Mayor's Discipline: Two Domestic Discipline Short Stories

by Renee Rose

  “Like what?” she demanded suspiciously.

  He chuckled, glad she was starting to get him. “I'm thinking I'll require a blow-job and a home-cooked breakfast at least once a week.”

  She giggled.

  “And it has to be served in that threadbare t-shirt you were wearing this morning—with no bra.”

  She snuggled into him and tossed one leg over his hips. He pulled her in tightly and tucked her under his arm.

  “What do you think? Can you follow those rules?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, laughter bubbling in her voice.

  “Good girl,” he murmured and kissed her forehead.

  Bootcamp

  (previously published as Unmet Desire)

  Chapter One

  Claire woke from the dream vision of a sponge squeezing blood into a metal bowl.

  Great. She knew immediately what it meant: her period had arrived.

  Reaching for the thermometer to take her body basal temperature, she fought off a crushing wave of depression. Another month without getting pregnant. Another failure.

  She jotted down the temperature and rolled over on her back, staring at the elephant hanging over the bed. It was the feng shui fertility cure she’d implemented, along with every other superstition for getting pregnant, including getting rid of metal bedsprings (their mattress now lay on a wooden platform), removing her belly button piercing, eliminating coffee and wine from her diet, sprinkling cornmeal over a turquoise corn-maiden figurine and wearing moonstone.

  Maybe thirty-four was too old to conceive. She’d passed her prime, and her body had no idea how to make a baby now.

  She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of Luis humming in the shower. She opened them when he emerged, a towel wrapped around his lanky frame, his jaw-length dark hair tousled and wet. One year of marriage and she still could not believe the sexy mayor of Taos was hers. Or, better put, she was his.

  “Are you still in bed, Clarita?”

  She sat up heavily and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I think I got my period.”

  Luis hesitated in pulling on his sock. “You think, or you did?”

  His question grated on her sensitive nerves. “Well, I’m not sure, but I had a dream, okay?” It sounded far bitchier than she’d intended—a violation of their domestic discipline agreement of respect.

  He did not acknowledge the broken rule with the customary raised eyebrow that made her knees go weak. Instead, there was weary sympathy in his expression, only increasing her anguish. He pulled on his other sock and walked over to take her into his arms, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry, reina.”

  She pulled away when the tears smarted her eyes and walked to the shower with an exaggerated sigh. She wanted more from Luis. She wanted him somehow to fix this, the way he fixed everything. Her expectations for him clearly exceeded reality here, but knowing that did not make her any less pissy with him.

  She showered and dressed mechanically, listening to the sounds of her husband urging his sons to get their things together for school. She emerged to give him a kiss. “Buen dÍa,” she muttered.

  He put a finger under her chin, his dark-lashed brown eyes warm. “Be good to yourself today,” he said.

  For the second time that morning her nose burned with self-pity and she pulled away, swallowing it. “I’m rehearsing my class tonight for their dance performance, so I won’t be home till seven.”

  “Okay, baby. Have a good day. I love you.”

  “Love you,” she said weakly.

  She waited until they left before she padded out. The kitchen was a mess, the disaster of two pre-pubescent boys and a husband in a hurry. Normally, she liked to clean up after them. She had a housewife fetish—insisting that Luis set rules for her about keeping the house clean and having dinner on time, but lately playing Susie Homemaker did not turn her on. Actually, lately, nothing turned her on.

  She left the kitchen in the state of disaster she found it, further adding to it with her cereal bowl and spoon and drove to her Feldenkrais studio for her first appointment. In the Jeep, her phone rang and she grabbed it, sliding her finger over the screen to answer, despite the hands-free driving law in New Mexico.

  “Sandy!” she exclaimed, happy to hear from her friend from New York, one of the dancers she’d become close to when she lived there. “Oh shit, I just passed a cop. I’ll call you back, okay?”

  Clearly it was not her day, because she watched the police car make a U-turn behind her, putting on its lights to signal her to pull over.

  Well, crap.

  Her heart thumped with the involuntary physical reaction of being “in trouble.” These were the times when being wired as a submissive annoyed her. She recognized the face approaching in her rearview mirror and she scanned her mental files trying to remember his name. He had been one of the officers who showed up when her casita was broken into in the incident that had propelled her and Luis together. Artie Mora! Or was it Arturo?

  “Good morning, Officer Mora,” she said with a sweet smile, praying he remembered her as the Mayor’s girl.

  He squinted at her.

  She did not see any register of recognition.

  “Were you talking on your cell phone while you were driving, ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Officer. It rang and I answered without thinking. I understand if you have to give me a ticket, but please don’t tell the mayor or he’ll take me over his knee.” She put on her best pleading little girl face.

  She knew some women in domestic discipline relationships would sooner die than admit their dynamic to outsiders, but she wasn’t above using it when the moment served. If she remembered right, the officer had a streak of machismo, and she hoped her little plea would soften him as well as jog his memory that she belonged to the mayor.

  He gave a surprised chuckle and she watched recognition dawn. He grinned at her. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Promise me you won’t talk on your phone while driving again.”

  “I promise, Officer Mora.” She made her expression as solemn as she could muster.

  “All right. Have a good day.”

  She beamed. “Thanks. You, too!” She rolled up her window, saving her smirk for later, when she shared the story with Luis.

  Except by the time she got home, she was too exhausted and depressed to have a laugh with her husband.

  ~.~

  The house was a wreck when he got home, another sign of Claire’s anguish. His heart broke for her—the stress of trying to conceive had taken over her entire life, as evidenced by the way she crumbled every time she got her period.

  He cleaned the kitchen and cooked dinner for the boys, noting how unusual it was for Claire not to have left them something. She normally prided herself on keeping delicious home-cooked meals available at all times in the house. He certainly didn’t mind pulling his own weight with the housework; he had no sexist ideas about cooking and cleaning. It was Claire who had begged for the role, along with rules he was meant to hold her to with spankings.

  And he’d certainly enforced with great pleasure in the past, but it wouldn’t be right now. Not when she was suffering emotionally.

  She came in looking dead to the world, giving him an exhausted, “Hey,” as she walked past him to the kitchen. He trailed behind her, leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, watching as she poured herself a bowl of cereal and ate it standing up.

  “How was rehearsal?”

  “Okay.”

  He tried again. “How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged. “I got my period.”

  He took a breath. “Claire… don’t you think it might be the stress about trying to get pregnant that could actually be preventing it?”

  Her face contorted. “Yes!” she hissed, throwing her spoon into the sink with a clatter. “It’s my stress. It’s that I don’t have enough body fat. It’s that I’m too old. It’s that I was on the pill for twelve years. It is
certainly all my fault!”

  Or it could be that I’m too old.

  He was twelve years older than his new wife, which meant he could be shooting blanks. He wanted to draw her into his arms, but she was far too prickly to accept it. “Claire,” he said in his most reasonable tone. “You’re totally off-balance. I can tell just by the state you left the kitchen—”

  “Well, why don’t you man up and do something about it?” she cut in.

  He recoiled. “Did you really just say that to me?”

  Her eyes flew wide as if she’d shocked herself, and remorse streaked across her expression, but no apology came forth.

  “Go to the bedroom and prepare yourself.” He made his voice soft and dangerous.

  She swallowed, the color draining from her face, but still, she did not say she was sorry.

  “Now, Claire.”

  “Yes, sir,” she muttered and set her cereal bowl in the sink, giving him a nervous backward glance as she departed.

  He met it with one raised eyebrow.

  Taking a deep breath, he calmed his heart rate, though truly he was more shocked than angered. Apparently, Claire had been begging for a spanking all along, when what he thought she needed was a dose of compassion. He poured himself a glass of water and sipped it, giving her time to stew in anticipation.

  Domestic discipline was much harder than he’d imagined. When she’d asked him for this arrangement, he’d jumped at the chance, having always been into domination, but never before having a willing partner. And it had been easy and fun at first—defining rules, punishing when they were broken. But it was always with the light-hearted knowledge that it was all erotic fodder. He loved watching Claire’s eyes dilate when he turned Dom on her, or seeing the evidence of her arousal drip down her leg when he had her stand in the corner with her panties down.

  But this…this was different. This was a territory where he could easily make the kind of mistake that caused resentment. Do you punish your wife who is depressed because she can’t get pregnant? His rationale had been an emphatic no. And yet, she just dared him to.

  It made sense, he supposed. Maybe she needed the release. Maybe she needed someone to take charge. She was a woman trying to control too much in her life. He drank the rest of his water and put the glass down. The boys were absorbed in their TV show, and he had sound-proofed the master bedroom so they wouldn’t notice anything.

  He entered the room and closed the door softly behind him. Claire sat on the edge of the bed in her panties, looking supremely uncomfortable. Her breath moved too-frequently in her chest and her eyes were fixed on his face. He kept his expression inscrutable.

  “Stand up.”

  She jumped to her feet, fingering her panties. “I left them on because…”

  He gave a single nod. She had her period. Well, it wasn’t intended to be a sexy spanking, anyway. Still, the sight of her undressed body made his cock spring to attention in his pants. Her dancer’s physique gave her a body worthy of worship. But in giving her a real spanking, all eroticism would fade. He opened the implement drawer and pulled out the leather strap and the pocket paddle, sensing Claire watching. He took his time—letting her anxiety build was part of the experience.

  He sat on the side of the bed and patted his knee. She walked to him and dove over his leg as if in a hurry to avoid eye contact. He scissored her legs between his and picked up the strap, then brought it down with a snap.

  She gasped. He snapped it down again two more times and she bucked. “No warm-up?” she complained.

  He began to spank with vigor, striping down her panty-clad bottom with rapid strokes, smarting the backs of her legs several times for emphasis. “Are you seriously still topping from the bottom?”

  “No!” she squeaked. “I mean, sorry!”

  “Are you sorry, Claire?”

  “Yes!”

  He pulled the edges of her panties up into the cleft of her buttocks to expose more bare skin, then resumed spanking with the strap.

  “Oh… oh!” She wriggled on his lap, her gasps making him grow hard. He continued at a slow and steady rate watching as her skin took on the pink “tanned” appearance particular to leather on flesh. She settled into the spanking, holding still for him and biting back her gasps, showing him she welcomed the punishment in some way. Only after a solid minute of continuous whipping did she start to make little pleading cries after each swat and he could tell the pain was getting intense. He stopped and rubbed her heated bottom, releasing his hold on her legs.

  “On your knees,” he commanded.

  ~.~

  She slid down to kneel at his feet, tentatively leaning her cheek against his thigh, needing to feel close to him.

  “What are you sorry for, Claire?”

  Luis’s face was still unreadable, his dark eyes penetrating. Her cheeks grew warm, and she dropped her gaze, but he cupped her chin and lifted it, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I said that.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, the look that always made her tummy flip. Clearly her answer was not sufficient.

  “I’m sorry I told you to man up. I didn’t mean to imply…” She trailed off, because in fact, she had meant to imply it. “It was emasculating. And wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  Luis gave a small nod. “What else are you sorry for, Claire?” His deep voice was silky and she thought she recognized the hint of dominant seduction in it. Thank God—he wasn’t angry. Or at least not too angry.

  “I’ve been horrible. I’ve snapped and snarled. And I haven’t been a good wife.” Her eyes filled with tears as the oppressive weight on her chest returned in full force.

  Luis gave stern shake of his head. “Enough.”

  Her eyes widened, not sure what he’d had enough of.

  “Come here.” He reached for her.

  She climbed into his lap, curling into him, attaching herself like a burr to a sock.

  “You cannot be a good wife if you’re not good to yourself, mi amor. You are blaming yourself over not getting pregnant and it’s tearing you apart.”

  She opened her mouth to reject his assessment, but he cut in, “Not a word out of you.” He lifted her from his lap, turned her and placed her face down over his thigh again.

  She sucked in her breath, guessing the paddle was coming next.

  The unforgiving wood struck her sit spots and she yelped. “You are officially removed from this project for the next month,” he said, smacking her again.

  The pocket paddle was ping-pong sized, but ¾ inch thick, making it a formidable implement for punishment. Wider than a hairbrush, it was still perfect for striking one cheek at a time.

  “I forbid you from even thinking about getting pregnant. You’re going to go back to drinking coffee and wine, you’re going to stop taking your temperature every morning, and,” he began paddling her rapidly, “you’re going to concentrate on the things you can control.”

  She let out a long low moan into the covers, which she had twisted into knots in each fist. She wanted to protest—how would they ever have a baby if she stopped trying? But she couldn’t speak with the rate he was spanking.

  “I will worry about getting you pregnant. It’s my job, and I take it seriously. You are simply my breeder. Your job is to give me your body anywhere, any time I demand it. Comprendes?”

  “Yes, sir!” she gasped. Something in her lifted. It was something small—yet she felt it rise, a new freedom, a distant sense of floating or soaring. Perhaps it was sub-space from the spanking, but no—it was different—a release of responsibility. Luis was taking care of it. He could be her hero in this, as in all things.

  “You will keep this house clean,” he continued lecturing and spanking, the pain of the paddle satisfying to her on some level, a meeting of some dark need. “You will have dinner ready on time or you will leave it prepared for me to warm up.” He paused and she realized he waited for her acknowledgement.

  “Yes, sir!”

  It w
as becoming more difficult to speak as she did seem to be moving into the pleasure of sub-space.

  “And there’s one more thing.” He paused in his spanking as if he wanted her full attention. “I want you to choreograph a dance—a solo you can perform in the show.”

  She came out of her bliss, turning her head in confusion. “Sir?”

  “A dance. You told me our first night together you missed performing. I want to see what you do. You will choreograph and perform a dance in the Ballet Arts show next month.”

  Her mind whirled with the possibility as she lay limp over his lap, her body soft and relaxed as if she’d just had a massage, rather than been paddled raw. She had considered choreographing a solo for herself, but she’d had too much on her plate with her worry over getting pregnant.

  Luis shifted out from under her, pulling her knees up so she lay curled on the bed where he settled beside her. She nestled in close, snuggling her nose against his chest, relishing the warmth of his embrace.

  “I love you,” she murmured, overwhelmed with appreciation.

  He stroked her hair. “You are everything to me, Clarita,” he said, the deep rumble of his voice soothing like the purr of a cat.

  She drifted a while on an ocean of warmth and love until her mind gradually returned.

  “What if the dance sucks?”

  “Nothing you do ever sucks, querida. Have faith in yourself.”

  She smiled and remembered the incident that morning which seemed so long ago now. “Er...Señor Alcalde? The entire police force may now know that you spank me.”

  He pulled away, looking amused. “Qué pasó?”

  “I got pulled over today for talking on my cell phone while driving. I told the officer not to tell you or you’d take me over your knee.”

  Luis gave a short bark of laughter. “Who was it?”