The door to our bedroom was ajar. Barely open, it beckoned, like a dark chasm. Behind me, Sylvia tapped her foot on our hardwood floors. I could hear the sharp click-click-click of her anger.
I glanced over my shoulder at my girlfriend. Furrows creased Sylvia’s brow. Her arms were folded tightly across her breasts.
She was right. I was wrong. We both knew it.
I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make things better. At that point, I would have said anything. Promised anything. But we were beyond promises and petty platitudes.
Head down and quietly sobbing, I grasped the doorknob. Our bedroom door creaked open. With one last look at my frustrated girlfriend, I entered the room and then closed the door. Around me, the bedroom seemed to shrink, and I wondered, “When did our room get so small?” It was almost claustrophobic.
Along one side of the room was the Spanking Chair; the ancient walnut chair was dark and foreboding against the white wall. I pursed my lips tightly; I was expected to move the old ladder-back chair into position at the foot of the bed. Trembling, I stood next to the chair and hoped that when this punishment was done, Sylvia and I could start over.
It was more than a hope; it was a prayer.
I placed my hands on the cool wood of ladder-back chair and thought back to our argument. My earlier evening had seemed innocent enough – dinner and drinks with another girl – a budding friendship with one of my co-workers. But after the meal, I hadn’t come home. Not till the wee hours of the morning, a time when good girls should really be at home in bed with their girlfriends. But not me. And not Sylvia. She was waiting in the living rooom when I dragged in, still drunk and giddy from a night out with another woman.
After that, things had only gotten worse.
Sobbing, I pulled the chair away from the wall and dragged it across the rug until it faced the end of our bed. This was my restitution, my penance. I would prepare for punishment.
And then I would wait.
Slowly, I pulled my white blouse free from the waistband of my skirt. The buttons were large, yet slipped easily through the buttonholes. I carefully folded the garment and placed it on the bed. Slipping free of my shoes, I kicked them under the bed. The zipper of my filigree skirt seemed unnaturally loud in our small room, and I winced as I bent to pull the fabric free. Last were my socks and panties. By now, I was a wreck: trembling, sobbing; fearful of the spanking; and terrified of what would happen after the punishment was applied.
Would Sylvia and I still be together?
Naked, I bent over the Spanking Chair. The ladder-back was in the fold of my stomach, and I gripped the seat tightly. My bare bottom would be the first thing Sylvia saw when she entered the room.
Time seemed to slow down and grow elastic as I waited, shaking and scared.
- Jasmine and the Spanking Chair – a fragment (bentalice.com)