The Spanking Stories - #2: Memento Morey

By Zen Mackie

Too many ironies, thought Susan, drunkenly.  Too damn many ironies for one day.

She reached for the bottle on her desk, but her hand went where the bottle wasn’t and only succeeded in knocking it into the wastebasket. 

Hell with it. 

She folded her arms on the desk and let her head fall heavily onto them as she began to weep again.  Too damn many ironies for one life…

First of all, the name: Susan B. Anthony.  Major Susan B. Anthony, United States Army: combat-trained daughter of Quaker parents who were still reeling over her choice of career. 

She often wondered whether the original Susan B. Anthony, pioneering feminist (and a distant ancestor of Susan’s), would approve.  As an agitator for women’s rights she would certainly have cheered Susan’s swift rise through the ranks of what had historically been an all-male preserve.  But she had also been raised as a Quaker and therefore a pacifist, so there were no safe assumptions to be made.  Susan liked to think that the feminist side would have won out, but she also understood the pain of divided loyalties all too well.  Nevertheless, although she rarely revealed her middle initial to anyone, she always carried a Susan B. Anthony dollar as a talisman, and in times of stress would reach into her pocket and hold it, rubbing her thumb along its edge.

Second of all, her marriage:  Military women, if they married at all, married military men—who else would understand and accept the sacrifices required by military duty?

Susan understood that as well as any of her fellow women officers.  Lord knows they’d discussed it often enough over drinks, generally while complaining about the quality of the men available to them.

So why had Major Susan B. Anthony, career army-officer, married a college professor?   A professor of philosophy, no less.  She was sure the question came up on a regular basis around the base.  She’d overheard the snide remarks about her “house-husband” and “pet liberal” and the insinuations that she enjoyed being “the man of the house.”

If they only knew, she’d thought more than once.

Morris ‘Morey’ Hillier was in some ways everything ‘they’ suspected: intellectual, politically liberal and by nature a gentle and considerate man.  But as a philosopher he believed that aggression was part and parcel of the human condition, particularly among the male of the species, and that therefore an organized military was a necessary evil.  So while he was enough of a liberal to be delighted when he learned Susan’s full name, and to encourage her to keep it even after they were married, he was completely supportive of Susan’s vocation—though occasionally irritated or bemused by some of the demands it made on her.

They had met when Morey was a guest lecturer for one of Susan’s military-science courses, giving a basic overview of logic as applied to strategy.  She had stayed after class one day to get a fuller explanation of a particularly knotty theory. Until then she had only found him vaguely attractive: slim but wiry in his customary polo shirt and jeans; a hint of Native American chromosomes in his coloring and high cheekbones and the longish, straight dark hair that kept falling from behind his ears.

But as they spoke she had found herself drawn, first by the glowing intellect she saw in the brown eyes behind his rimless spectacles, then by the increasing warmth she saw there, mirroring her own. The explanation had become a conversation; the conversation so engaging that it needed to be continued elsewhere…  And the next thing Susan knew she was requesting permission to live off base; first in his cramped bachelor apartment and later a snug rented cottage situated roughly between the army base and the college campus.

Which was where a third irony was discovered:  “Soldier Sue”, as Morey sometimes called her, had somehow survived basic training with the slovenly habits of her adolescence intact.  She knew how to make a bed so tightly that a quarter could be bounced off the sheet, for instance, and had done so as long as she’d had to, but after a few months of living with Morey she’d gradually become more perfunctory in her attention to domestic details.  The bed sometimes went entirely unmade; dishes piled up in the sink; leftover food changed colors, and then shapes, in the refrigerator.

Morey, on the other hand was something of a neatnik.  He required a certain amount of orderliness in his life and had been somewhat chagrined to discover that “Soldier Sue”, of all people, didn’t share his concern.  This had led to the first crisis in their relationship.

And Irony Number Four.

At first, like any loving couple they had sat down together and discussed the issue, and the result had been a list of all the daily, weekly and occasional chores, divided between them in an equitable manner.  And this had worked quite well for a while.  But over time Susan, even with the best of intentions, began to let things slip—she’d overslept, or had pulled night duty or…  And Morey had been patient and understanding…for a while.

But one day she had come home to find Morey sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen.  There was a bucket of soapy water sitting on the floor nearby and Susan had suddenly remembered that it was her turn to mop the floor…she was supposed to have done it the previous weekend and it was all too obvious that she hadn’t.  She’d glanced around to see if he’d put out the mop as well—then noticed the long-handled wooden scrub-brush he was holding in one hand.

She’d barely had time to think, Uh-oh, before he’d seized her by the wrist and yanked her towards him, sending her sprawling across his lap.

The one exception to Susan’s generally lackadaisical attitude toward cleanliness was concern for her appearance.  She understood the importance of a crisp, clean look for an officer and took a great deal of trouble to make sure that there was never a spot on her shoes, a wrinkle anywhere in her uniform, a single honey-blonde hair out of place beneath her cap or the slightest hint of body odor about her person.

So her first thought, when she’d felt her skirt being jerked up over her hips, was that now she’d have to iron it all over again…

…Which quickly became the least of her concerns as the back of the scrub-brush landed on her behind.

She had never been spanked in her life--her parents were Quakers, after all—so it was the shock of that first blow as much as the searing pain of it that had made her scream out loud.  …And then whimper and cry and kick her feet helplessly in the air like a little girl as he administered nine more just like it, waiting just long enough between each blow to allow the pain to be fully appreciated.

He’d said not a single word the entire time.  And when he’d finished spanking her he’d simply pushed her off his lap and onto the floor, then stood and dropped the scrub-brush clattering to the linoleum beside her and pointed to the bucket.

And he’d remained silent as he made her scrub the entire kitchen floor on her hands and knees.  In her uniform.  With her skirt still rucked up over her hips.

He’d stood over her the entire time, arms folded except to reach down and give her an open-handed slap on the behind if he thought she wasn’t working hard or fast enough.  She had sobbed and sniffled and mumbled apologies as she scrubbed, to no avail.

Not until the floor was spotless and gleaming was she allowed to stop.  And even then she had remained on all fours, the scrub-brush dropping from her numb fingers as she continued to sob quietly. She had taken mournful stock of her appearance, from her wet and scuffed shoes to her hopelessly wrinkled, soap and sweat-stained uniform, to her bedraggled hair and the cap hanging pathetically on one side of her head.

She had just been considering whether or not her pantyhose could be salvaged when she felt them being seized from behind…and then ripped apart at the seam.  Morey had then dropped to his knees behind her and forced her legs apart with his hands…then, still without uttering a single word, had jerked the crotch of her panties aside and taken her from behind, right there on the floor.  Used her for his own pleasure as if she were some slut he’d picked up in a bar—and when he’d finished had simply stood up and walked out of the kitchen, straightening his clothes as he went.

And that was Irony Number Four:  Major Susan B. Anthony—who knew six ways to kill an enemy with her bare hands, who had completed two hazardous tours of duty overseas, who had led troops into battle and still had a tiny piece of shrapnel in her hip to prove it—had absolutely loved it.  All of it.

She had remained on all fours for a few seconds more, quivering with lust—more aroused than she had been in her entire life.  Then she had staggered to her feet, chased her husband down in the living room and tackled him.

By the time they were through her uniform was pretty much a total loss.

Up until that moment their sex life had been adequate, in a vanilla sort of way.  They had experimented a little bit, of course, but neither of them had showed a whole lot of imagination and eventually they had pretty much settled into the statistical average: two, maybe three times a week at most.

But now…!

If Morey had hoped to improve Susan’s attention to her share of the chores by this method he had made a serious miscalculation: Before, she had let things slide through carelessness.  Now she was doing it on purpose.

The change didn’t happen all at once, of course.  They never discussed what had happened, and after the kitchen-floor incident Susan had actually done a lot better, at first.  But she often found herself daydreaming about what he’d done to her that day; what he’d made her do.  And over time, unconsciously at first, small transgressions began to occur.

The first was when she absent-mindedly left a few dishes in the sink overnight.  Morey, always an early riser, had discovered them, then stomped upstairs and dragged her out of bed and down to the kitchen.  There he had bent her over the sink—again without saying a word—then lifted the back of the extra-large t-shirt she wore as a nightgown and given her a hard slap on her naked behind for every dish she had left there.

Susan was decidedly not a morning person; she tended to stay in bed until the last possible moment, and therefore breakfast was a meal they rarely shared.  But that morning she found herself wide-awake.  Morey stood behind her while she cleaned the dishes…close behind her, insinuating himself between her cheeks and rubbing slowly up and down while his hands reached up under her shirt to pinch her nipples.

She was practically swooning by the time she was done.  She had to force herself to stack the plates neatly in the drainer, then rinse and wring out the sponge and put it back in its holder—she had learned that much, at least—before turning to face Morey.

Morey had slowly peeled the t-shirt up and over her head, leaving her naked. Then--being Morey—he’d let her stand there like that, panting, while he folded her shirt and hung it over the back of a chair, a process that seemed to Susan to go on for hours.  But at last he turned back to her…looked her coolly up and down, enjoying her arousal…

…Then reached into the pantry, pulled her frilly yellow apron off its hook and tossed it to her. Then he went and sat down at the kitchen table.  And waited.

She’d served him breakfast like that, wearing nothing but the apron.  She made bacon and eggs and toast; set the table; brought cereal and milk and butter and marmalade.  At his silent gesture she stood next to him while he ate…quivered when he occasionally ran a free hand over her red and tingling behind or the backs of her thighs…moaned out loud when at the end of the meal he stood, smeared her nipples with marmalade and slowly licked it off.

Only then had he put his arms around her and kissed her …before taking her by the hand and leading her upstairs and back to bed.

She’d kept the apron on.  And they were both late to work that morning.

After that the Susan’s share of the housekeeping went completely to hell.  But she didn’t care…and she was fairly sure Morey didn’t either, though she hoped he’d never admit it.  That would spoil everything.

An informal punishment system quickly evolved: a simple swat or two for minor infractions: over the knee or bent over a chair, panties down, for misdemeanors…and special punishments for the most conspicuous derelictions of duty.  For Susan it was if she were being allowed to choose from a menu: she would decide which chore to perform badly, or not at all, depending on her mood.

She enjoyed testing his creativity and was never disappointed.  She came home one evening, “forgetting” to stop for groceries though she knew there was nothing in the house for dinner. The simple act of standing before him, apologizing for her error (with what they both knew was a complete lack of sincerity) got her so aroused with anticipation that her legs were quivering. 

He made her strip…then kneel facing the front door.  He stood in front of her and ordered her to remove his belt from its loops and hold it up in front of her with both hands.

Then he left, without another word.  And when Susan heard his car start, she understood: he was going to do the shopping, and would attend to her when he returned…at which time she had better be exactly where and how he had left her.

The waiting was torture…exquisite torture.  The longer she remained in position the heavier her arms became, and to distract herself from the increasing pain she began to visualize her impending punishment, staring down at the snakeskin-patterned leather in her hands…hearing the sound it would make as it whipped through the air, the loud crack as it landed…Oh, God!

When Morey came through the front door with the groceries, Susan held her head—and hands—up; proud that she had maintained her position the entire time…and fairly sure there was now a wet spot on the carpet beneath her.  She wanted him to notice her erect nipples, her shallow breathing…wanted him to punish her right now…

…Which, of course, was undoubtedly why he walked right past her and began putting the groceries away, leaving her holding the belt up with now shaking arms.

But when everything was stowed away and the meal was finally ready he took pity on her…of a sort.  He came and stood in front of her.  Lifted the belt from her hands and flexed it in front of her a few times, looking into her eyes the entire time.  Then he took her hands and slowly extended her arms to their full length, Susan’s aching shoulder-joints screaming with relief at finally being allowed to stretch.

He drew her downwards, folding her arms on the floor and placing her forehead on top of them.  Susan, now unable to see, heard him step softly behind her.  Felt his hands grasping her hips, urging them high into the air…the warmth of his palms caressing her behind, as if testing the texture…a fingertip drawn lightly between her legs, making her gasp…the sound of his belt being lightly slapped against the palm of his hand…

Oh, thank God, thought Susan, trying to restrain herself from wiggling her behind at him, certain he could see how wet she was.

Then: the sound of his footsteps, moving away.  A chair being pulled out.  A knife and fork against a plate…

And the sound of her own voice…moaning.

He finally came to her when he had finished eating.  And washing the dishes…by which time Susan had been reduced to a trembling bundle of need. 

As she heard his footsteps approaching she raised her head just enough to be sure that he would hear her.  “Please,” she whispered, her voice gone hoarse with desire and thirst.  “Please…”

He came around and knelt in front of her then.  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with great tenderness before gently placing her head back on her arms.

Then he stood, walked behind her again and then whipped her with the belt until she screamed and came.  Twice.  Until, after her second orgasm, Susan literally collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint. 

Later she was only able to dimly remember being carried upstairs in his arms, lain gently on top of the bed and covered with a sheet.  But she came to when she felt his arm beneath her shoulders lifting her up, and a bottle of deliciously cool water pressed to her lips.

When she was able to sit up by herself he fed her by hand from a plate he’d brought upstairs.  Then he helped her to lie back down again and she slept with her head on his shoulder for the rest of the night.

Susan had no idea why she found being spanked and punished so incredibly erotic.  Or maybe she did.  She knew for certain that being occasionally sent off to work with a freshly spanked bottom still tingling beneath the skirt of her immaculate uniform—and often nothing else because of it—kept her in a sensual daze for hours.  Alone in her office she would sometimes stand behind her chair and lean over it to reach her computer keyboard, relishing the feel of her skirt as it stretched across her by now nearly always tender behind.

And after another long day of having to prove, as she so often did, that she was as tough and resilient and smart as the men around her it was such an incredible relief to come home and completely let down her guard.  To be where she knew she was loved, cherished…and occasionally treated like a naughty little girl.  To be put over Morey’s lap, or to have to bend over, raise her skirt and lower her panties, never failed to make Susan feel utterly, deliciously feminine.  Especially considering what usually followed.

Not that their love-making was always preceded by a punishment session, by any means.  There were lunchtime quickies; there were times when he would call her at work from his office and tell her in detail what he planned to do with her when she got home.  And sometimes if her duties took her off the base and she knew he wasn’t teaching a class she would show up at his office, toss her panties onto his desk and then lock the door behind her.

On those days she usually brought a spare uniform along.  And a hand mirror and tissues because once after leaving his office she had driven all the way back to the base and nearly gotten out of the car before noticing something on her face that she definitely wouldn’t want seen in public.

And now her housekeeping chores were getting done…just nowhere near when they were supposed to be, and requiring considerably more physical effort from both of them than might normally be expected.  And truth be told, they both liked that just fine.

To Susan, Morey seemed a changed man, and in her opinion much for the better.  Much as she had loved him when she married him he had been, like many academics, a bit on the introverted side, a little reticent.  But now she noticed a new confidence in the way he walked and carried himself, and a directness in his glance.  Especially when he was looking at her.  Susan knew that, just as he had found her deepest, most feminine core, she had made him feel infinitely more masculine and powerful—and she was grateful, in so many ways.

Had been grateful. 

Had been so damn happy.

Before the god…damn…ironies came to stay…

Susan raised her head from her arms and slowly opened her eyes.  Closed them and opened them again.  No difference.  Night, she thought.  How long’ve I been here?  Dunno.  Don’t care.  Countin’ th’ ironies--like sheep…help me sleep.

She put her head down again.

Ironic: That ‘Soldier Sue’ had volunteered her civilian husband for duty in Iraq.  All right, not ‘volunteered’.  She’d just passed along a request that he be flown over to spend two weeks teaching a select group of officers the same course he had been teaching—another irony--when he and Susan had met.  The stipend had been generous and the offer had come at a time when extra money would come in handy—so Morey had jumped at it.

All through the days preceding his departure he had joked about building body-armor out of pots and pans to bring along, and about earning “combat pay”, though he knew very well he’d be nowhere near the fighting.  And when she’d delivered him to the transport plane he’d stood in front of her at mock-attention and tossed her a snappy salute…before seizing her and bending her backwards in a huge kiss, drawing cheers and whistles from the other men and women aboard.  Which was fortunate because it drowned out the sound of the stealthy farewell slap on the behind he’d given her as he whispered his love for her.

He’d blown her a kiss from a window as the plane began to taxi toward the runway. 

They’d talked often during those two weeks, though their conversation was constrained by the fact that their calls were being monitored.  But Susan had mentioned a few chores she’d “neglected” to do and he’d replied that he would “take care of things” when he returned—and that had had to be enough.

Ironic: That she hadn’t mentioned the welcome-home present she’d gotten for him—she’d wanted to surprise him.  She ‘d gotten in touch with his old fraternity and now, still leaning in the corner by the front door, where she’d hoped he’d find an immediate use for it, was a huge wooden fraternity paddle. She couldn’t bear to look at it.

Ironic: That he’d been due home today.  Memorial Day.  A day of remembrance for servicemen and women who’d given their lives in the line of duty.  And she, ‘Soldier Sue’, was sitting here, while Morey…

Ironic: That Morey’s plane, out of all the military flights leaving Iraq, should stray into the wrong airspace at the wrong time.

The call had come while Susan had been setting the table for dinner.  The details were still sketchy; they hadn’t been able to get to the site, might not be able to for who knows how long.  All they’d had was the passenger manifest.

Susan knew she should be making calls.  His parents, for God’s sake.  The university.  Friends and relations.  A memorial service.

Memorial…  What was that Latin phrase he’d been so fond of…the one he always quoted when he thought that he, or Susan, or someone they knew, was taking life too seriously?

Memento Mori.  Remember that you are mortal.

She could hear him right now—could see the wry smile and the self-mocking finger-wag with which he always accompanied this pronouncement. Christ--why had she ever married a philosophy professor?

Tomorrow.  Tomorrow she would sober up and take care of things.  Oh, God…”Take care of things.”  She couldn’t stand it…she couldn’t stand it!  She felt a shriek welling up inside of her, a scream that would only be the first of many screams…she might never, ever stop…

The front door banged open. 

Then: his voice--calling her name, asking why in hell there weren’t any lights on—coming towards her.

Susan lurched out of her chair, forgetting that she was still quite drunk, and fell sprawling to the rug.  But she managed to call out his name…

…Just as the hallway light went on.  She looked up, and there he was, framed in the doorway, carry-on bag slung over his shoulder.

She continued to lie there, stunned, as he groused about the fucking Army driver who’d been late and made him miss his flight and how he’d had to wait hours for another one and what a hell of a welcome this was, coming home to a dark house and an apparently drunk wife…

But by then she had stumbled to her feet and he never did get to finish his rant because she threw her arms around him and squeezed him so hard he could hardly breathe, much less speak.  And she cried and kissed him and drew back to look at him to be sure he was really there…then started all over again, breaking into a grin as she realized that he was probably thinking she had really missed him while he was away.  He had no idea.

Finally she recovered herself enough to speak.  She took him by the shoulders, looked into his eyes, though her own were still blurry with tears, and said,  “You’re absolutely right, darling.  I’m so sorry.  Wait right here.”

Then she ran to fetch the paddle.