Answering to Him (Old-Fashioned Husband)
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Authors: Dinah McLeod
Answering to Him
By
Dinah McLeod
©2013 by Blushing Books® and Dinah McLeod
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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McLeod, Dinah
Answering to Him
eBook ISBN:
978-1-62750-2719
Cover Design by edhgraphics.blogspot.com
This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Table of Contents:
The carpet was plush and kept me comfortable while I was on my knees. I had my finger on the zipper of his pants, toying with it, giving him a sly smile. I brushed my hand along his long shaft, grinning when he groaned in anticipation. I slid the zipper down slowly, the sound arousing me as much as it did him. I didn’t have to look far to see his desire for me. His head was thrown back, his eyes were closed as he panted. Even after all this time, he was still hot for me. I reached inside and pulled his hard cock out of his pants, looking up at him through my lashes. “Are you ready?” I didn’t have to ask, but I did, just to tease him with the sound of my sultry voice.
“I’ve been ready
all day,” my husband replied, groaning as I stroked him. “Ever since that hot text…you’re so naughty.”
An unexpected
thrill shot through me at the word and my cheeks flushed. Thankfully, Oliver was so breathless in his desire for me, he didn’t seem to notice. I had no idea what I’d say if he did. “Did you think…” I lowered my mouth and ran my tongue over the purple head, “…about all the
naughty
things I’m going to do to you?”
“Alicia,” he moaned. “You are too sexy for words.”
I felt my heart catch at the compliment, and I couldn’t help smiling at him. “
Some
one is trying to earn brownie points.”
His only response was a groan, as I’d been working my hand up and down his cock. I kept at it, increasing my speed every thirty seconds, until he was practically salivating. Only then did I lean
down to take the full length of him into my mouth. Just as I parted my lips to take him in, I heard the sound of the door being thrown open, and I froze right where I was.
Shit
, I thought, dread filling me. That could only be—
“Mom?” Jonah’s voice was smack-full of shock, with a little horror thrown in for good measure. “What the fuck?”
“Watch your mouth, young man,” Oliver bellowed, tucking his rapidly deflating pecker into his pants and zipping them shut.
“Geez, dad!” Jonah exclaimed. “I come home and see you—”
“Why
are
you home?” I asked, finding my voice at last.
“Last period is free on Wednesdays, Mom,” he sighed, as though he’d told me the same thing a million times before. For all I knew, he
probably had. I really needed to start keeping a calendar.
“I’ve got work to do,” Oliver
muttered, rising to his feet. I locked eyes with him, silently begging him not to leave me alone to explain this. I could see the hesitation in the depths of his cocoa brown irises, but then he shook his head slightly and turned away, pretending not to see my desperation as he walked out of the room.
“Close the door,” I instructed my slack-jawed teenager.
When he did, he turned back to me, his eyes staring at the staircase. I had no doubt that he wished he could escape me, like his dad had, and leave the awkward silence behind.
“Jonah,” I began haltingly, not quite sure what to say. “What you just saw was…your father and I…we enjoy a healthy marriage, and that isn’t limited to…”
“You were going to give him a blow job!” he practically shrieked. His face began to turn red and reminded me briefly of those bygone days when he had been a squalling infant.
Technically, I had been in the process of giving him one, but I wasn’t going to clarify technicalities. “Your dad and I are—”
“
Mom
,” Jonah interrupted, his voice somewhere between a groan and a bark as he waved his arms frantically, his voice displaying the same panic. “I get it, OK?”
I
studied him for a minute. Each of his features was so familiar to me—the chubby cheeks, the freckles on his nose, the black hair he’d inherited from his dad that he wore long in front. I didn’t know how he could stand greasy strands of hair obscuring his beautiful blue eyes. He was still hanging on to some of his puppy fat—I blamed the video games; Oliver blamed the Cheetos—and the way he held himself, with his shoulders constantly slumped, made it look worse than it was.
I’d memorized every detail of his face long ago, but then, in serious moments like this one, his face changed completely, giving me a glimpse into the future and the man he would one day become. I felt my whole body still, my eyes glued to his face, trying to take it in, but just as quickly as it came it evaporated, leaving no trace behind to attest
that it had ever been there at all.
“Ok,” I said, my voice no more than a whisper.
I cleared my throat and then repeated, louder, “OK.”
“I’m going to my room.”
“Sure. What do you want for dinner?”
Ignoring my question
, Jonah dropped his backpack at his feet, pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head and turned away. Normally, I’d call him back and demand he put his backpack where it belonged, but I wanted to get past this awful, embarrassing moment as much as he did. I watched his retreating back as he made it all the way up to the stairs. When he got to the top, he turned to face me.
“Mom, don’t you think you’re a
little
old for stuff like this?” The question was full of reproach and he didn’t wait for answer before he began to make his way to his room.
* * * * *
As much as I tried to dismiss it, his question stayed with me. I had never considered myself to be old before, or at least I never had, but that all changed later that night when I discovered my first gray hair. I pulled it from my head without so much as a wince and stared at it as though sheer determination would turn it from silver back to my normal honey blond. I laid it on the counter, shuddering as it left my fingers and bent down to get a closer look.
There was no denying it: I was indeed getting old. My son would be thrilled, I thought wryly, to learn that I’d
stopped kidding myself and bowed to the wisdom of his words. I had only turned thirty-eight last month, but some days I felt more like forty-eight. Bit by bit, the person who stared back at me from the mirror each morning was becoming unrecognizable. Soon, my blond hair would be streaked with gray, and I’d get crow’s feet under my blue-green eyes. I frowned at my reflection, but it only served to outline the wrinkles on my forehead and the laugh lines around my mouth.
With a sigh,
I turned away from the seemingly innocuous piece of glass, and the rude awakening that it contained. Maybe this was what it felt like to have a mid-life crisis, I thought bleakly. Did women
have
midlife crises? I couldn’t remember ever hearing about a woman going out and buying an expensive sports car or having an affair to ward off the inevitability of aging. All I knew for certain was that I felt the walls of my normal, humdrum life closing in on me and I was desperate to break free.
Ever since I could remember, I had been trapped by a single word:
spanking
. For some reason that I couldn’t begin to explain those two syllables had a knee-weakening power over me. Every time I heard them, my stomach flipped in a way that was as exciting as it was puzzling. I could still remember, with vivid recall, a moment in the supermarket when, out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen a man yank his wife’s arm, drawing her close to him. I’d turned toward the scene, wondering what was going on. The husband had bent his head, hissing in her ear, just loud enough for me, standing two feet away to hear: “You’re getting spanking when we get home, young lady! Yes, I’m going to make sure you won’t sit comfortably for a while!”
Although never one to enjoy my own parental punishments, I
’d still felt my tummy launch into a series of startling flips that made my pulse speed up. I didn’t understand it, but I felt my cheeks heat up with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Almost three decades later I could still remember the flush of anger on that man’s face and the remorseful tears that had filled his wife’s eyes. The memory still filled me with a sense of eager anticipation and unexplainable shame.
If ever I happened to be reading a book and happened to come across a spanking taking place, my body would jolt at the unexpected treasure, and I would read and reread the scene over and over again, memorizing the page numbers and savoring every word. I looked up the word spanking in the dictionary more times than I could count, and knew the definition by heart:
to strike especially on the buttocks with the open hand. See also thrash and whip.
Such simple words, and yet the emotion they inspired in me was profound.
It was a secret that I
’d kept buried close to my heart, one that was never far from my mind. It had been that way for me for nearly twenty years—practically a lifetime. I’d not even fully understood it—hell, sometimes I still didn’t—or known what name to call it by until college. I’d been a sophomore at the time, and one night I’d found myself alone in our dorm, since all my roommates had gone to a fraternity party. With three roommates, the opportunity for peace and quiet was hard to find, and I’d taken advantage of it. I’d gotten on the computer—back in the days of dial-up—and typed “spanking” into the search engine, checking the door after every key stroke. I’d held my breath after pressing “enter” and what had come up changed the world as I had previously known it.
Article after article, story after story…each one was
written for people like me.
Spankos
, they called themselves. I’d whispered the word to myself, smiling as it left my lips. I found a chat room for like-minded people and ended up chatting with them well into the night, hurriedly logging off when my roommates had come stumbling into the room, drunkenly loud. It had given me a glimpse of a world I’d never imagined—a world full of people I had always secretly belonged to; a secret club that I had been initiated into. After that, I’d found myself addicted and dying to learn more. I snuck onto the computer every time I had a rare, priceless moment alone.
When I’d met Oliver, I’d hoped that he might have the same, secret yearning inside of him. I tried to gauge it by slipping the
“s”
word into conversation whenever possible, and watching for his reaction. It varied from mildly interested, to not even registering. Still, he was a sweet guy. We liked a lot of the same things, spanking excluded, and he was easy to talk to. We had the kind of relationship of a couple that shared everything…well, almost. I trusted him completely, and when he proposed, I said yes.
The busy life of a wife and, three years later
a mother, kept me on the run constantly. I was always cleaning up a spill or running late for an appointment. In the dark hours of the night, when I was too tired to even think about sex, I fell into dreamless slumber. It didn’t leave much time for my secret obsession, and it was pushed to the back of my mind for a time, though not forgotten. No, it lived on inside of me, pulsing hotly and waiting for a time in which it might again make itself known.
I’d been dying to tell Oliver for years now, but I was so worried about what he would think of me. Would he laug
h at me? Or worse, would he think I was a “freak”? I knew, even after all the people I’d chatted with over the years, that such fetishes often had a stigma attached. Would my husband share the same reservations? I didn’t think it was worth the risk.
At least, I hadn’t, for some time now. Seeing that gray hair changed something within me, though, like the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. I’d spent the first half of my life without seeing the deepest of my desires fulfilled. If I didn’t take the chance now, I might never. And besides, he was my
husband,
for heaven’s sake! He wouldn’t make me feel badly for something that was a part of me—I just knew it. I felt a sense of relief when I vowed to come clean with him, come what may. I was resolutely determined as I threw the hair into the sink and washed it down the drain.
Of course, my level of certainty and desire to “out” myself as a
spanko waxed and waned throughout the rest of the day. At dinner, I forced myself to smile at my husband and son, neither of whom would meet my eyes or respond to my idle chitchat with more than mumbled replies. By the time Oliver and I headed upstairs for bed, I’d decided once again, that I wouldn’t say anything. I was practically biting my lips to shreds in an effort to ensure they did not open of their own volition and betray me.
I fidgeted as I lay beside him, looking at him out of the corner of my eye every few minutes to see if he had somehow sensed the might
y struggle raging inside of me. Oliver, for his part, was so wrapped up in the book he was reading—“The Racketeer”, John Grisham’s latest—that I might as well have been invisible for all the notice he took.
“Ahem,” I cleared my throat loudly. Oliver turned a p
age, oblivious to my stare. I cleared my throat again, more loudly, and received a brief smile for my efforts before he went back to the book in his hand. I sighed loudly. I kicked the covers off, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye and waiting for some sort of reaction. What did a girl have to do to get some attention here?
“Are you OK?”
Finally, he’d
noticed
! “Well…” My heart hammered in my chest. “I wanted to, um, talk.”
Oliver set down his book, facedown so he wouldn’t lose his page, and turned to me. “Yes?”