Readers are strongly encouraged to read “Megan Dooley: a Love Story” elsewhere on this site (July 5) before proceeding.
“No, Max. Wait. Max…”
Megan leaned away from the grasp on her elbow, but Max drew her a step closer to the living room.
“You had your chance.”
Megan’s eyes darted about, hoping she could anticipate his next move, move with him, slip free, buy time.
The couch? He’d have to maneuver around the coffee table.
“But what, Megan? We talked about this just last week.”
The antique bench? Maybe…
That other time – the ONLY other time – he had spanked her across the porch bench at his summer home, a most uncomfortable maiden voyage for which she had naively volunteered. He might go for the bench.
August, September… It was almost Thanksgiving now – nearly three months of grateful, all-consuming marriage to this hypnotic man who elicited her effortless acquiescence.
It was as simple as that. He looked into her eyes, and she said yes, as if she’d been born to do so.
Like that night in Wisconsin, a week before the wedding. He really hadn’t even drawn her eyes to his. After all the stories of bare-bottomed brats and howling harridans frantically pledging their allegiance – and, to be fair, a couple of bottles of buttery Chardonnay – Megan had simply undressed before him and lowered herself over his lap, as calmly as one might prepare for a back rub.
Some back rub.
“Max, please! I don’t want a spanking.”
“You should have thought of that sooner, Megan. Come on.”
The bench is in the alcove; I’m too tall. He’d have to move it first. And it’s delicate; I’ll be squirming all over the place. He won’t pick the bench.
“Megan Dooley, if you’re not over my knee by the time I count to ten…”
The chair? Armless Arts-and-Crafts quarter-sawn oak. It sits a little high. God, if he bends me over that thing, my behind will pointing straight up at the ceiling. Make your move, Megan. Now!
She stepped into his grasp, rolled over this thumb, slipped loose. She’d guessed right.
“I don’t want another spanking!”
“Oh, I see. Well, I didn’t think you would. That is why I spanked you crimson back in Wisconsin, and that undoubtedly has a lot to do with your pleasing demeanor since.”
“No. I love you. That’s why…”
“I love you, too, Megan.”
He edged toward her.
“No-o-o-o-o-o! Don’t!” Again she inched back. “Okay, I’m sorry about – you know.”
“About what, Megan? What are you sorry about?”
She bolted toward the kitchen. The back door, double-locked. She fumbled with chain. Come on!
It was a wooden spoon from the wide-mouthed crockery next to the stove.
“Ow! No! Ow! OW! Please! OW! OW-W-W-W! Max..”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The herringbone-weave gold-plated belt skimmed frictionlessly through the loops of her slacks.
“No. Ple-e-e-a-se. I’ll be good. I will. Don’t…”
Megan reached for her waist when she heard the zipper, but the black silk crumpled to her ankles.
“I’ll be good. I will. I promise.”
“I’ll be good. I’ll… Don’t spank me! Huh?”
“Were you having a nightmare?”
“Ah… Oh. No. Yes. You were… It hurt so much…”
“There, there. Calm down. It’s not ’til the weekend, Meg.”
“I know. A reminder. Every three months.”
“Am I being a good wife?”
“You’re not angry?”
“Okay. I guess I’m just getting nervous.”