I’m a Wife Guy, okay? Let’s get that out of the way.

I started working mall security over the summer – just a little something to keep the bills paid until classes start back up. It’s not what I would call a challenging job, basically standing about in my cut-off sleeves and padded vest (Bulletproof, you ask? Ha!) and give folks the eye coming in and out of the glass doors.

Being naturally blessed as a stocky fellow, I’d like to think I have the intimidation factor down pat. The public sees the uniform rather than the man, they go about on their best behaviour, and I’m free to people-watch to my heart’s content.

Here’s where we need to talk about the girls.

The mall I work at is ten minutes from the beach, and in kinder weather, you will always find a crowd of young ladies in their halter tops, bikini tops, what have you. The distractions of the flesh are real and constant, but as a security officer and a gentleman, I am sworn to fulfill my duties with the utmost professionalism.

That, and I say to myself: Matt, that lovely young thing you’re ogling on the sly cannot yet be eighteen years old and she’s shopping with her mom. Think of what you’ve got at home.

And I do.

Chippie and I married last August under the archway on campus. And if you could see my wife, you’d wonder as I do how my eye could ever wander toward those skinny little teenagers.

For starters, her real name’s Lavender, but I call her my Chipmunk because she’s small and round, with a squeaky voice and those cute chubby cheeks from which no bowl of nuts is safe (Including my own, but I’m getting ahead of myself). A Page Three girl, she is not. But there’s no body I’d rather have pressed against mine on a cold night.

But this isn’t a cold night, and I’m not touching anyone from here. I’m just appreciating the female form as it’s being generously presented.

You can’t tell that it’s been a while for Chippie and myself, can you?

I go home to an empty apartment, reminding myself that she won’t be home for another hour. I hang up the uniform, lie down on the bed and start scrolling through my phone when it hits me – Chippie’s not here, and I’ve got some pressure that could use letting off. The day’s temptations continue to haunt me – call it an exorcism.

Now, living as newlyweds for the last year, I’ve had neither the time alone nor the inclination for a good jerking off. I grasp my cock, feeling the blood rush under my fist, but when I move my hand it feels… unfamiliar.

I change up my grip and start again. A little encouragement might be needed here. You’ve got this, Matthew.

And then I hear the door open.

I stuff it back down in my pants, but if anything the sudden panic’s only made me harder. I pull some of the sheets over my bits and sit up just as Chippie walks in.

She’s sweating. It’s been a hot summer, but all that time spent in the greenhouse would work up a sweat in anyone. She barely notices me as she pulls that ugly green polo out from her waistband, her pale skin glistening underneath.

Looking at me, lounging casually on the bed, she shakes her head and sighs, “Couldn’t wait for me, could you?”

She traces her finger over the sheets, coming to rest where they’re conspicuously tented just below my midsection. Busted. She presses down just a little, and I feel a jolt that runs through my whole body. My mouth is suddenly dry.

She murmurs approvingly and leans forward, her heavy breasts brushing my tip through the fabric. And to think, here I’d been ready to listlessly stroke myself off. I reach for her, thumbs to her nipples, and she pulls away. Says she has to freshen up and that I need to keep my hands to myself in the meantime.

I want to tell her that’s exactly what I was doing before she arrived, but doesn’t seem like to time to test her patience with pithy commentary.

So if I am going to test her patience, I might as well get something out of it.

I wait until I hear water start to flow into the pipes in the next room, then strip off my briefs and tiptoe toward the shower.  Through the thin vinyl screen I can see her reaching unawares for the bottle of shampoo at the corner of the stall.

Her posture softens as she relaxes. She holds her head up toward the spray, catching it in the hollow of her collarbone. The sound drowns out the world outside the confined space. Perfect.

Silently, I pull back the curtain just enough to slip in behind her. She’s lathering, her hands raising bubbles of thick white foam as they work across her scalp and down past her shoulders. My first thought is to help her, if only to run my own hands through her hair.

Instead I settle on a point further down – a lot further down – where her weight settles on her hips. I form a couple of fingers into a crude crab-claw and give her a pinch.

“What the fuck?”

She whirls on me, suds splattering against the tile, her face now as red as her hair. The move is so sudden that I step back, except I’ve got nowhere to go except the edge of the stall.

“Matt, I just got home. I need a minute to myself. Is it that hard for you to keep your hands off me for that long?”

“Well, when you’re dressed like that—“

She wrings out her hair with a fury that has me instinctively covering my balls. I thought it was a bit of harmless teasing, but clearly I’ve pushed my luck here.

“—I’m sorry,” I finish, trying to extract myself from the hole I’m in.

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be. You’re getting a spanking, mister.”

…

I should explain.

By the end of our honeymoon, we’d thoroughly exhausted our familiar sexual repertoire. So one night as we’re spooning after another marathon session, she asks me if there’s anything else I might like to try before we're forced back to reality.

Now in this moment, my softening dick is nestled beside the crack of Chippie’s bountiful bum, so it’s not surprising that my mind went where it did. I pat the closest cheek and ask her if she’s ever tried any spanking, blushing a bit when I say it.

I can’t see her face, but I hear her sigh and it doesn’t sound good. She tells me how she grew up in the country, that she and her brothers both got smacked as kids and that she could never understand how it was supposed to be sexy.

But I, with my palm still settled over those wonderful buttocks, was not to be so easily dissuaded. And like any twenty-first century man, I offered a compromise that I thought was both fair and equitable.

Chippie laughed. “Matt, you don’t know what you’re asking. You’ve never been spanked before.”

And I kissed her and told her that I wasn’t asking her to do anything that I wasn’t prepared to do myself. I didn’t actually say, “how bad could it be”, but maybe it was implied.

So, back in the present, we’re both naked in the shower and I’m chuckling nervously like I haven’t just been told I’m about to get my ass whupped from a woman who – heavyset as she is – is still about half my size.

“Chippie, come on…”

“Don’t ‘Chippie’ me, Matthew. I’ve worked with school kids who have better self-control than you. You’re going over my knee before we do anything else, and that’s final. Go towel yourself off.”

She turns back into the stream, giving me an unprotected chance at her ass – but she’s not tempting me, she’s sending a message: Try it, and see what happens.

I step out of the shower, drying myself with as much dignity as I can muster. I catch a glimpse of my own blanched and flabby butt in the bathroom mirror and consider its unblemished state. I’ve been on the receiving end of Chippie’s palm only a handful of times (Pun unintended), and she’s never been the kind to hold back, even when she’s in a good mood.

I slink back to the bedroom. I don’t bother to cover myself – I mean, what’s the point? My chest tightens when I hear the water shut off, and I find myself counting the minutes until she appears, cinching the belt of her bathrobe. The robe strains at its seams – it’s shrunk in the wash since she’s had it, or so she tells me – and Chippie’s one wrong move away from spilling out of it.

Too bad I’m not in a position to enjoy it.

She sits down gently beside me on the bed, and it looks like she’s calmed down since I interrupted her shower.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I say back.

“I appreciate how you show me affection, and I don’t want to discourage you from it. But I also need my own space. You understand, right?”

I nod. God, but having her this close blows away any passing fantasies I might have about the shoppers. And to not be able to touch her…

“You know I love you,” I tell her, feeling silly for choosing this moment to say it.

Still, she smiles as leans over and kisses me. “I love you, too. But you know I’m still going to spank you.”

She straddles the corner of the mattress, inviting me to lie across a well-cushioned thigh. I take her up on the offer, just to be polite. My erection has died down since I got out of the shower, but I can feel it acting up again as my weight presses down on that warm and generous flesh and I will myself to imagine any of the things you’re supposed to think about in these moments – baseball, ocean waves, all of it.

Then Chippie saves me the trouble. I don’t even see her hand move, but there’s a loud whack and I twitch like I’ve been scalded. The burn barely has time to settle in before she strikes again, building up a rhythm, coating the entire surface of my backside in hot pink.

And once she’s got a foundation… then she really gets started.

The first time she put me over her knee like this, I was caught off-guard by how much strength was hiding in those short, plump arms of hers – I guess they make girls differently in the country. She doesn’t say anything at this time – no reprimand, no lecture. Her hand’s doing all the talking right now, and it’s making itself heard.

Do I deserve this? I mean, it’s not my decision to make, nor is it something that weighs on my mind while my buns are getting toasted. But as yourself this – do you think she’d take it any better if she knew I was staring at other girls? Somehow I don’t think she would. So I endure.

Her scorching palm comes down again and again, and even though I’ve learned that clenching doesn’t help, I can’t help but do it anyway. My legs kick out of their own accord, and I hold on to the bedsheets for dear life. I’m just glad I’m not whimpering.

Much.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says.

And it’s over. My ass is throbbing so much that I don’t even realize that she’s stopped. I lower myself back toward the floor – slowly, each motion tugging on my glutes and sending a new spasm of agony up my legs.

Her arms circle my waist, her head pressed against my stomach. She murmurs something about how I’m a good boy while she kneads my poor aching cheeks.

You’re probably wondering why I subject myself to this. It’s pretty humiliating, as you can tell. And while I’ve been assured that there are guys who get off on being spanked, I don’t know how they manage.

But like I said at the start, I’m a Wife Guy. I see her like this, flush with effort, damp with sweat, and I’m reminded how much it gets her motor running to have me submit to her, how it turns her on to be in charge. What’s a little pain, in the face of that?

In all this jostling, her robe has fallen open, and as she looks up at me I’m greeted by the sight of a loosened nipple, pink and swollen.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, her voice husky.

“Of course,” I grin. Anything my Chippie wants.