Company

I was cooking for the party with an eye on the clock, growing more anxious by the minute. All the guests were friends, and if something went wrong or wasn’t quite ready in time, nobody would care — except for me. I wanted everything to be perfect. I was stressed and getting a little bit frantic.

My husband was helping, fetching ingredients for me or putting them away, cleaning up as I worked so we wouldn’t have a huge mess to deal with later. Since he can’t read my mind, I suppose it wasn’t really surprising when he put away the butter before I was done with it.

What was surprising is that I lost my temper, and sort of yelled at him. Well, not really “sort of.” I shouted. Ranted. I think I used the word “stupid” once or twice. When all I needed to do was to ask him to get the butter out again, or fetch it myself.

He just took it. He didn’t say anything. He kept on helping. But I knew the look in his eyes. I knew what I had just earned.

When the last dish went into the oven, he surveyed the kitchen and asked me to confirm that everything was either ready or in progress. It was, and I did.

He led my by the hand into the living room, and sat in the middle of the sofa. All he said was, “Now.”

I took my clothes off. Everything but my panties. Once I was stretched across his lap, he pulled them down to my knees.

When it was over, and my bottom was on fire and covered in dark red splotches, and my face was wet with tears, he helped me up and led me to face the usual corner.

It wasn’t until then that I realized… Oh, no! Corner time is always thirty minutes. The guests would arrive in ten.

There was absolutely no point in pleading.

— Frenulum