My wife and I were planning budgets. I find this immensely tedious, especially when it’s a week before she comes down and I want to drop some money on new toys at the local fetish shop. I mean, how are we supposed to learn rope bondage without rope? How are my ankles to be secured without ankle cuffs? These are serious questions, and I’m a serious man engaged in a mission of great importance — forget how we’re going to pay for a new place, I need toys, dammit.
My wife’s attitude can best be summed up thus: a) we have plenty of toys, b) fuck what I want, she’s the one who gets to decide what new toys get added to the collection, and c) she’d much rather get a new place, with a dungeo…I mean, basement, than continue in our current house and have to worry about her family or our daughter walking in while Mommy and Daddy play Mistress Spanksalot and her pet, Subby.
And as she spelled out the logic behind her decision to limit our spending on new gear, I said, “Look, I’m not asking for permission. I’m going to buy new toys, and your job is not to okay the purchases, but to make yourself useful and hit me with them. Capisce?” And then I laughed, because this was supposed to be funny.
But I forgot that when we’re talking about S&M, I need to treat it — and her — with respect. Rule number 1. So instead of a laugh on the other end of the line, I hear, “Woah. Maybe I should give you a minute to think before you say another word.”
Me: “I was kidding.”
Her: “I don’t find it funny. Do you think I’m just here to get you off? Is that my role? You seem to be fucking confused.”
Me: “…No, ma’am.”
Her: “Do you want to be the dominant? Is that what this is? Are you asserting yourself by making light of our relationship?”
Me: “No, ma’am. I don’t want to be the dominant.”
Her: “…I am going to beat your ass with the switch for this. The last time is going to look like nothing compared to what you’re going to get.”
I start pleading, trying to explain I was just kidding, I was feeling my oats, and…
Her: “You can beg all you like, but you’re getting the switch.”
Me: “Can I at least ask how many swats?”
Her: “I haven’t made up my mind.”
Me: “Could you give me a ballpark?”
Her: “I’ll tell you what: every time you ask, you get ten more hits.”
Me: “So is that ten hits, or ten more in addition to the undetermined number?”
Her: “You’re at twenty or thirty extra hits now.”
Me: “Wait, you’re counting the times I asked before you made the rule? That’s not fair!”
Her: “Is that a question? It sounded like a question. Fair’s not something I care about. You ran out of fair when you decided you had some jokes to tell.”
Me: “I couldn’t handle thirty last time, and now you’re giving me thirty in addition to some other number.”
Her: “Maybe this time you’ll learn to think before you speak, hmm?”
And that was that. I was nervous and ashamed and pissed that I was going to get 30+ hits with that fucking switch and the conversation ended. It’s all good now, but…I could definitely do without the nervousness about that whipping. But I had it coming.
