Fifty Shades of Play

photo Robert Zunikoff

 

Bondage. Spanking. Whips. Doms. Subs. Naughty yet fascinating words that generally have no place in my coffee-drinking, husband-hand-holding, go-to-bed-early life.

Certain authors have glamorized the whole kinky sex thing and made millions in the process. With the advent of e-readers, there are no incriminating book covers for the public to see, so no one knows what you’re reading. It makes erotica available for the masses to enjoy.

It’s everywhere.

And I’m curious because it appears spanking is not just a punishment anymore, but apparently something people enjoy as a prelude to, or in place of, sex.

I approach my husband about it. I tell him I’m looking to write some erotica that contains some spanking scenes. Would he be a willing participant in this experiment so I know whereof I speak when I put pen to paper?

We’ve been married ten years and I know him well enough to recognize an interested gleam in his eye when I see one. If we hadn’t been standing in the kitchen at 5:30 p.m. with my son sitting not 20 feet from us, his pants would already have been on the floor.

The agreed upon night arrives—at our age, we plan these things—and we’re both giggling like naughty teenagers and swilling coffee to stay awake for the festivities. Right before bed, one quick shot of whiskey for courage. It is pain, after all.

Before we set off for the sexual playground that is our bedroom, we set up the coffeemaker for the next day and set out work clothes. I toss in a load of laundry. He brushes his teeth and skips to the bedroom. I take my turn in the bathroom and head down the hall to join him.

The lights are off. My husband is lying face down on our bed, undressed except for a pair of red boxers with pink lips all over them. It’s a sign, I think. I hop into bed and give him a playful smack on his rear.

He leans up. “Did you put the dog in his room?”

“No talking,” I order, with a much harder, less playful smack. I wait for a reaction. “Feel anything?”

“Ouch.” He laughs. “Not really.”

I feel something, though. I think I have popped a blood vessel in my ring finger; it’s burning like fire.

“Maybe do it harder?” He sounds hopeful.

This is not going as I had envisioned. “I can’t smack any harder. I think I broke a blood vessel in my poor finger. It’s probably turning blue.”

“Speaking of blue, did you take my blue pants to the cleaners?”

“No talking, slave.” Forgetting my severe hand damage for a moment, I deliver a palm-stinging blow. Oh, the pain. I turn on the bedroom light to examine the heinous injury. Sure enough, my ring finger has a broken blood vessel and the entire digit is a lovely indigo color.

“Dammit. Yes, I took your stupid pants.” I’m the only one in pain here and it is definitely not conducive to romance.

I turn back to him. His head’s back on the pillow and he yawns. “You probably have enough material now, right?” I do? After two swats? I suddenly understand why the gag is used.

I give up on erotica research for the night. I sigh and pull my spa socks back on while he turns the bedroom light back off, then pulls me closer til we’re in our normal, snug, vanilla nighttime position—warm tummies together, legs intertwined just so, arms across each other. We’re both drowsy from the whiskey shot despite the coffee.

Right before I fall asleep he gives me a slow, warm, bone-melting kiss and I am reminded once again why I married him. “Let me know when you need to do more research. That was fun!” Seconds later, I hear the sound of his even sleep breathing.

I have always heard people who fall asleep quickly have a clear conscience. Perhaps he doesn’t need a spanking after all.

(originally written for Prompt Club, then published in “Not Your Mother’s Book on Sex” on 8/1/16)