A Bride's Test

This is a real-life "test the man's resolve" episode, written by a fine correspondent
and good friend of mine who is now in her early forties and still happily married -
and regularly spanked by - her husband who appears in this account as "Stanley".

Her testing ways continue, but less stridently. She now asks for playful spankings -
and rarely punishment spankings - and she reports that there are positive benefits of
harmony and reduced whining now she has placed herself willingly in her husband's
disciplinary care.

Our correspondence was the first time she had ever mentioned her spankings to anyone.

She has told me I can use this story as I wish. This story is copyright 1999 by the author.
Please contact me if you have any enquiries.

In this account, she is 23 years old - an age which I have long theorised is the epicentre
of those instinctual forces which drive the spirited woman to the bitter extremes of
folly and drama.

- Mr Fondman

A Bride's Test

It happened during the first month of newlywed life. Stanley
had been working long hours, and I wasn't used to being left
alone.  I had decided that I would be useful and help by
cleaning out his files when I happened across his rolodex.
Curiosity got the best of me, and I felt obligated to look at
his leads, definitely slacker entertainment.  Now, Stanley
was a salesman and jotted down quick descriptions of his
prospects.  I came across a card entitled "Emma." Emma's
occupation was listed, and included was a one-liner, it said
"a cute blond" - in parenthesis, I might add.

I went wild with jealously, all rational thought left me for the
remainder of that afternoon and I pouted for hours imagining
him in every kind of tryst with the above-mentioned Emma.
I raged by myself, wondering what kind of a slut this Emma
could be.  Worse thoughts preoccupied my thinking, by the
time Stanley finally arrived home, I was beyond peaceful
negotiations or reasonable explanations.

I remember that he came through the door, his usual cheerful
self - kissed me, his scowling little bride - on the lips and
went to change from his suit.  I followed.  Stanley asked me
how I had spent my day - and of course I offered up little
in the way of a civil response.  "Snooping.  I had spent it
snooping, damn it." and then I lit into him, telling him that I
had gone through his rolodex and demanded to know who
this Emma was.  He gave me a reasonable explanation, none
of which I believed.  It was a first class bitch fest - with
lots of big hand gestures, bad words and throwing things,
small things.  I had this premonition that I was treading on
thin ice and I was right.  I tossed his latest copy of the
New York Times missing him and hitting a photograph of us
and from there I snatched Emma's card up and ripped it into
shreds.  Right in front of him.  Very dramatic.

Now Stanley had stood watching me, hands on hips, in
disbelief that what had begun as a jealous snit started
manageably small but had now escalated to such hormonal
proportions.  He cautioned me to knock it off.  I didn't.  I
was just warming up - and irony of ironies, he was too.  He
told me again in a calm voice and a steady look to stop,
that "it" had meant nothing outside of a casual comment and
that I was behaving like a spoiled brat.

Oh, that did it, comparing me to a child.  Well, I was leaving.
I walked out of the house, a block down the street and stuck
out my thumb.  "Fuck him," I said out loud to myself, I was
going home.  I'll be damned if a man was going to tell me that
I was a big baby.  It took me a few minutes before I fully
realized that he was not coming after me.  I was stranded in
downtown Pittsburgh three hours away from Mummy and
scared shitless.  Stanley had been observing all of this
outrageous behavior from our living room window.  It was
getting dark, and I wasn't going anywhere with the ride idea,
and had retracted my thumb after the first scary man had
pulled up and offered me a lift.

I didn't want a ride, I wanted Stanley, so I headed back to
the apartment.  When I walked in the lights were off and his
back was turned away from me.  He didn't say a word as I
slipped down the hall towards our bathroom.  It was an eerie
silence, we weren't big fighters and even I knew that I had
crossed some kind of a line with him.  It seemed the only
comfort that I was going to get for the evening was a hot
bath, and I drew one for myself.  More silence, this wasn't
good, maybe I had gone to far?  It was a great bathtub,
clawfooted with plenty of room to float in and I soaked for
nearly an hour.  I remember climbing out of the tub, warm
and toasty - the jealous rage had lost it's slick veneer and
I was beginning to feel slightly remorseful.  Still nothing
from Stanley, he was in the kitchen and I decided a hasty
and quiet retreat to our bedroom was more than a good idea.

I settled into our bed, faking sleep when I heard him coming
up the hall.  I wasn't a master of conflict resolution skills at
that early age (23) and it was the best I could do.  As far as
I was concerned the fight was over, passion spent, reason
had returned.  Couldn't we make up and forget the whole
ordeal, pretend that it had not happened, especially the
embarrassing part?  Stanley let me know that not only had
I put myself in jeopardy in hitchhiking, but I was thumbing
home in the wrong lane.  He had other plans, including the
education of the uninitiated, in fact there was no kiss it better
in sight for the me, the New Bride. He had gone to the
kitchen for my favorite cooking accessory, a wooden spoon.

Stanley asked me kindly to roll over and make it easier on
myself, that I was getting spanked, end of story.  I naturally
disagreed with this course of action, and instead buried myself
further under the covers.  Not smart.  He dove in after me -
rolled me onto my tummy, hiked up my flannel nightgown
which was twisted around my hips, pushed my hands out of
the way.  I commenced to wail and thrash about.  None
of this quite resonated with yours truly, especially when he
began to rain down a curse of smacks on my bare bottom.  I
howled - no one hit me, ever.  Well almost never.  Yep, I
cried, I kicked and I begged.  It only lasted a few moments,
but by then I was reduced with a few mean strokes to being a
sorry spectacle.  Sniff - no pity in sight.  He rolled me
back over, kissed me good night, snapped off the lights and
left me to sulk.  Until the next day - talk about firm.
That he could walk away from a pouting wife provided a
penetrating insight into the man I had married.  Games
weren't optional, jealousy wasn't going to be tolerated and
so that is how my first Test the New Husband went - badly
for me I would have to admit.