It had been weeks since Rachel’s last gig. It was the beginning of the summer season, and the university students who had packed the club to hear her spin tunes and sing every weekend since September had gone home. Her business was quiet, and she’d only recently started to search the want ads looking for something to pay the bills for the next handful of months.

Bertie knew from experience that little was going to come from it – she’d get discouraged, or bored, or both.  Then distracted, and then it would be late July and she’d figure that there was no point anymore, she’d ask Bertie to help pay her bills for the first couple of months until her DJ work started up again. This was the third year in a row.

He, on the other hand, had the opposite problem. Just as the patrons started to come outside to the patio, so did the waitstaff try to take off – and if the restaurant wouldn’t give them the time to which they felt entitled, they would simply quit and pick up an identical job at another establishment a couple of weeks later. Bertie had gotten desperate trying to fill the constant stream of vacancies, spending ever more time on the floor. His staff reluctantly tolerated his presence, while Bertie himself felt run off his feet by the constant to-and-fro that he’d left behind years ago.

As bad as waiting tables seemed, he sometimes thought to himself, at least he wasn't getting spanked this time. Of course, Sophie was gone now – he’d since heard that she had married and was expecting her first child. Good for her, but he missed her, especially during the dinner rush.

He’d get home from work, happy just to shower and lie down, but before long Rachel would emerge, often still in her pajamas, and announce the words that put Bertie’s teeth on edge.

“I’m bored. What do you want to do?”

He wanted to soak in the tub for an hour. He wanted a day free from distractions and demands and people tut-tutting over the size of the croutons in their Caesar salad. He wanted to eat supper that he didn’t have to prepare himself. He wanted the reassurance that he could relax and nothing would fall apart. And if none of that would be possible, he’d settle for a blowjob.

Then he would unclench his jaw and shrug, saying nothing. He’d throw together a quick dinner for both of them and they’d watch Netflix until it was ten o’clock and he’d have to get to bed so that he’d be up the next day to start the cycle over. Sometimes, he considered quitting. But ultimately, keeping the restaurant running was his duty, so he’d tamp his misery down and soldier on.

It didn’t always work. One night, he ended up working for two more hours trying to cover a dishwasher whose car had broken down on the way to the restaurant. He hadn’t planned for it, and the situation came upon him so suddenly that it never occurred to him to tell Rachel what had happened. He returned from work sore, sweaty, and irritable, delayed even further by the rush hour traffic, to find a fairy queen standing in his living room.

He’d never seen Rachel wearing a full-length gown before, and now had to wonder why. He couldn’t begin to guess what material it was made out of – depending on how the light played over the dress, he’d hazard a guess that was either a deep red or a lush green, arrayed into a pattern of fallen leaves that decorated her from shoulder to feet. She'd dyed her hair an ombré to match.

The best he could manage was, “What’s this?”

She did a little twirl to show off the dress. Spring became fall, and then spring again in a single movement.

“Remember last week when I was talking about Iona and her Shakespeare-in-the-Park-thing? I recorded some background vocals for the soundscape?”

He nodded, pretending to understand.

“Well, she had this awesome dress lying around for Titania, and it turns out she can’t use it, the actress is the wrong size. It might be a little tight in the hips, but it looks pretty good, right?”

Bertie blinked. Yes, he said inwardly, her hips look very good in that dress. He felt the futile throb of an erection, but as stunning as his girlfriend looked right now, he had no patience or energy for lovemaking. He lowered his head and noticed the collage of eye shadows cast across the kitchen tables, the swelling laundry hamper pushed out from the bedroom, the tiny film of dust on the floor.

“Bertie? What’s wrong?”

He was looking far too tense. “You look great,” he said, “So when is this show?”

“What show?”

“The one that you’ve picked for this outfit?”

She gave him an odd look. “I don’t have a show yet. I’m thinking this would look best at an outdoor festival, maybe next month. Ooh, that reminds me, my friend Sam wanted me to come out to the university pub tonight. You can come too, if you want. There’s a cover—“

Bertie abruptly tuned out. “Honey, we don’t have the kind of disposable income to be going to these parties on a whim.”

“You didn’t let me finish. Yeah, there’s a cover, but you get to visit the botanical gardens with your ticket. I thought you might want to go to that.”

His eyes rested on the clutter around the apartment. “No. I’ve got too much to do.”

“It’s the weekend.”

“It’s been a long week.” He tried to take in a calming breath and hiccupped instead. Rachel giggled – and he lost his cool.

“I’ve been working my ass off for weeks, Rachel, while you’ve sat around on the couch. Is this what you do when I’m not at home?” He could hear the whispers of an inner voice telling him that he should stop, but momentum carried him. “You want to go to this show, to the… botanical gardens? That’s fine, you do that. I’ll be at home, getting things done.”

Rachel was very quiet for a moment. A tear sat at the corner of her eye, but never dropped. She sat down on the couch and turned on the TV.

 ***

It was nearly noon when Bertie woke up on Saturday. He wasn’t surprised to find that Rachel was gone. For a moment, he suspected the worst - that he’d pushed her too far and she’d left – but then remembered that the university botanical gardens were within walking distance and after all, he’d encouraged her to go.

Well, he thought, at least I have chores to keep me busy.

Except – it turned out that he didn’t. The shine on the shower tiles was his first indication, but between the lack of toothpaste stains on the sink and crumbs on the floor, he had to admit the impossible – that Rachel had not only left without him noticing, but she’d taken the unprecedented step of cleaning the apartment first. She never cleaned the apartment.

He made himself a quick breakfast and sat down in front of his laptop. He had some articles he wanted to read, and a short story that had been percolating at the back of his mind since before his week had gone to shit... but all he could think about was the conversation that he wanted to have with Rachel, how he wanted her to understand how much he was doing for them, and how much her inaction weighed on him. He’d been a jerk before, he knew, and she’d be far more receptive to his arguments if he could make them in a way that was calm and measured. And then, once they had both apologized, then perhaps they could spend the evening together in a more intimate manner.

After staring at the screen for far too long, he decided he needed a distraction, maybe a release. Porn helped him get worked up, but he kept seeing Rachel in the corner of his eye—her wonderful curves, her delightful erogenous zones. His penis began to grow heavy in his hand, but he couldn’t find it in himself to finish. He finally conceded, washed his hands and opened his Games folder. If he couldn’t satisfy himself the more visceral way, then pixelated, cathartic violence would have to do.

***

The fullscreen gore prevented him from seeing the time when he heard the door close from the front of the apartment. Rachel kicked off her shoes and looped her arms around his neck.

“How was your day?” she whispered in his ear.

He was at a loss for an answer. To his embarrassment, he noticed only then that he’d never made the time to change out of his pajamas.

“I guess I need to shower. Look, Rachel, there’s been something I’ve wanted to say all day. There’s been a lot going on at work recently, and I realize that’s no excuse-“

She put a finger on his lips. “That’s all right.”

Bertie blinked. He’d expected it would take more contrition on his part to reach this point.

“You don’t know what I do when you’re gone. You’re pissed off at me because I’m not as overworked and miserable as you’ve been, but you're the one who expects to do everything yourself. All those chores you said you had to do? I did them last night. It took about an hour. You could have easily come with me, and I get if you didn’t want to. But treat me like an adult, okay?”

Having barely gotten out of bed after six hours, Bertie had little to say. She was right, and he’d spent the entire day stewing. He sheepishly quit the game.

“It’s all right, Bertie. I’m not mad at you, I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately. But the plate is empty, okay? You can relax. I’m here for you.”

He stood up and embraced her. She was warm from the greenhouse and the walk home and still smelled faintly of flowers. He felt his ardour begin to rise.

Evidently, she did as well. “Oh my,” she whispered, her voice soft in his ear.

“I’m not sorry about that.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m quite ready just yet, honey.” His fingers looped inside the waistline of her pants, but she shooed him away. “Not what I meant. I’m going to go for a run first.”

“You run?”

“Jog, anyway. Like I said, you don’t know what I do when I’m at home. And I’m going to ask for three things from you. One, you have to shower before we do anything. And tomorrow we’re going to going to do something together, even if it’s just going for a walk. So long as it’s both of us and we get out of the apartment.”

“Agreed, and fine. Last but not least?”

“You’re getting a spanking.”

Her matter-of-fact delivery shocked him for a second. His cheeks flared warm with scarlet, and his voice cracked.

“I thought you said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not mad. But you can’t tell me you haven't earned it.”

His protest never made it to his lips. No matter how justified he’d felt in blowing up at her the night before, he’d acted out of resentment and spite, pure and simple. Rachel had done her part by helping him out around the house – and he would have to take his medicine.

She watched his acceptance dawn, then pointed to the bathroom.

“Shower first. You won’t need to get dressed afterward.”

He nodded, a lump catching in his throat. He pulled his boxers off of his shaky legs and shut the curtain, closing himself in the tiled cell and opening the valve. Cool water flowed through the hair on his head, his neck, down his back, sprinkling down the cleft of his buttocks. It would not be cool there much longer, he knew.

He toyed with the idea of locking himself in the bathroom. Rachel wasn’t a patient woman, he knew, she’d come in looking for him – but she was still new to the role of dominant, and much smaller than he was. What could she do, break down the door and pull him dripping from the shower? If he really wanted, he could yank Rachel off her feet and give her the spanking she’d so nonchalantly threatened him with. If he so chose, he’d never have a sore bottom again.

And that, he realized, lather soaking into his scalp, was the crux of the problem. He was in control of what was happening, both at home and at work, and as a practical matter, he had no accountability for it. And maybe he needed it. At work, he’d have to talk to the owner about freeing up some time for training, or bringing in more of the part-time staff. He didn’t have to do everything himself, and he’d reached a point where he physically couldn’t.

As for accountability at home… he and Rachel had come to an understanding about that over a year ago. He had agreed to their terms then, and he would be sticking to them now. He turned off the water with a decisive twist of the tap and reached for his towel.

The moment he stepped out of the stall, his courage began to evapourate with the moisture off his shoulders, and he was reminded again that he was a naked man about to offer himself up for a spanking. When she said that she wasn’t mad, did she mean that? Or was she going to be announcing her displeasure only once she had him pinned down?

He leaned out of the bathroom to find Rachel waiting patiently in the middle of their couch. While he’d been having his revelation in the shower, she’d changed into a bright blue tank top and exercise shorts that looked to be painted on. His eyes were drawn immediately to how they widened under her midriff into the thick cushion of her thighs—thighs that would soon be cushioning him.

He swallowed.

She stretched her arms as she saw him approaching, still gripping his towel in front of him.

“Shy, sweetie?” she teased. "Aren't you looking forward to your spanking?"

His stomach dropped with the final word. No matter how often it happened, either on top or on the receiving end of one, the very word “spanking” had that Pavlovian effect on Bertie. He could barely say it without whispering, and even then tended to blush. Rachel, of course, had no such weakness.

She pulled the towel away from his unresisting hands, brushing the terrycloth softly over his manhood. He looked away in embarrassment, but there was no way she could overlook his obvious arousal.

She patted her ample lap, and he assumed the position, his face nearly pressed against the cushion at the end of the couch. Resting into the familiar pose, his erection pushed itself into the narrow space between Rachel’s bare thighs. Her leg pressed into his solar plexus, forcing shallow breaths out of him.

Her fingertips danced across his butt crack, tickling and teasing. Testing his readiness. Silently, he nodded his assent.

She waited less than a second before her hand smashed down against his cheek. It was loud but it didn’t hurt – Bertie knew from previous ‘sessions’ that his girlfriend wasn’t that strong or skilled. But she was determined, and she was patient, and he knew that he wasn’t going to be getting off her lap anytime soon.

Oblivious to his dilemma, Rachel continued to smack away, keeping her rhythm slow. She liked to listen to the echo each spank made before moving on to the next, letting the sting build up. He couldn’t help but flinch as the heat took hold, and he started to grind himself against Rachel’s legs. He heard a creak as the couch itself started to shake from his exertions.

Trying in vain to hold onto him by the waist, finally Rachel was knocked against the back of the couch. She responded by slapping his seat even harder, but missed, and caught him in the tailbone. She yelped in pain and drew her hand away.

“Are you alright?” asked Bertie, his head spinning. “When you say, ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you’, that’s not supposed to be literal.”

She giggled a little at that. “You’re going to have to restrain yourself next time. Or maybe I will.” She winked an implicit promise at him, but his first reaction was disappointment.

“You mean we’re done?” He craned his head back, only seeing a light pink glow stained onto his rear. The sting was already subsiding, but he was still as hard as ever.

Rachel rubbed at her palm. “Afraid so, honey.”

He hesitated. The reprieve had been sudden, and not unwelcome, but he wanted, no, needed the catharsis that she had promised him.

“I think the hairbrush is on the sill.”

Both of them froze at hearing the words. Even, Bertie, who’d said them, stiffened where he was spread across Rachel’s lap.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

She wasn’t talking about where the brush had been left – they both could now see the handle poking through the curtains behind Rachel. But she’d felt the impact of that implement before, and cried uncle. She knew what it could do.

And so did Bertie. And he accepted that, too.

Rachel took the brush in hand and rubbed the flat end across Bertie’s glutes. She hefted it over her elbow a couple of times, testing the weight and feel. Finally, she placed a reassuring hand on the back of his head, tousling his hair.

“You really think you’ve been that bad?”

“…Yes.”

“Okay.”

She said nothing more and went straight to work. Bertie gritted his teeth as the brush came down with a reverberating crash and what felt like a burst of flame. If Rachel was surprised by the reaction, she didn’t show it, but righted her instrument with a flip of her wrist and slapped it down again. To spare her still-shaking hand, she was using the least of effort, but she needed no more. Bertie had sworn to himself he'd take his discipline with dignity - but he'd made that oath before his ass had felt what it was up against.

Finally, his breath exploded from him in a desperate cry, and Rachel let up.  She set the brush back on the window sill.

“Are you okay, Bertie?”

He squeaked out an affirmative, blinking back moisture rimming at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t even move his legs. Yet somehow his erection had stayed strong throughout his punishment, caught between his own writhing and Rachel’s strong thighs. A dab of liquid stained the couch underneath him.

Rachel helped him to his feet. She was unable to resist resting her hand on Bertie’s brightly reddened behind, forcing a hiss of pain out of him. His penis bobbed.

“I’m impressed,” said Rachel. “Maybe I should take a picture?”

Bertie pawed eagerly at the crotch of her tight shorts. She slapped his hand away, then spun him around and smacked his naked butt for good measure.

“Oh, no. I haven’t had my run, and you’re much too hot to handle right now. In the corner until you cool down. Come on.”

Bertie gave her a pleading look.

“I’m sure you can wait. Tell you what – if you can stay there until I get back…” she pulled his hand underneath the waistline of her shorts and began to move it down, “then… I’m… all… yours.”

His fingers touched the tip of her sex for an instant only, long enough to notice that she too, was wet.

“And if I can’t?” he taunted.

“Then once I can feel my hand again, I’ll spank you every day for a week.”

“Promises, promises…”