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Women Only
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Straight Female / 47
This is both a comment and a confession, one I think women readers will understand.
D and I have been together for almost sixteen years and from the ‘get go’ it seemed we were ideal for each other, almost. I came to the relationship with severe body image issues that I figured would work themselves out over time. Wrong.
OK, I’m a little overweight but not fat, just curvaceous and big busted with an ample backside. Even though D complimented me again and again about my body his words made no difference. I was so ashamed of my nakedness that I showered and dressed behind the bathroom door, wore long nightgowns to bed and sex was lights-off only. The friction this caused between us finally drove me to therapy. At some point D joined me but after a session or two of me telling him why I was so shy and him telling me how it made him feel, it seemed to go nowhere.
One morning D left a note that said, “We need to talk tonight, because I’m not happy.” All I could think was “divorce.” Even with that nightmare I wasn’t able to picture myself letting go, sharing my body openly and without inhibition. Now, it seems so long ago and the gamble to let the sunshine in could have been so easy and so pleasurable (which it’s become). But you know what they say about looking back.
That unforgettable night when I got home D was sitting on the edge of our bed waiting. I was wearing jeans and a sleeveless silk halter he bought me though he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he just said, “Come here and stand in front of me. I’ve run out of words to convince you how sexy and attractive I think you are and therapy hasn’t done a damn thing except drain our bank account.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist pulling me toward him and said, “You’re not going to like what’s about to happen and that’s OK because I’ve tried everything else and if this doesn’t work, well I just don’t know what else will keep us together.” I must’ve looked confused but in the back of my mind I knew I was going to get what the stubborn child in me probably needed and desperately wanted. In a determined voice he continued, “Look at me,” Our eyes met while he reached forward and unzipped my pants. Firmly, he pulled me over his lap. I protested, of course, but before I could say much both jeans and panties were around my ankles and for the first time in our marriage my bottom was bare before his eyes. But there was no time for humiliation. All I could think about or feel was the sting of swats the jiggled my butt and legs. I began to cry uncontrollably and then he stopped. “From now on you will follow a few new rules. You will throw that ugly brown robe in the trash, you will sleep naked, you will shower with the door open, you will not wear a bra at home and you are not to wear panties of any kind at home or anywhere else. Do you understand.” Between sobs, I managed a weak, “Yes.” D continued, “Now tell me so I can hear what you are going to do.” My bottom was burning such that I only managed to mumble something about the “robe” and “bra,” at which point D said, “that’s just not good enough. I think your bottom has some more work to do.” For the next 5 minutes D’s strong hand set my ass on fire. I kicked and cried and when it was over I had no trouble repeating in a clear voice each of the new rules.
I never, ever wanted another blistering and I’ve never needed another (well, there was a brief reminder a few weeks later when I forgot and wore panties on a road trip but that’s another story).
Anyway, our sex life and my confidence improved overnight. Sometimes D kids me about unleashing a “sex maniac,” which is a little funny and a whole lot true.
C
D and I have been together for almost sixteen years and from the ‘get go’ it seemed we were ideal for each other, almost. I came to the relationship with severe body image issues that I figured would work themselves out over time. Wrong.
OK, I’m a little overweight but not fat, just curvaceous and big busted with an ample backside. Even though D complimented me again and again about my body his words made no difference. I was so ashamed of my nakedness that I showered and dressed behind the bathroom door, wore long nightgowns to bed and sex was lights-off only. The friction this caused between us finally drove me to therapy. At some point D joined me but after a session or two of me telling him why I was so shy and him telling me how it made him feel, it seemed to go nowhere.
One morning D left a note that said, “We need to talk tonight, because I’m not happy.” All I could think was “divorce.” Even with that nightmare I wasn’t able to picture myself letting go, sharing my body openly and without inhibition. Now, it seems so long ago and the gamble to let the sunshine in could have been so easy and so pleasurable (which it’s become). But you know what they say about looking back.
That unforgettable night when I got home D was sitting on the edge of our bed waiting. I was wearing jeans and a sleeveless silk halter he bought me though he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he just said, “Come here and stand in front of me. I’ve run out of words to convince you how sexy and attractive I think you are and therapy hasn’t done a damn thing except drain our bank account.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist pulling me toward him and said, “You’re not going to like what’s about to happen and that’s OK because I’ve tried everything else and if this doesn’t work, well I just don’t know what else will keep us together.” I must’ve looked confused but in the back of my mind I knew I was going to get what the stubborn child in me probably needed and desperately wanted. In a determined voice he continued, “Look at me,” Our eyes met while he reached forward and unzipped my pants. Firmly, he pulled me over his lap. I protested, of course, but before I could say much both jeans and panties were around my ankles and for the first time in our marriage my bottom was bare before his eyes. But there was no time for humiliation. All I could think about or feel was the sting of swats the jiggled my butt and legs. I began to cry uncontrollably and then he stopped. “From now on you will follow a few new rules. You will throw that ugly brown robe in the trash, you will sleep naked, you will shower with the door open, you will not wear a bra at home and you are not to wear panties of any kind at home or anywhere else. Do you understand.” Between sobs, I managed a weak, “Yes.” D continued, “Now tell me so I can hear what you are going to do.” My bottom was burning such that I only managed to mumble something about the “robe” and “bra,” at which point D said, “that’s just not good enough. I think your bottom has some more work to do.” For the next 5 minutes D’s strong hand set my ass on fire. I kicked and cried and when it was over I had no trouble repeating in a clear voice each of the new rules.
I never, ever wanted another blistering and I’ve never needed another (well, there was a brief reminder a few weeks later when I forgot and wore panties on a road trip but that’s another story).
Anyway, our sex life and my confidence improved overnight. Sometimes D kids me about unleashing a “sex maniac,” which is a little funny and a whole lot true.
C
