have been a dinner plate ...a certain ring to it, if I imagine what one might sound like as it shatters against a wall, counter top, or kitchen cabinet. I debate whether or not I want to venture out of the much safer haven of my office. Sustaining verbal assault is one thing; dodging glassware is another. I already tried to lighten the mood earlier this evening and found her less than receptive. What chance do I have now? It would be easy to just lay low. On the other hand, if I ignore it, it might appear that I am uncaring and too wrapped up in my own more important problems. Such is man's dilemma. I decide to attempt a supportive appearance.
At the first sign of trouble, Mimi would have made a mad dive under the chair in the living room. If there were room I might be under there with her. I barely have time to get out the door before Karen storms by. "Fucking dishwasher!" The way she looks at me might suggest that I work in a restaurant, but I realize she is referring to the beloved appliance that we just paid two-hundred bucks to have fixed. I open my mouth as if to say something useful, but I'm already looking at her back, her shoulder-length dark hair a pendulum of disdain. I watch as she stomps angrily up the stairs leaving me standing like a helpless buffoon, mouth still agape. In a belated gesture, hand humbly offered to the now empty staircase, I silently inform my sweetheart that I was glad to be there for her.
Kidding aside, anger is a tough emotion to be around. Of course, I hate to see her upset, but there is another side to it, as well. Regardless of any rational determination I can make as to the target of her wrath, I still feel as if it's somehow aimed at me. Why aren't my feelings being taken into consideration? Am I somehow less important to her? Did I mention I'm insecure? Resigned, I turn back toward the kitchen ...better check out the damages.
The kitchen has that eerily quiet air of an empty room still holding on to violent emotions left behind. All the lights are on giving everything a bright conspicuous look, and the fridge lends a vague detached hum to the electric mood. The sink is empty, stove and counters barren, all vestiges of dinner cleared away to leave but a shiny starkness. Partially obscured behind an island, the dishwasher cowers closed, somehow looking ashamed of itself for the trouble it has caused. After checking the miserable contraption to confirm that it's not working, I turn to peruse the rest of the area. I spot what I'm looking for in the corner across the room. On the floor by the dinette lay the shards of a former piece of dishware that will never see another meal. I congratulate myself on impressive powers of sonic detection. The small part of me that can still find humor in this gives a high-five to the part that never liked that plate anyway. The short-handled broom and dustpan are in the pantry. I begin to sweep up what no amount of glue or patience can repair while thinking that, tonight, something is going to get fixed.
* * * * * * *
She came home angry. It has been that kind of week, each day a little crisis. Sunday ...she was depressed, dreading work the next day. She managed Monday ...her nemesis had business elsewhere, but Karen was still caught up in what has become a sustained disappointment with her job. T
uesday ...was bad. Karen's boss called her in for a meeting to discuss a performance problem, an issue concocted by Jennifer, the new Office Manager. Wednesday ...my wife took a sick day, went to a movie, and mostly sulked. Thursday ...more office politics -- continued favoritism from the boss directed to Jennifer contributed to another pleasant evening at home. T
oday ...a personal slight discovered. "The Bitch" has been talking behind Karen's back with some of her co-workers.
I took off work early this afternoon and was watching a basketball game when I heard the front door slam. I found her in the kitchen pouring herself a diet soft drink with a stricken expression--her face was pained, the soda just looked a bit fizzy. There were no enthusiastic greetings for me today ... no ...how was your day, Tom? ... no ...Thank God It's Friday ... no ...the weekend's finally here and I'm gonna screw your brains out my supreme studmeister. Instead, I listened to the same complaints. Jennifer is prettier. Jennifer is thinner. Jennifer is younger. She's manipulative, two-faced, and unprofessional. Jim's a spineless weasel with a dick for brains. Of course, her self-involvement did not prevent me from being generously sensitive and caring, and along with sincere sympathies, I offered my usual brilliant revealing insights and sage advice. Apparently, she recognized them for the sapless bromides and impracticalities that they were. Hey, give me a few points for trying.
It really wasn't fair. Karen quit her old job for no other reason than to come to work for Jim Stafford, anointed entrepreneur. They had worked for the same corporation before he struck out on his own to strike gold selling educational toys developed for infants; the chatty artifacts draw guilty parents who are led to believe that their little rug rat may fail miserably in life without such wondrous advantages. At his urging Karen would become Jimbo's "Golden Girl". Acting as executive secretary, office manager, and generally the person called upon to put out the daily fires that plague a small-but-booming company she could do no wrong -- understandable that he would think so, as she is remarkably adept and extremely efficient. Karen, for all intents and purposes, ran his office but was not officially the Office Manager. Last month that title was given to Jim's new golden girl, Jennifer, fresh out of business school. Apparently, when Jimbo was an infant, his parents dropped him on his head.
I've met most of her co-workers, including "The Bitch". If you have a spouse who makes a living in the corporate world, then you've probably been dragged along to at least one of those stiff-but-obligatory company parties, or morale-tuning, self-congratulatory ceremonial functions that leave you feeling like you may have been a newborn left by aliens on your parents' doorstep. It was last year's Christmas party at Jim's new mansion on top of a hill; the spirit of the season had been invited but, apparently, didn't want to make the climb. Young Jennifer starred while her boss beamed. In confidence, I learned that several employees shared my wife's fantasy of wringing the little business school graduate's neck. They had several gripes, one being that she had plenty of confidence but little knowledge of how the real world operates. It was a recognized fact, though, that as long as the boss was being dazzled by his hot new OM, Jennifer would be having things her way.
After emptying the dead dishwasher and doing the dishes in the sink, I returned to the sanctuary of this my humble office. My back is to the computer; I'm in no mood to work. As I sit staring into space, I hear a door slam and some water running. My wife is probably going to take a bath; maybe that will lift her spirits a little. I figure that I'm just going to give this a little time. Karen will eventually cool off; anger is not a chronic problem for her. In spite of being somewhat reserved, people know her as very warm and generally optimistic about things. Sometimes, though, she needs a little help to see that there are solutions to a problem. She might not be able to determine conditions at work, but she has control over her own fate. There may be difficult decisions to make, but we can manage on one income. I'll support whatever she wants to do, but the current conditions at home must change.
* * * * * * *
The door to the bedroom offers no welcome but I'm not waiting for an invitation. Karen is sitting in bed with an open book in her face. Propped up by two ridiculously large pillows, she's wearing her pink cotton nightgown, her legs extended and capped by matching fuzzy pink slippers ...off in another world while safely wrapped in the cocoon of her mundane existence. She has that fresh-out-of-her-bath look. I like the way her hair is piled prettily on her head with loose damp strands hanging around her ears and down her neck. She's really not so safe. She's been a very bad girl this week. I'd like to yank her out of bed right now and show her another world alright. I ask what she's reading and she holds the little paperback out briefly so that I can see the title--something by Faye Kellerman.
"Any good?" I ask, hoping for a pleasant response but willing to settle for a civil one.
"Pretty decent." She manages a pretty decent reply but continues reading without looking up.
"I'm taking a shower." I head towards the bathroom floating on the air of her enthusiasm.
I'm one of those people who likes long showers; once I'm in, it takes awhile to convince myself that it's really worth coming out. A conservationist by nature I, nevertheless, feel that the planet's oceans will never dry up as a result of my fetish for running water. The hot spray pounding my back feels good, and I'm able to let go of some tension. It hasn't been an easy week for me, either.
Recently, I picked up a contract with a major "edutainment" publisher to design an interactive game for CD-ROM. The game is mainly a typing tutor, but with special techniques that allow a computer user to speed-type while also utilizing the mouse. I was given the instructions and drills; my job was to take boring pedagogy and create a fun experience with it. I came up with a little character to help guide the student -- personified, "SuperDigit" looked a bit like a loose-jowled carrot. The publisher decides, at the last minute, that my delightful learning aid looks too phallic. I suggested minor alterations, like removing his little cap, but they want a whole new design. I've had a week to rebuild and reprogram all the 3-D models that now resemble a slightly malevolent garden gnome. Did you think the life of a digital artist is easy?
Eventually, I emerge from the bathroom slightly soggy, teeth brushed, and sporting some brand new blue boxers--a bold shade that plays off my brown eyes with a delightful insouciance. I take the book my wife is reading out of her hands, close it over the bookmark, and place it on the bedside table. Grasping her arm, I pull her out of bed.
"Tom, no! I'm not in the mood for this now," she protests, but offers little resistance. I sit on the edge of the bed and maneuver her until she's seated on my lap. My hand is in her thick brown hair; I pull her head to me and kiss her gently on the mouth...with a little tender persistence, I have her attention.
"You sure, sweetie?" My other hand persuades her legs to part slightly.
"Yes, I'm sure," she replies softly and with a little pout. She doesn't sound so sure to me.
As we talk my hand is on her breast. I explore with fingers and find a nipple through soft cloth. A little manipulation makes it grow hard; then I draw her chest to my mouth and nibble on the tiny rigid protrusion only partially protected by the thick material. I hear her breathing. Her belly-button is but a quick pit-stop on the way to where her nightgown folds under, and fingertips trace her cleft, the small petals of her flower also discernable through the soft fabric. I kiss her again while my thumb teasingly persuades her where a girl can be easily persuaded. I feel much of her reluctance evaporate as her mood discovers that her body is in charge.
Pulling away from her hungry mouth, her face now in my gentle hands, I look her in the eye. "You made quite a scene tonight," I remind her.
"I am royally pissed with that repairman," she manages, once she has caught her breath.
"As you should be, honey," I commiserate. "I'm not happy about it, either ...we'll get it taken care of." I kiss her on the bridge of her nose. "You're still in serious trouble."
"Tom, let's not go there...no games tonight, okay? ... This has been a really bad week." Her words say no, but I have her full attention. Her mouth is slightly open; her eyes are wide and alert.
"Yes, it's been a bad week and yes, no games." I kiss her again, a wet kiss that prompts her mouth to open wider and invite my tongue. My hand slides down her front and this time finds its way under her nightgown; fingertips stroke where her panties are dampening with expectation. I want to taste behind her ear, her neck...a gentle purr escapes her lips and I'm there to kiss them again; our tongues tease, and Karen is getting in the mood.
"Stand up and take your nightgown off." My words are a command. A subtle shift in tone of voice, with one small sentence a line is crossed. Like one of those video transitions where the screen flips over, it has become a different scene. Karen is now a woman without options; I exercise absolute control. She will surrender completely, as I have become Top-Man ...stronger than a locomotive ...able to lift small buildings in a single hand ...quicker than a speedy bullet ...not quite master of hyperbole.
She stands and faces me, arms crossed in defiance. She's pretty adorable. Our eyes lock for several moments and she realizes I'm not giving an inch. With a sigh of resignation, she reaches down to grasp the hem of her gown ...I enjoy the sight of her peeling her pink wrapping up and over her head revealing a much paler pink in its place. She is left with panties and slippers ...they also must be banished...no use for them where she's going. The look of disdain on her face is priceless, but she does as she is told. My wife stands before me in her altogether. Call me crazy, but I've always had a fetish for the nude body of a woman. I'm chock full of fetishes. Karen's body is the one I've found to crave.
Her eyes are downcast, her mouth a diffident frown. Her posture is a slouch--shoulders pulled inwards, hands crossed defensively to cover her front. It is curious that after the countless times I've seen her undressed, she can still act like a shy schoolgirl. Perhaps she is merely being coy. Or are there other issues, as well? Like so many women, she's often complaining about her body. Seems everyone is trying to match what they imagine to be desirable... this is too big ...that's too small ...wrong shape, too short, too tall... The fact is she's hot. Everything about her is what makes her, well ...her. Beyond the temporary coloring of a certain portion of her anatomy, I wouldn't change an inch.
"Stand at attention," I instruct. She hesitates, but then squares her shoulders, stands more erect, and places her hands at her sides. I rise from the bed and walk around to stand behind her. I gently trace the line of her shoulders, down her upper arms; reaching around to cup her breasts, I test their fleshy weight in my palms. Her neck beckons to my mouth, my nostrils fill with the flowery scent of the soap from her bath. I press my torso against her fleshy buttocks and lower back ...her skin so soft, making me hard. I continue to explore her body with eyes... hands... fingers... mouth... tongue. It is a rigorous and thorough inspection. I like to see her self-consciousness melt away, hear the quickening of her breath, the low exhalations of arousal. It's always the same discovery, and it never gets old -- being naked is a very good thing.
I take her hand and start to walk her in the direction of the door. "Where are we going?" she asks. She knows.
* * * * * * *
"You've had this coming for a long time, young lady."
It really has been awhile, but my mind is playing over incidents from the last few weeks.
"Tom, don't you dare do this to me," her voice is muffled by the cushion into which her face is buried.
Karen is now upended across my knee. We're in my office...my domain. It's where I conduct business, and the business I'm attending to tonight is as serious as any.
"Oh, it's going to get done," I assure her, my hand massaging where it will happen. "You've been a real brat lately, haven't you?" My brat is not talking. Apparently, the threat of what I am about to do is not compelling enough for her...hasn't been for many days now. My normally sweet wife has been totally self-involved, cranky, often distant, sometimes downright rude. She has sorely tested my limits - pushed the boundaries - played with fire -- issuing the challenge of a recalcitrant brat, only to back off in time with the deliberation of a shrewd woman.
"It ends tonight, angel," I tell her, my voice abruptly gentle, sensitive to the gravity of the statement.
The childish tantrum that precipitated this little exercise makes it all the more fitting. She is about to get a spanking ...that's right... a good old-fashioned spanking -- the kind bad girls get. It is not so much administered as retribution but as reformation. She is going through a difficult time. She needs help to work through it. I just want her to be happy and to know that the love she has at home is secure.
This is where it is going to happen...on a short couch in my office. The buff-colored, overstuffed loveseat really doesn't get much use, just a leftover piece of furniture that didn't fit anyplace else. When, on occasion, I even notice it, I'm apt to think of Karen. It brings fond memories of sweet talks, sweeter kisses ...and spankings. It is well-suited for turning her over - forcing an adjustment.
The fit she threw in the kitchen tonight was no act; yet it was, I believe, an unconscious signal. I'm guessing it was not long after, when she regained control of her emotions, that Karen realized the line had been crossed ...and she has been a very nervous girl ever since. I imagine her licking lips that seemed too dry, hands trembling slightly as she drew her bath. I figure she sat in hot water thinking about how I would deal with it, heart beating faster and harder, slick soap anointing her flesh with heightened sensuality. At least that would be consistent with how she has described the anticipation of this thing we do.
"Honey, no... can't we just talk about this? Please!"
She is not always completely cooperative. When I told her to get over my knee, she refused, but I'm not bargaining with her tonight. Her pretty hair now covers her head in a wild shroud created by a whirlwind trip. "We're going to talk about it plenty...after I've blistered your bottom."
"No!" she draws the single word out in a wail.
In contradiction to her voice of protest, her very bare bottom assumes a position and posture that righteously invokes the hard palm of my right hand. Her lower legs are stiff over the couch arm to my right, feet suspended in the air where they will soon be kicking like a swimmer's. The woman who, in a hectic office, can juggle fifteen crises at once and make the whole thing run like clockwork is my little girl tonight. She is the person in the world I respect the most and at no time more than right now -- but make no mistake about it -- this is embarrassing for her. It has to be done.
A pale moon rises, its surface cool and smooth. I gently knead the springy flesh, firm enough but vulnerably soft. It is not a bottom built for durability, but spankings like this don't happen every day. Steeling myself, with a stiffer hand, I brush downward several times over rounded contours, as if carefully wiping the area I am going to attend to clear of imaginary obstructions. I cherish this angel who has made herself mine. When I raise my arm, Karen heaves a sigh of resignation. We both know this is going to hurt, but she has trust. To me that trust is sacred.
The first spank is always the most difficult. Maybe if I did this every day, it would become second nature, but I must reconcile the fact that I am striking her. I can't remember a time when I didn't want to spank girls' bottoms, but experience and plenty of reassurances were needed before I could give her this kind of spanking. Breaking the emotional barrier, my hand begins to make its repeated descent. There will be no warm-up, no respite. This is what she needs, and I don't compromise when it comes to taking care of my woman. I am prudent, and she is nicely padded. Though it will be noisy, the windows are closed, and the neighbors will not be disturbed ...a remedy not for everyone but, for us, a good hard spanking is just the right medicine.
A hard spank is a lover's caress. I caress my lover with the dispassionate rhythm of a metronome, the palm of my hand searing her flesh in a place where fire can be a sweet affliction. My heart is not hard and, as she writhes across my lap, we are making a desperate kind of love -- for her, too bright and hot for the conscious mind to create meaning. It is but the agonizing passageway between the before and after--the clock stopped--time now measured in the cadence of her administered discipline.
It probably sounds perverse to some. This voice in my head that can relate this to you with a detached rationality has no real answers. My understanding is due, in part, to what she reveals to me. My wife is taking a short break from being Karen Cole -- in a state of pure reaction -- no anger from yesterday, no worries for tomorrow -- only the here and now centered and focused on her tender nates; her body responds to the burn in my hand without inhibition, and her voice betrays any secrets she may be otherwise inclined to keep. She has let go of the ego and surrendered to the one she has chosen to care for her, the one whose hand is starting to sting, sharing in smaller measure the heat it is generating.
She twists from side-to-side in an attempt to evade, but each fleshy slap is relentlessly on target, a harsh yet agreeable staccato to accompany her raucous protestations. It is a dance, and we make our own music to dance to -- a lap dance -- and where the weight of her naked body bumps and grinds is a seduction in spite of our focus above. Above, her sit-spot is now a blush of red that loudly proclaims justice has been aptly served, but that is not the signal that will persuade my hand to stop. I spank with a purpose, and an ending is in sight.
"I'm sorry!"
The words have been spoken...emphatically. Once the sentiment is expressed, the dam against her emotions has burst. The apology, repeated, becomes a mantra and her tears flow freely. I know the sorrow has been there all along but, without the spanking, would have remained unspoken ...a guilt ...an unresolved issue ...a barrier to our intimacy. In a final squall the storm is purging the last of its store before the parting of clouds allows the sun to shine, once again, on our love.
* * * * * * *
"Ouch, Tom. That really hurt." Her mouth is set in a rueful pout, but there is a smile in her eyes that I haven't seen for far too long.
My lips have tasted the tears she has shed; my arms have felt the tremors of aftershock course through her body. My heart has listened to the fading cries of her gentle soul. I've wiped her wet eyes and nose with a tissue, her emotions now under control but still fragile. My woman has a little girl inside of her that needs to be taken care of. I love that little girl.
On my lap again, but straddling me, her buttocks hot against my palms, I squeeze gently the flesh that provides her with such luxurious cushion but which she may be reluctant to sit on tomorrow. We talk to each other like new lovers, breath-to-breath, consoling ...comforting ...teasing. I make her laugh, a sweet sound from heaven. I place my lips on her mouth gently and then pull back, repeating the gesture until she insists on being kissed properly, and then the kisses are long and deep and urgent. "I'm on fire," she whispers breathlessly.
"Do you need me, Precious?" I whisper back.
"Yes, baby, really bad."
Recently distracted by the concerns of the world we had become fragmented ...now... again... a universe of two, to be united as one.