He could feel the ache in his corneas even after pressing his eyes shut. The glowing screen sat squarely before him, waiting. Judging him. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t go to bed until he’d put something down, justified the day somehow. That had been four hours ago.

Folding his hands behind his head, his gaze drifted to the doorway at the periphery of his vision. The only other light in the apartment came from the bedroom, where he imagined Rachel was still awake, reading under the covers. She’d be giving up waiting for him soon and turn the light off. He’d be alone, and at this rate, unaccomplished.

He stretched in his chair and brought his sore eyes back to the screen in front of him. This had been easier, once. When he was in school, he was pounding out short stories one after the other (Often to the detriment of his other schoolwork - but after ten years, who cared?). But a lot had changed in that decade; he’d gone from working part-time in a restaurant to having a career he hadn’t expected, he’d met and proposed to Rachel, he’d moved out from his mother’s and living in a shared apartment. Now he felt he was trying to rewind the clock, and it seemed more than ever that he’d broken the spring.

Bertie had gotten the news less than a week ago. Marjorie, the woman who’d hired him years ago at the restaurant, was coming back. Faintly, he remembered that she’d gone on maternity leave almost three years ago. He’d even inherited her job. But now she was back, and he was hearing whispers that she’d come to resume her original duties – and if those were true, he was facing redundancy.

Nobody doubted that he was capable, but he’d been very young when he’d been promoted. He could with precision imagine how the owner might take him aside, thank him for ‘filling in’, then remind him that his experience would be valuable the next time there was a management vacancy in, say, four to five years. The fact that he’d been taken off the roster for over a week while Marjorie was ‘reacquainted’ only bolstered his treacherous imagination.

Rather than have him sulk for the entirety of his time off, Rachel had suggested that he go back to writing. He’d been enthusiastic at first, but it had only lasted until he’d set fingers to keyboard and found his inspiration lacking. The apartment was too small and filled with distractions, and Rachel was never far away, her music faint but still perceptible over supposedly noise-cancelling headphones.

About an hour ago he’d given up in frustration and gotten up for his third cup of coffee. He’d passed Rachel at the kitchen table, sitting at her narrow chair, her chubby little butt protruding over the edge of the wood. He’d leaned in and pinched her bottom, suggesting that they could both use a break from their computers. She’d rolled her eyes and shooed him away, assuring him that she’d be more open to his offer once they’d both finished their work.

He registered the light shutting off in the corner of his eye, confirming that Rachel wasn’t going to be waiting for him anymore – if she’d been waiting at all. That left Bertie by himself, unless he included as company a blank page and a head full of neuroses.

Fuck that, he said to himself. The muse of story had taken off for the night, and now the only inspiration that he felt was coming from a much lower organ. He closed the word processor and in its place launched his browser on the “private” setting – just a precaution if his history or auto-fill might later betray his activities. Once the screen appeared with a blacked-out address bar, he knew he was in business. He loosened the drawstring of his pajama pants and guided his free hand to the familiar address.

He didn’t care for most videos ever since he’d twigged that the performers were playing to the camera, and now it played at his concentration. So his very favourite website was really a photo gallery, with pictures gathered from seventies lad mags and modern skin flicks alike. A variety of naked bottoms awaited his attention; some were promised stern chastisement and others loving discipline, but all were there for him to watch. It was a small kind of power, but it made him hard all the same.

He stroked himself gently, wondering where to begin.

“What are you doing?”

In an instant, reflex took over. In a series of quick movements, he withdrew his hand from his pants, pushed the mouse over the exit button, and turned to face Rachel, quickly gathering his composure. If his eyes looked bloodshot, he had been staring at a screen for hours. She’d buy that he was tired.

He found her standing behind him, rubbing at her eyes. Her freshly dyed midnight-blue hair draped over her forehead.

“Just locking down for the night,” he said quickly, “I’ll be coming in a bit.”

Rachel blinked and licked her lip – a neutral gesture. Bertie’s posture loosened, he hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding his shoulders so stiffly. But there was nothing to worry about, she believed him…

“Sweetie,” she began, her voice calm, “I’d like you to turn around before you try to lie to me again.”

A chill ran up his spine as Bertie twisted his chair slowly toward his laptop, a maggot’s nest of possible horrors crawling into his mind, as to what he would see. He need not have wondered; in his haste to do three things at once, he’d had to forfeit precision and missed clicking on a quarter-inch wide red circle.

His browser was open to the world, exactly where he’d seen it last.

And Rachel still stood there, impassive. He’d halfway hoped that she’d run off to the bedroom and wall herself in. At least that would give him a chance to gather his thoughts and hopefully explain himself. But what was he supposed to explain? He’d been caught red-handed.

So he did the only thing he could do. He turned back around and shut down the laptop. The room flickered and steeped into darkness as the screen powered down.

Rachel leaned over him and turned on the desk lamp, in no way distracted by Bertie’s attempt to hide his face. Her pale shoulders glowed orange in the incandescent light. She slept topless.

“I waited for you,” she said, quietly but forcefully. “I waited because I thought you were doing something important. You were never planning to do any writing, were you?”

Gasping on the thick spit that filled his throat, he managed, “Why do you say that?”

“Because we’ve been together for six years, honey, and I seem to remember you do most of your rough work in notebooks. There’s six or seven of them in your desk, most of them half-finished and all of them gathering dust.” He would have expected her voice to rise as she spoke, but it didn’t.

“Are you mad?”

“Yeah, Bertie, I’m mad. And I’m tired, but mostly I’m just disappointed. And not so much about the porn, I’m not an idiot. But you could have had me. All you had to do was put in a little effort.”

His voice cracked, and vermillion soaked into his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know.”

“Get up.”

Without compunction, he did. He stood an easy eight inches over her short and half-naked frame, but right now he felt if she were towering above him.

“This is got to change,” she said, and for the first time he could hear the anger in her voice straining to be released. “If you want to write again, you’re going to do exactly that. You do not get to use your passion as an excuse. Am I understood?”

He’d watched this woman, at thirty-two years of age, jump around in puddles after a rainfall, laughing and squealing like a toddler. Or break into open sobs while reading her horror romance books. Was this the same Rachel?

“I’m still waiting for an answer, young man.”

“I will, Rachel.”

“You better.” She stood back, her skin similarly flushed. Without thinking, his eyes dropped down to the bare breasts heaving beneath him. He averted his gaze immediately, but it was that motion that Rachel saw.

“Seriously?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“I’m not done, and neither are you. I think you need a little lesson in deferred gratification.”

Despite himself, Bertie smirked. “And what do you know about that?”

Her response surprised him. She seized his hand and pushed it down the front of her tight yoga pants. Inside she was warm, and soft… and damp.

“You feel that?” she asked, leaning into his ear. He mumbled a response. “Well, you’re not going to. For… let’s say a week.”

Consciously, Bertie knew that he’d gone without for much longer, between the pressures of work and a couple’s disjointed schedules. But it was… difficult… to convince himself of that while he was cupping her sex. So it came as a mercy when she slowly dragged his hand away, even if she didn’t relax her grip.

Again, she pressed her lips to his ear. “I think you know what happens next.”

He was too distracted to acknowledge her words, he barely registered it when she drew one of the chairs away from the dining room table and propped it up behind her. She let go of his hand, and he came to his senses long enough to take in what awaited him. Still dazed, he opened his mouth, only to fall silent as he felt her fingertips against him, lightly scratching his sides as she reached for the top of his pajama pants. The fabric sighed as it tumbled down to his ankles.

“Come here, sweetie.” Her voice was soft but firm. She sat straight-backed in the chair before him. She tapped her palms against her lap with a smack that lingered in his hearing. A promise of what was yet to come. He surrendered.

He lay seesawed across her lap, holding himself aloft so as not to fall, his fists pressed against the carpet, unyielding floor pushing back from below. His mass pressed deep into her thighs, as did his nascent erection. It was not a position that either one could maintain for long.

There was no waiting. Her hand met his unprotected flank with a loud smack, and before he had time to react, she had struck two more times. She struck without speaking, without letting up, without mercy. Caught off guard, Bertie lost the battle to keep from howling, his efforts forced instead toward keeping himself on that punishing lap even as he bucked and flailed.

And then with the same kind of sudden jolt as it had started, the spanking was over. Cool air once again stroked his blushing hindquarters, but he had only a moment to savor the feeling before Rachel helped him slide gently to the floor.  He hissed as his hot cheeks touched the carpet, more out of reflex than from the sting. In fact… the sting wasn’t all that bad. Rachel had certainly handed out worse before, and he was tempted to ask if that was all she had intended. Blood surged down his crotch with that thought, but good sense claimed victory.

“I think we’ll go back to the couch tomorrow,” said Rachel, breaking the silence. She rose from the chair, massaging the back of both legs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too heavy for that position.”

Still lightheaded himself, Bertie nodded his acknowledgement from below. A stray thought suddenly bounced back to him, “What do you mean, tomorrow?”

“I said I was going to teach you deferred gratification, right? Well, that’s how it’s going to work. For the next week, every night before you go to bed, you’re going to get a spanking.”

“Along with no sex.”

“I’m a very dedicated teacher,” she replied, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “And come on, this is hard for me, too. Do you have any idea how cute you look with that pout and those toasty buns?” She brushed her fingers lightly across his posterior, soaking in the heat. Bertie groaned and turned away. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how hard she was making him.

Rachel, however, had other means of satisfying herself. He only heard the flutter of cloth on the floor, and then she was whispering huskily into his ear.

“You know, I didn’t finish… before.”

*** 

He soon discovered that she’d decided on eight P.M. as his designated punishment hour. The discovery only came, however, when he was preparing for bed the next night. He was stepping out of his pants in the bedroom when Rachel had come in, licking her lips.

At first, he misinterpreted the gesture. She’d been out for the day, working at one of her friends’ studios in town.

“Have you had dinner already?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Ah. Well, I know we’ve got some leftovers in the fridge. Give me a moment to shower, and—"

She shook her head, cutting him off. “No, sweetie. There’s something we need to do first.”

And moments later, he found himself bent over the edge of the bed, his briefs wrapped around his ankles and his rear end on fire. This time there was no discomfort standing between her and delivering an attention-grabbing spanking. She paced herself, but it was no less intense for that effort. By the end, Bertie was madly wiggling his backside trying to shake out the sting. Rachel kissed him on the cheek and told him to take his shower, that she’d take care of dinner in the meantime.

They were the most loving set of words he could hope to hear that didn’t involve the promise of ravishing, and he knew that they were the best he could hope for.

*** 

The burn had faded by the next morning, only to be reapplied again that night. It brought him no more or less pain than the chastisements of the previous two nights, and Bertie had to conclude that his girlfriend was settling into a pattern. Standing in the bathroom afterward, he inspected the pink blemish she’d left on his backside. The experience had been anything but comfortable, but it was nothing that he couldn’t endure. And being over her knee had left him with that same warm feeling of reluctant arousal that it always had. He began to stroke himself, his cock eagerly drawing itself up with the least of prompting.

And then Rachel stepped through the door, her eyes narrowed.

“I thought you were taking a shower.”

Bertie grasped for excuses, only to trip over his own tongue. Inwardly, he knew that nothing he could say would convince her – after all, she’d caught him with his hands full. He didn’t resist as she pushed him up against the sink and smacked his already sore bare bottom another dozen-and-a-half times. This time, there was no holding back, and he stepped back from the mirror with what was undeniably moisture in his eyes. She wiped at his eyes with warm, nurturing fingers – and then laid those same fingers over his hot butt cheek and squeezed.

“Do I have your attention, young man?” she asked.

Through gritted teeth, he squeezed out, “Yes, dear.”

“Glad to hear it. Does this mean that you can’t go a few days without getting off? I shouldn’t have to remind you, sweetie, but you’re not eighteen years old anymore.”

“I’m sorry…”

“You’re sorry I caught you. If I catch you again, you’ll be a lot more sorry.” She slapped him across the beam once more for good measure, forcing out a tear. Bertie tore himself from his reflection, turning on Rachel – and stopped. After hearing her stern warning, he’d been expecting to find her subjecting him to her cruel and composed gaze.

Instead, her short hair was disheveled, and the eyes that looked out at him were tired and deep-set. Bertie had assumed that she was toying with him… but seeing her like that made him reconsider. She’d meant everything she had said.

“I’m going to turn on the Blu-Ray,” she said quietly, and left the room. They then had a quiet dinner save for the sounds of Bertie’s fidgeting throughout. It was not only his singed bottom that bothered him, though – even though she tried to remain stoic throughout their meal, he kept seeing the same expression hidden behind Rachel’s façade. That expression stuck with Bertie all through the night, and he resolved to take whatever she dished out the next day without complaint.

His tactic turned out to be a poor one. Rachel’s frustrations had not abated since the night before, and she mistook Bertie’s silence for a lack of contrition. That night’s discipline was long and hard, leaving her hand numb and Bertie’s eyes watering. He stood posed against the walls for an hour afterward, until the burn had subsided enough for him to lie down in bed. By that time, Rachel was already asleep.

***

It was now day five. Bertie had been invited to the restaurant to meet with the owner, one of the first times since his abrupt vacation that he’d had an excuse to leave the apartment. Rachel had been asleep when he left, so he’d left her with a kiss and a note explaining where he’d gone.

He was surprised when he arrived that he was meeting with Marjorie instead. The restaurant was in the slow period before lunch, and they sat together out on the patio. Marjorie turned away a waitress offering to bring them drinks – Brianna, he noticed absently. He heard her tell the waitress that this meeting would be thankfully short. Then she shifted her attention back to Bertie.

He was uncomfortable making eye contact with her. She reminded him of some kind of predatory bird, thin and small in stature, but with sharp features and an unblinking, commanding gaze. Her eyes were crystal blue, and he felt no more warmth from them than from the chill breeze around them.

“As you may have guessed, Bertram…”

What she said next was lost on him. Or rather, he understood even without listening. She appreciated the work he had done in her absence. The restaurant was lucky to have him. She would be retaking her old position. And Bertie would retain his manager’s salary, but report to her. His new duties would be decided later.

He felt a pulse in his throat, a deep rage welling up inside him.  But it wasn’t either pragmatic or professional to let it out here. He nodded as Marjorie spoke, and said that was fine, and shook her hand. When she returned to the office, he ordered a beer from Brianna and tipped her well. He lingered in town for an hour or so to work off the alcohol and then returned home.

In an attempt to compensate for the weather outside, the apartment had been set at a toasty twenty-eight degrees. Rachel had stripped down to her bra and a pair of bicycle shorts, and was reclining on the couch watching anime when Bertie returned home. She paused and hugged him eagerly as he took off his shoes, then asked him how the discussion with the owner had gone. He said it was fine. She reminded him that she would be going to the club tonight, and they spent the rest of the afternoon watching her show.

As the last episode neared its end around eight o’clock, Rachel scooted over to the middle of the couch and switched off the television.

She patted her lap. “You know what time it is, Bertie. Come on, I have to start on my makeup soon.”

Bertie’s hand reached for the button on his pants, but stopped. He choked, and then to his own shock, he started to sob.

“Honey, what’s wrong – I haven’t even touched you—"

He tried to suppress his sudden outburst, but his feelings were not so easy to tie down. At best, he could articulate, “It’s not fair…”

It took some time to form the words, but Rachel waited patiently as he told her in detail what he had been told upon his arrival at the restaurant. How he had stewed quietly throughout. Once he started speaking, his emotions simply tumbled out until his voice was ragged and Rachel was stroking his head on his shoulder.

“It’s like I’m being punished… but I didn’t do anything wrong.” His composure was beginning to return, and he sat up, wiping at his eyes.

“I don’t think that this is about you.” Rachel continued, “You’re keeping your job and your salary, right? But Marjorie was your boss before. I get how you feel. But it’s probably good that you didn’t say anything. At least until after you’ve processed those feelings, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Thank you, sweetie.”

He moved to stand up, but was stopped by a slim hand still clasped tightly to his wrist.

“I didn’t say you weren’t still being punished, Bertie. Remember that?”

“But… but…”

“Honey, the only butt I plan to deal with right now is yours. I really don’t think you’re going to wait until I get home tonight, so let’s get this over with.”

She moved quickly, unbuttoning his shirt in the same time it took Bertie to slip off his pants. After a second’s consideration, she removed his underwear as well, finally guiding her now-naked fiancé into the familiar position. From there, it was straight to work.  Her hand rose and fell in the same practiced rhythm that he’d felt the last four days, and he bit his lip as he felt the temperature rise.

But there was something different this time. As his discomfort grew, he started to twitch and wriggle on her lap, and he could feel her body moving with his. She was… flexing her legs?  The thought was chased from his mind as she caught him with an unexpected shock to his upper thighs. But his body took in the sensation as his most sensitive parts, already engorged, rubbed against the satin barrier of her thighs. Bertie had no time to process what was happening. He was able to sound a warning grunt, but if Rachel noticed it under the cracks and slaps that echoed off the drywall, she gave no indication. He bucked wildly, trying in vain to back away from the edge, but her sly friction had already taken him too far. He gave in with a wailing moan.

Rachel stopped, laying her hand over his warm cheeks. He tensed, expecting more to come, but instead she led him off of her lap and grabbed a tissue for the gooey splash on her leg. He stood on shivering legs as she cleaned up and strode off toward the bathroom.

“You’re welcome,” he thought he heard her whisper.

He stood, naked and red-cheeked, alone in the living room for a while. A storm of mixed feelings was only beginning to settle within everything that was Bertie, and it suddenly struck him that he didn’t want it to just fade away. He snatched up a pencil and opened up one of the narrow cabinets over his laptop, kicking up a thin layer of dust that had been overlooked in his weekly cleanings. His notebooks were still inside – some time in the past, he’d bought a half-dozen and left them there.

He spilled out his feelings on their grey pages, a stream-of-consciousness that ran from top to bottom, and then dripped on to the subsequent page. He scribbled until the soreness in his behind had been overtaken by the cramp in the fingers of his writing hand, and Rachel wandered by him and asked him when he planned on putting some pants back on.

He reread his entry the following morning. Then he read it again, but couldn’t make sense of much of it. But he’d created something, and that would have to do for a start. He picked up the notepad again and started over.

*** 

Whatever Rachel was doing that day, her presence barely registered with him until the sunlight from the window behind him had receded. He’d taken two breaks throughout the day to eat, use the bathroom and massage his hand, but otherwise he’d committed to working. And he felt elated. True, he already knew that most of what he’d put on paper was crap – he doubted that he could even describe it now – but it was a start. A long, he thought, and very sore start.

“Hey, sweetie,” he called as Rachel entered his peripheral vision, “Is it that time again?”

She seemed baffled. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock. You know…”

“Oh, no. It’s like five thirty. Besides, after yesterday I didn’t think I needed to continue. It looks like you’ve had a breakthrough.” She smirked. “I guess my motivation really paid off.”

Bertie said nothing, only continued to rub his hand.

“Right?”

“For today,” he conceded, “As for tomorrow, we’ll see.”

She brought her hand down in the middle of his notebook with such speed that Bertie snapped up, sending the book spiraling across the floor. Rachel’s sweet face was set in a grimace that made her look decidedly unsatisfied.

“You need to commit to what you’ve started, mister. Put some time aside for it in the day. Make it a habit. And follow…” Her stern face started to waver. “Follow through, okay?” She gave into giggles and directed herself toward the couch.

Bertie continued to stare as she sat down. In the light of how it ended, her lecture made about as much sense as the gibberish he’d written the night before. 

“I’ll bite. What’s so funny?”

“Just thinking that I’m not taking my own advice.” Her fingers tapped out a path across his leg and down toward his crotch. “I said seven days, didn’t I?”

Bertie gulped, his loins flowing to life. “Yes, you did.”

She reached under the waistband of his sweats and grabbed his ass. At the same time, she leaned in toward his ear, so close that her warm breath wafted across the small hairs on his neck and down into his collar. The room had grown stifling all of a sudden, and Bertie reached down to free himself from the tightened confines of his trousers.

In a sultry whisper, she said, “It’s only been six.”

Taking full advantage of his compliant and compromised state, she leaned him down into her lap and, without resistance, tugged off his sweats. Bertie’s head was swimming, but he was too far gone into the moment to protest.

Besides, he agreed with what she said about consistency, even before she’d stripped him of his pants.

“One more thing,” Rachel purred, her fingernails tracing tiny circles on his prickling flesh, “I don’t think you should expect any ‘happy endings’ this time.”

He pushed out his lip in an exaggerated pout. “Are you sure?”

We’ll see.”