Orientation Day

   "Just how I want you, wet and naked," Barbara Royalton told her husband as he stepped out of the master bathroom after showering, towel draped over his shoulders. "Now hand me the bath brush, sweetheart."
   "Ohh-Okay." Paul anxiously did as instructed then continued to dry himself off.
   She frowned. "Keep the towel away from that bouncy bottom, it's mine to dry off my way." The wooden brush's round, flat back slapped sharply against her left palm, making the nude blond shudder.

   His gaze grudgingly met hers. "Have I done something wrong, honey?"
   "You tell me," the black-haired beauty countered, "What's our rule about arguing politics with new acquaintances?"
   Her solidly-built spouse was stunned. "How did you know...??"
   Barbara shrugged. "I have my unimpeachable sources."
   "It wasn't an argument, only a friendly discussion," he stated defensively.
   She snorted. "During which you called him a fascist warmonger."

   Paul shook his head. "I've never called anybody a warmonger...Militarist, perhaps. Anyway, this guy's somewhat to the left of me ideologically."
   Despite her disciplinary mindset, his wife was amused. "Somewhat to the left of you? Does Lenin's elbow poke him?"
   "I did call him a Marxist," the birthday-suited man admitted, "He just smiled at me and agreed."
   Her face hardened. "Which means you were just terrifically lucky, applying that term to the one person out of a hundred who didn't find it offensive--but Dame Fortune's not going to save your naked fanny from my discipline, so bend over the ottoman and stick that sassy ass up high for me." She again smacked her palm with the punishment brush's smooth back. "Five dozen stingers, merely a brief preview of tonight's butt-blistering."
   He stared downward. "That's not fair..."
   "Six dozen now," Barbara announced.
   "Please, honey--"
   "Seven dozen," she interjected.

   Paul immediately bent far over the plush circular stool, but his silence was only momentarily; he soon was yelping and eventually wailing as the long-handled brush's smooth back cracked solidly against his upturned asscheeks. Although he squirmed haplessly as the paddling continued and his vulnerable buttocks reddened rapidly, he made no attempt to rise or evade the blistering-hard swats.
   His wife marveled at his compliance while delivering the final dozen paddywhacks with increased intensity. By refusing to debate and merely extending the punishment when her miscreant spouse had protested, Barbara had established that she was firmly in control of the marital disciplinary relationship.

   Once allowed to rise, the nude blond ruefully rubbed his glowing, fiery-hot buttcheeks. "Oh, that smarts so much, you're really smacking me nowadays."
   She smirked. "Just wait until bedtime, sweetheart, I'm going to totally enflame your fanny--but for right now..."
   While massaging aloe cream onto her prone spouse's punished posterior as she sat astride his back on their king-sized bed, Barbara announced her intention to attend his college's faculty luncheon that afternoon.
   He sighed. "Ooooh, that's so cooling...Certainly you're welcome, honey, it's at Hathaway Center."

   "I'm looking forward to meeting this Marxist colleague of yours--Peter, is it?--that you immediately insisted on debating two days ago." She chortled. "Considering the price that it's costing your poor bottom, I hope it was worth it."
   Paul shrugged. "He seemed vaguely familiar, as though I'd met him before somewhere, but that doesn''t seem likely."
   She chuckled. "Another mystery, hmmmm?"

   Later at the buffet, realization hit that he hadn't mentioned the mathematics professor's name to her.
   "That's one advantage of teaching at a brand-spanking-new campus," explained the wholesome-looking blonde English Department chairperson, Candy Waverly, who was sitting with her two new acquaintances, "Everyone's a newcomer so nobody feels like an outsider."
   "Something wrong, Paul?" asked Peter Reynolds, who was trim, dark-haired and fortyish.
   "Why would that be, darling?" The query came from behind the two seated men.
   Paul stood up, turned and embraced his beautiful spouse, who was accompanied by another woman. "Hi, honey!"
   Peter half-turned. "Miranda, what are you doing here?"

   The lithe light brunette frowned at her husband. "Barb brought me since you neglected to mention that spouses were welcome at this luncheon, Peter dear."
   "We met at the university's Orientation Day yesterday, Miranda's new to the Psychology Department," Barbara explained. "We talked together and realized--"
   "That your husbands were colleages here," Candy interrupted, rising to shake hands with the other women, all three offering their names.
   "Not only colleagues," Miranda added, "But met here recently and stumbled into an ideological argument." She shook her head. "Hardly a good first impression, but I can't convince Peter to start out discussing the weather with potential new friends."
   Paul faced her. "I'm equally at fault, Miranda, I promise not--uhhhh!" He looked shocked as their eyes met, then he swallowed hard.

   Barbara sounded puzzled. "This was meant as a surprise, but I didn't think that you'd met Miranda before, honeybun."
   Her new co-worker smiled slyly. "Have we met earlier, Paul?"
   He looked striken. "I'm...not...certain..."

   "We played tennis with him on our honeymoon?" Peter asked that evening.
   Miranda nodded. "But it was that bare-assed butt-whipping I watched his girlfriend giving him that morning, that's why I remembered Paul from fourteen years ago--I've never even heard of that severe a spanking."
   He snorted. "You didn't mention that."
   She nodded. "I didn't want to further embarrass him, he was so sweet to his girlfriend and me afterwards on the beach. I expected he'd be highly resentful, but he was consideration itself."
   "Not for us, but different strokes...I wonder about his current relationship," he speculated.

   Paul lay prone on the master bed, pajama bottoms around his knees and naked buttocks starkly elevated by an inverted reading pillow under his abdomen; his spousal disciplinarian stood to his left gripping the handle of her Canadian school strap.
   "Seven dozen with this rubber seat-scorcher," Barbara stated sharply, "Then we'll discuss why you obviously recognized my new colleague today; I think my sorority paddle may help loosen your tongue." She raised the strap over her right shoulder. "Prepare to cry hard, honeybun."
   His exposed nether moons trembled. "Yes, ma'am."

   THWAAAACK!! The searing rubber cracked across Paul's upthrust undercheeks.
   His wife grinned. "I'll get to the bottom of this..."