It wasn’t often that nights could be this quiet. His restaurant had recently made the decision to hire a manager specifically for the kitchen on weekday nights, and for the first time in years Bertie was able to relax in the evening, even switching off his phone once he left at five o’clock.

He looked to the clock on the dashboard. Even with the hostile flow of cars around him, he figured that he’d be home in about twenty minutes. Rachel would join him about an hour after that, she’d texted back to let him know she was working in the studio with a friend of hers, a keyboardist named Suzi. Bertie had met her once or twice, she was a stunning jam pianist but flaky when it came to recordings, and he suspected this session wouldn’t amount to much.

So he and Rachel would be having a late dinner, he reasoned. He had a mushroom pizza in the freezer for just such an occasion, and the thought occurred to him that he could pair that pizza with something he’d not been able to taste for months now.

Between his frequent early hours, his frequent commuting and Rachel being unable to drive, he’d gone some time without a drink, and that, he decided, could afford to change for one night. He left the highway early to make a stop at the liquor store and left with two bottles of white wine. And without even having to tip the sommelier, he’d joked to the cashier when she’d asked about his uniform. She hadn’t laughed, and he had to admit it wasn’t that funny. He supposed he was just giddy, and there was nothing wrong in that.

The sun had bleached his apartment complex a light orange by the time he arrived. He checked the clock again and was surprised by how much time his detour had eaten up. Nearly seven o’clock – he’d barely have time for a shower before Rachel got home. The update gave a bit of speed to the spring in his step. Once he was inside, he shucked off his suit and tie and let the cool water cast off the stench of marinade.

The spray also drowned out any noise outside the bathroom, so he was caught completely off-guard when the shower curtain opened and Rachel climbed in beside him. At first he barely recognized her – she must have dyed the pink-and-blue layers into her hair earlier in the day, before going to the studio – but the curves and dips below were all-too familiar.

“So how was your day?” he asked.

“About what you’d expect,” she replied, covering her hair with a puffy shower cap, “Suzi had about five minutes of music and spent three hours trying to decide on effects for her opening. I wanted to strangle her.”

“But at least you get credit on her album, right?”

“If she ever finishes one. At this point, I should be charging by the hour.”

She gently pushed Bertie aside to stand under the stream and moaned in a voice that was nearly orgasmic. The water flowed into a tributary between her round breasts and slid down her torso to the tub. Bertie snuck up behind her to catch the drip from her nipples, and she swatted his hands aside.

“You’re home tonight, right?”

She nodded. “As if I could spend another four hours on a soundboard after today.”

“So, what did you feel like doing tonight?”

She must have known where he stood on that matter – because the organ doing the standing was pressed next to the cleft of her bum in the narrow shower stall. But she turned at the waist and fed him a skeptical glare.

“I don’t know if I’m up for that tonight, honey,” she said. “But I’d like nothing more than to have you fill me up.”

He decided to play dumb. “You want me to… I think I’m getting mixed signals.”

“Not like that! I mean food. I want you to feed me.”

“Ah. Well, on that topic, I’ve got a little surprise for you…”

***

The pizza took almost twenty minutes to cook properly, and once dressed in his pajamas, Bertie helped himself to a first glass of wine while Rachel was busying herself in front of the bathroom mirror. Drawn by the smell wafting from the oven, she glided over to Bertie, still wrapped in her towel. 

“Do you mind if we eat this in front of the TV tonight? There’s a movie on Netflix that I’ve been waiting to see.”

The phrase “Netflix and chill” sprung unbidden to Bertie’s mind, and he chuckled under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, sweetie. Sure, let’s watch your movie.”

She gave him a glare that wouldn’t have intimidated a puppy, as if to say, I’m on to you. But hunger was first and foremost on her mind, and seeing that the pizza was still far from ready, she slipped back to the bedroom to dress. When she emerged in her tank top and yoga pants, Bertie had topped up his wine glass a second time, with her none the wiser.

As the last few moments of cooking time drew near, Bertie brought up the movie that Rachel had mentioned. She had a great love of B-movies, and this looked to be right up her alley, something about a zombie outbreak in a biodome. The cast looked familiar as well – they’d seen a couple of them before in a show that they’d watched together back when they first were dating.

There had been a lot of “Netflix and chill” involved in those first months, he remembered fondly. Right after she’d asked him out – much to his surprise – he’d worried that they would have little in common, and clung to their first mutual interest, cheesy sci-fi. What had been a desperate gamble at the time had paid off, as those lazy early dates had been what Rachel had quietly hoped for following her recent breakup.

Then, during a particularly dull episode, he’d reached for the remote on her lap and she maneuvered his hand beneath the string of her sweatpants instead. The episode had ended before they’d come up for air, and when the show came back from haitus they made watching it, or not, a weekly event. He’d even spanked Rachel for the first time during one of those evenings, just a few slaps on the rump during sex. How the times had changed.

The oven beeped, bringing Bertie back to the present. Throwing on some oven mitts, he brought out the pizza. The steam rose to greet him as he cracked open the oven, and his flashback vanished, kicked aside for the moment by a more immediate need. Besides, there would be time to indulge in other urges after dinner. He poured another glass of wine for Rachel and plopped down beside her on the sofa. She started the movie.

A warm glow was beginning to radiate in Bertie’s head as the opening credits rolled, and he was reminded how long it had been since he’d had a drink. He reminded himself that he should probably slow down, his tolerance wasn’t what it was when he was in school and in any case, Rachel had barely touched her own glass. He fixed his attention on the screen in front of him instead. All he needed was something else to occupy his mind, and the moderation would take care of itself.

***

“One of us is a carrier! One of us is making those creatures!”

Bertie let out a very unprofessional giggle as the model-turned-actor before him shouted out the line with all of the dubious gravitas she could muster. His plate rattled as he held it, and he set it on the floor just to be safe. He nearly missed it when the woman who’d made the dire proclamation was suddenly dragged through the drywall behind her and messily devoured.

“Braaaains!” Bertie growled, turning to his girlfriend. Rachel grimaced, still watching the movie.

“I said, br-“

“Yes, I heard you. You keep yelling that every time the zombies show up, and it wasn’t funny any of those times. I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

Bertie considered this for a moment. “I’m going to say… exposition and complaining. ‘I didn’t sign up for this’ or, ‘why is this happening’, or ‘please don’t eat my brains’.”

“They don’t eat brains, ass. They-“ she didn’t even bother to finish, turning back to the film and shutting him out. He couldn’t tell if she was tolerating his commentary or genuinely annoyed, and he decided to back down for a bit. Just a bit, though.

Bertie took another sip from his glass, only to find it empty. Strange, he thought, we’re only about fifteen minutes into the movie. He gestured to Rachel to see if she wanted a refill, but she was still ignoring him. Shrugging, he returned to the couch with his second – or was that third? – glass of wine. He came back on increasingly unsteady feet. Seeing a flash of irritation cross Rachel’s brow, he resolved to keep the smart-ass remarks to himself until she’d caught up to him.

His resolution didn’t last. Bertie’s buzz didn’t make the movie any more watchable as they passed into the first hour. And while he kept his mouth shut for most of that time, he couldn’t resist when a zombie victim was bitten on the ass and dragged away.

“I was wrong. Buuuutts!”

That elicited a giggle from Rachel, but it was a reluctant one. Not to be deterred, he leaned over toward her, arms outstretched like one of the living dead, running zombie fingers along the curve of her tights. She squealed, but made no attempt to stop until his hand crept inside of her pants.

“I’m watching the movie,” she hissed.

“The big guy from Battlestar will survive. The biodome is a secret government research facility. They’ll kill the zombies by flooding the atmosphere with oxygen until they putrefy.”

She paused the film in frustration. “What, have you seen this one before?”

“No, it just feels like it. Come on, there’s more fulfilling ways to spend the evening.” He squeezed her cheek to underline the point.

“Spoiler alert. I know how that ends as well.”

“Yes, but it’s a great ending. Ebert and Roeper gave it two thumbs up.”

Rachel winced at the mental image. “Look, I’ve wanted to see this movie for like five months now. It’s not very good, but what do you expect from zombies in a biodome? There’s about forty minutes left. Once it’s done, then we’ll see about going to the bedroom from there. If you behave.”

“What do you mean, if I behave?”

She counted off on her fingers, “Zip it, stop groping me and put the wine away. How much have you had?”

He was about to protest, but he could see the nearly-empty bottle from the kitchen counter, and since Rachel still had most of hers, there was little point in trying to lie. “What if I don’t behave?” he taunted.

Rachel fixed him with a glare and leaned across the couch, her face a mere breath from his own. He didn’t know if it was the wine or her sudden movement, but he drew back reflexively – and she smacked him on the butt as he did. She folded her arms and continued the movie.

The threat was implicit, but there. While it was common for Bertie to put Rachel over his knee, either as a prelude to sex or because she’d irritated him in to it, he’d fantasized for months about her doing the same to him. Though he’d never brought it up himself, she’d stumbled onto his secret about a month ago and had given him his first spanking. It was a new state of affairs as far as they were concerned, and left Bertie wondering, if he pushed her, would she do it again?

If she knew what he was thinking, it didn’t show. Maybe she thought the warning would be enough – or maybe she really did just want to watch the movie.  He weighed both options and considered her stance on the matter. While his silence reigned, the film’s heroes burst through a door into a dark room. As they were drawn forward into an ambush that was not only broadcasted but outright demanded by the story, Bertie made his decision. A violin line grew ever more shrill until…

“Buuuuutts!” he groaned, and pinched Rachel through her yoga pants just as the zombie lunged out from the darkness. She was so startled that she nearly dropped her wine glass, but caught herself before she could splash any more than her chin and chest. The wine soaked through the fabric of her tank top, and she turned to Bertie in barely restrained fury.

He’d been chuckling over the look that had come across her face from the shock, but there was something in her new expression that brought his earlier glee to a sudden halt.

“What the fuck was that?” she demanded.

“I’m… I’m sorry?” he tried, “That washes out, right?”

She glared at him and peeled off the damp top, treating him to the second glimpse of her full – and for the second time, wet – breasts. His appreciation did not go unnoticed, and with a single decisive movement, Rachel snatched up the remote and paused the movie. A survivor’s scream lingered in frozen time.

Rachel slid over to the centre of the couch and patted her lap. “Come here,” she ordered.

Bertie blinked.

“You’ve been all but asking for this. Come on.”

He found his voice. “You can’t be serious-“

She would have none of it. She grabbed his closest arm and yanked, and he flopped down over her knees. Her strength caught him off guard. His head pressed into the couch cushions; he felt as if the room were shaking. Rachel wasn’t that strong, he realized, but he was more tipsy than he’d thought. She whisked his pajama pants down to his knees, baring his bottom.

“Congratulations, Bertie; you have my full attention.” She peppered his backside with a rapid series of spanks. “I hope you’re not changing your mind now.”

He jerked involuntarily as the slaps echoed across the room. Rachel was a tiny woman and Bertie was… a little drunk, maybe, but she wasn’t holding back and he could feel it. Her small hand cracked again and again over his wobbling cheeks, her energy far from spent.

Bertie smirked as she laid into him. Between the wine and his girlfriend’s hand, he was warming up nicely and quite turned on. He fidgeted slightly, giving his erection some room to sprout between her thighs.

If she noticed his swelling member, she didn’t say anything. But he felt the smacks as she picked up the pace, applying in volume what she couldn’t through raw force. He could feel his member begin to droop as the experience became less and less pleasurable. Shifting his torso as much as his pose and composure could allow, he turned to face Rachel.

“Honey, I think I’m learning my lesson- ow!” She wasn’t inclined to listen, “Okay, I’m –eeah! – I’m sorry I spilled wine on your clothes! And I’m sorry I – ouch – was MST3K-ing all through the – ow! – movie…”

She placed her palm over his mouth, cutting his apologies short. “No, you had your chance to say sorry, and you kept being a brat. You know who’s going to decide when this is over?” She lifted her hand.

“You?” he tried. The reprieve was welcome, but now his bottom felt like he’d been outside in the summer with no lotion. Fuck, but Rachel could spank when she was in the mind to!

“Me.”

And she clearly wasn’t ready to stop. She’d come close to wearing herself out earlier, so she switched up her style, slowing to one hard, crisp smack per second, each one ringing off the window behind them and subsiding just before she delivered the next one, almost like a bell. Bertie was really starting to feel the burn now. He grimaced with every spank, and he no longer cared if Rachel could see him squirm. 

He whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

“You know, I’m almost starting to believe you.”

She came down with a precise strike to his sit-spot that brought a tear to his eye. He yelped audibly, and that finally seemed to satisfy his wrathful lover. She rubbed his scarlet buns before indicating that he could stand. Rising to his feet, he hissed at the sting, dancing lightly in place.

“That’s what you get for being a brat,” Rachel pronounced with a grin. Bertie half-remembered him using the same words at some time when her bottom had been the one under fire. Now that the spankings in their household were mutual, he’d have to be more careful how he laid down the law. He saw that his bouncing had prompted a rather odd look from Rachel.

“Do I do that after you…”

Wincing, he said, “Yeah. And you know, I always thought it was pretty funny to watch.”

“Huh. I guess you’re right.” She laid back into the couch, reaching out a hand to brush one of the blotches of pink that she’d laid into Bertie’s hindquarters. The feeling was not uncomfortable, and Bertie could sense his erection making a triumphant return.

Rachel noticed, and dropped her hand. “Not yet. First, I’m going to finish watching my movie. Since you didn’t seem to be interested, you can stand against the wall until it’s over, and if you move from that point, I’m going to introduce you to that paddle I got for your birthday. We’ll see where we go from there, okay?”

A year ago, Bertie had thought he would never be able to engineer a way over her knee. Within the last few weeks, she’d not only done that, but she’d learned to be mean about it. He’d made an impression on her, it seemed – and he almost regretted the gusto with which she’d returned the favour. She cocked an eyebrow, and Bertie shuffled into the corner, his pajamas bunched up at his ankles.

“Hands on your head!” she shouted after him. After he’d placed himself in the pose he’d so often indicated for her, she resumed the movie.

Only a few moments had passed before a knock came at the door. Rachel sighed, but again paused the movie. Bertie’s heart skipped a beat, and he barely managed to stop himself from turning around to see what was happening. After all, Rachel was still topless, she wasn’t going to be letting anyone into the apartment to see her handiwork.

Grabbing a robe she’d slung over one of the chairs, Rachel opened the door a crack. From his sorry station, Bertie could hear the voice of Mrs. Chanmany, one of their neighbours.

“Sorry to disturb,” said Mrs. Chanmany, “I heard sounds from your apartment. Sounds like a fight in here.” That was rich, Bertie thought. The Loatian family had six children, five of them young boys who fought constantly.

Rachel put on her best smile. “Oh, I apologize. I had to deal with a naughty young man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You know how it is.”

Mrs. Chanmany was silent for a moment. “I didn’t know you had children.” She leaned in toward Rachel conspiratorially. “I use the kitchen spoon myself.  It’s the only way to deal with bad boys.”

Bertie blushed a dark shade of crimson. Rachel politely laughed in agreement and closed the door.

“She’s a nice lady, don’t you think, Bertie?” She judged his pose for a moment, then pinched one of his sore cheeks. “You should see yourself, honey. You’re the same colour on both ends.”

“I’m going to remember this,” he growled.

“And you should. But for now, I’m going to enjoy myself.” Rachel shucked her robe and plopped back down on the couch. The sounds of carnage ensued throughout the apartment.

There was a horrifying crunch. Rachel wrinkled her nose. “Ew. So much for the Battlestar guy.”

For a very brief moment, he was tempted to look. But his freshly cooked backside was reminder enough, and he continued to hold his position.