Three Tales of Female Submission

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The Need to Misbehave

The first three years or so of our marriage quickly took on a quiet set of rhythms: s*x on Friday, church on Saturday—his congregation believing that to be the true Sabbath—roast chicken on Sunday, a week of mundane chores.

The Reverend punished me from the start—but rather minimally: he acted “for cause,” not maintenance; he used no implements; there were no enemas save those I surreptitiously gave myself once in a while, shivering as I glided the greasy nozzle into my anus, pulsing it only a little, flushed with shame.

“Your father explained to me your need for discipline,” he informed me on our wedding night, my head on his chest, a wad of toilet paper in my panties to soak up the trickle of blood that had resulted from my deflowering. “As head of household, I have, of course, that authority; I intend to honor that commitment.”

This amounted to three spankings or so, in the average month: hard enough to warm and pink; not hard enough to redden or burn.

I admitted, if only to myself, and with some reticence, that there was something unsatisfactory about the limited duration of the after-effects, the warmth rarely lasting more than a day or so after: from the age of eight to the age of thirty, after all, with the exception of two years of college, that warmth—more accurately: that heat—had essentially been my constant companion.

Odd to “miss it,” but miss it I did; I began to “notice,” after the first year, that I sometimes misbehaved—failed to keep a commitment, spoke in an impertinent tone, was slipshod in some aspect of housekeeping or cooking—with the fervent hope that this would result in my being punished.

That had not been my intention when The Reverend came home, midday, a few weeks before our third anniversary, and caught me on our bed, behaving in a manner he deemed . . . unacceptable, his response to which—and my reaction—re-wrote the rules and rhythms of our marriage and changed my life forever.