Into Discomfort (F/M)

The below was written for the LSF F/M challenge- my first and likely only F/M story.  No, I’m not about to switch, but as many of my regular readers there have strong preferences for F/M oriented stories, I felt I owed it to them to give it a try considering how much they have supported me over the last several years. 


It was the hills beyond the town, Rebecca reasoned, the patchwork fields reaching up to meet fluffy clouds, that made this place home.  When they could be seen, that is.  She slowed her pace, savouring the novelty of a dry, clear commute, a day with soft breezes and temperatures only just cold enough to warrant a jacket.  


That was the other perk of days like this, these were the only days where she could make it through the half-hour commute on her bicycle without attracting strange looks or, worse, offers for lifts from passing cars.  She appreciated the offers of charity, though not enough to overcome her embarrassment at indirectly causing the inevitable backup of traffic, nor her mental image of the irritated face of each driver as the cars parated past once she finally convinced the Samaritan to pass her by.


That wouldn’t happen today; today was perfect. Winter had finally loosened  its grasp, but the pollen clouds of spring had yet to descend.   It was an ideal moment, balanced between seasons.


It was an ideal location too, balanced between the stresses of both work and home.  Away from the demands of a boss who seemed to have far too many expectations of her management skills and a husband who also seemed to place far too much faith in her judgement and leadership.  Rebecca felt her heart quicken at the thought, she shook her head and gazed out at the hills again.  It would be ok- it was ok- she was getting used to these things, and quite enjoying them at times, she reminded herself. Still, she valued the break offered by her commute.  It was a place of peace and solitary reflection, a temporary retreat, if only for the time it took her to cycle back to her house.


Perfection is a transient thing at best, however, and well before she would have liked, Rebecca found herself rounding the corner of her street.  She weaved gracefully around Sam’s car before dismounting- a well-practiced maneuver that had also become much smoother over the last several months.  His rear fender sported the scars from her first few attempts to work around him, barely visible but permanent scars of the adjustment period after he had first moved in with her. Learning to thread her bicycle through the needle-eye opening between his car and the hedge had taken a good deal of time, effort, and a few scraped elbows.  It helped that Sam had also learned to park more close to the other side of the drive.   


Rebecca smiled as she locked her bicycle into the shed. Sam had learned quite a bit as well since they had moved in together. Much as she might like to inwardly play both the victim and hero of their story together when things got difficult, she had to admit that Sam was doing his best to make this work. He had made sacrifices as well.


He certainly would tonight, Rebecca thought in a moment of bitterness before she caught the feeling, took a breath, and let it seep away from her.  Sam would pay tonight, pay just as he had asked to, and she would help him.  It had worked before, and it would work again. As uncomfortable as the arrangement was for her, she had to admit that it had helped. He was worth the effort, even if tonight it might be particularly trying for them both.




He had sat her down, several tabs open on his laptop to show her what he had in mind. Sam had done most of the talking that night. After nearly a week of constant nit-picking, for once Rebecca had lost all desire and ability to get in a barbed retort. She was still angry with Sam; he deserved it, after all. He had been a right fool to drive as he had, nearly twice the speed limit. He had been an idiot not to think of the consequences- not only of the ticket and fine, but what if he had been hurt?  


She had railed against him for the last several days, using every opportunity to remind him of his failure, lying to herself that only by doing so could she instill some sense of responsibility in him, that he somehow deserved to be the outlet for her rage.


She had no idea of the depth of the guilt that Sam already felt. She had no idea how deeply his regret ran, how desperately he wanted to make amends.


Until he had begun his speech.  Until he had shown her how he wanted to purge his guilt, the penance he wished to set for himself, with her assistance.  


She’d been entirely still and silent as he sat beside her, playing videos he had found of this “domestic discipline” thing, calmly describing the elements of the beatings- the punishments, she corrected herself- that he thought might work for him, for them.  He had found articles, contracts, testimonials, more writing than Rebecca could ever have imagined existed on the subject- though she’d barely known of the subject’s existence before. Sure, there was the occasional spanking reference on television, a quick joke among friends at the bar, but none of that was serious, none of that looked anything like the scenes Sam was now showing her.


Even through her shock, she recognised how deeply Sam felt about this, how nervous he was sharing this with her.  She therefore promised that she would consider it, for which she was rewarded with a smile, a deep hug, and a promise in turn that Sam would not bring the subject up again until Rebecca did- and a promise that he would fix her favourite fajitas for dinner that night.


As startled as Rebecca had been by what she’d seen, she later realised just how selective Sam had been in what he had introduced her to that day. As unsettling as it may have been, she’d seen far worse when she finally worked up the courage to do her own research.  


It was that secondary shock, more than anything, that convinced her to give it a try.  Sam wasn’t asking much of her, though the idea of spanking had seemed severe at the time, at least there wouldn’t be any blood involved, not to mention. . .


Rebecca shook her head, trying to unsee some of the things she had seen. She liked to think of herself as a liberal individual, happy to let people get on with whatever they wished to as long as no one was hurt or much inconvenienced, but struggled to understand why people would want to engage in such activities. Why submit to that sort of pain? Why allow such assaults to one’s dignity?  


It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly. That wasn’t what Sam had asked for.   He simply wished to be disciplined, to have a sharp physical reminder of his responsibilities. It would be over quickly, and wouldn’t cost her a thing, other than a bit of physical exercise- something she could well use.


She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be in charge of this, didn’t want to hurt Sam. Then again, she had to admit that was precisely what she’d been trying to do with her words.  The bickering was different though. It brought neither of them any satisfaction, any closure. It didn’t resemble the controlled, deliberate punishments Sam had shown her.  It was more a clumsy bludgeoning, blindy beating at him until . . .  until what?  She tried to imagine what she’d wanted from the berating, other than vague fantasies of “winning,” of him submitting to her, admitting abject failure and bowing before her ultimate knowledge of all things householdy. The more she tried to envision the specifics of what a victory would look like, the stranger it seemed. Certainly far stranger than a simple spanking.   


It was worth a try. Sam was worth a try.




The first spanking hardly felt better than clumsy bludgeoning- even to Rebecca. She had sent him to the corner, naked, having read that this would help both of them get into the proper mindset. Sam for once had agreed without complaint or comment, but she couldn’t seem to take the idea seriously. She couldn’t reconcile this meek man in the corner with the man she wished to share her life with.


He was Sam, her Sam, the killer of spiders, the vanquisher of foul-smelling rubbish bins, the checker-outer of things that went bump in the night.  He was the man who held her in his arms when cried, when she needed a break from the world, creating a small sanctuary where she knew he was safe. Try as she might, she could not reconcile her idea of that Sam with the man who wanted to be spanked. She could not see her husband as those men she’d seen online, tall and muscular but humble and sobbing as they were viciously whacked with whatever seemed to be at hand.


She tried her best to push those thoughts of the superhero husband aside and focus on the more human version she was confronted with.  He was still her Sam, still quite capable of many things she either couldn’t do or didn’t wish to do, but he was also human. He had also succumbed to a desire for reckless driving, and had been caught.   He wanted to be punished, to put this behind him, to be reassured by his partner that the issue had ended, to be given both a painful reminder and a fresh start.  He wanted her to be strong for him, and after all the strength he had displayed for her, all the times he had helped her up, she owed it to him to do this.


She tried to scold him, but stumbled over her words. She kept the tone strict, but cringed when her sentences didn’t quite come out as sentences.  She blushed when she repeated herself, having forgotten the next point she meant to make, but Sam didn’t mention any of these failings. He didn’t gently tease her when she became tongue-tied the way he was apt to in more pleasant circumstances.  If anything, his posture became more slumped as the scolding continued. Could it be working?


Working or not, she felt another level of ridiculous when she’d ordered him to fetch the hairbrush and lay over her lap. However, at least in that position he couldn’t see her pained and frustrated expression as she tried to work out one last poignant thing to say before beginning the spanking. He couldn’t see the mixture of satisfaction, confusion and concern as she began the spanking. Couldn’t hear her silent questions- was this too much? Not enough?  Rebecca noticed she was enjoying this- was that wrong? Was she becoming abusive?


And then she felt the tension of his body begin to ease as something akin to a sob shook him. He’d had enough, she decided. He’d been pushed far enough- she’d been pushed far enough, to consider this an adequate punishment to allow for a release of his guilt and her resentment.


A flicker of panic returned when she helped him up and first met his eyes after it was over. Would he be angry at the pain she had caused? Would he laugh at her feeble efforts? Rebecca needn’t have worried, the only thing she received from him was a slightly teary but deeply passionate hug that lasted well into the night as they muttered small comforts to each other.




Rebecca thought back to that hug as she made herself a cup of tea.  She still hated the idea of spanking Sam, but reminded herself of how much more peaceful their household had become since that particular practice had started. It had helped both of them let go of so much anger and resentment, such as she felt now. How could Sam have done this yet again?  It had been over ten years since his first, and until yesterday only, speeding ticket.  While he’d earned a few spankings for other lapses and oversights, he’d never yet earned a punishment for a repeat offense.   She’d thought that the spankings had been working.  


She slammed the mug down onto the counter with more force than intended as she let her frustration overtake her. Rebecca paused and forced herself to breathe slowly, consciously as she stirred a spoon of sugar into the tea. She’d read somewhere that this was supposed to help- supposed to help her let go of other distractions and annoyances of the day, but, more importantly, help her let go of her annoyance with the man patiently waiting upstairs. As a bonus, some of these helpful people pointed out, this time also allowed the aforementioned man time to reflect on his sins and to anticipate the coming punishment.


None of those sources, as far as she could remember, mentioned that this period might also increase her own anxiety. That anxiety didn’t help her quest to dismiss her annoyance; it was Sam who had put her in this position, after all.


She poured the last half of her tea into the kitchen sink; delaying any longer was likely to merely increase her anxiety with negligible benefit to her annoyance.


Despite the benefits she knew would come, she still felt uncomfortable disciplining Sam.  She didn’t wish to be the authority figure, particularly over Sam.  


“It’s all an act,” she’d told herself the first time.  “I’m not being me, I’m being one of those dominatrix women he fantasises about. It’s just an act, just an act that we both need to go through before we can be us again.”


She took one more deep breath before climbing the stairs to the room she shared with Sam.




It was two days after his first spanking that he’d made the suggestion- a very well-intentioned, meekly offered suggestion, but one that filled Rebecca with such revulsion that she swore to herself and to Sam that it wouldn’t ever be necessary.


Just as before, Sam had presented his proposal with almost professional detachment. An odd bit of irony, Rebecca realised on reflection, given that he was explaining just what these women did professionally.


If the idea of spanking her husband was painful, the idea her husband paying someone else to do it was more painful still.


“Am I not doing it right?” Rebecca asked, her voice dead.  “Am I not good enough? Am I not able to. . .to . . .?”


“Not at all!” Sam reassured her quickly, wrapping her into his arms and holding her steady, holding her close.   “You’ve done wonderfully, better than I could have imagined.  I hadn’t expected to be scolded like that. . . I thought it would just be quips and barbs, like when we used to argue.   It’s not as insulting, not that I miss being called a worthless loser,” he hastened to add, “but it works. It makes me think. Makes me realise just how I’ve hurt you, how I’ve let you down.”  He paused to caress her shoulders.   “I love you, Rebecca, and I don’t want to lose you. I need closure for some things, some of the times that I’ve not lived up to what you expect, what you deserve.  I don’t want to have to carry those times with me. Does that make sense?”


“I think so,” Rebecca answered, “but if that’s the case, why all of this?” she gestured vaguely at his laptop. Why bring these women into it?”


Sam looked at her steadily.  “Because I’ve hurt you enough. When I need to be punished, it shouldn’t have to hurt you any more. It is me that needs to be uncomfortable, not you.”


“Oh Sam,” Rebecca sighed, and allowed herself to be hugged into his chest.  “I didn’t realise.  I thought. . . .  I just don’t want to lose you.  I don’t like this, but I can do it.  It’s just a few minutes, just every once in awhile. It’s worth it for the end to the arguing, for the hugs afterwards.”


“My thoughts exactly,” Sam replied, hugging her tightly.  “No more of this then,” he said as he closed the browser and shut the laptop. “No more looking, I have what I need, and I couldn’t be happier.”




Rebecca regarded Sam, naked and penitent in his corner as was expected on these occasions, and couldn’t feel more disappointed.


“Turn around, Samuel” Rebecca ordered, quickly suppressing her smirk at the name. She had giggled incessantly the first time she’d heard his name spoken aloud- by one of his sisters in response to an ill-appreciated joke.  Not that she’d been at all surprised at his full name, she knew perfectly well what “Sam” must stand for, but Samuel’s reaction to the full-length version had been well-worthy of laughter.  She’d never seen anyone’s face turn that particular shade of puce.


That same shade confronted her now as Sam turned, keeping his eyes focused on the floor. That bit made it easier, not having to look him in the eye. He was still Sam, still the man she loved, but when he was undressed, neck bent in a pseudo-bow, it was easier to address him from a position of authority- albeit a temporary one.   


“We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?” Rebecca struggled to keep her voice stern, not letting either her insecurity nor her exasperation creep through.  It was a struggle, but one she noticed was growing, slowly, somewhat less arduous.


“Yes Ma’am,” Sam replied.  Rebecca often struggled as well to keep a straight face when confronted with her own appellation for these moments, but felt, in this case, it was far easier than it had been.  The word seemed to encapsulate Sam’s admission of guilt, his willingness to acknowledge wrongdoing, to suffer the consequences and- Rebecca desperately hoped- to never do this again.


“What you did was irresponsible. The fine is not the issue, though it will impact both of us as we have to tighten the budget. Did you think of how this would impact our life here?  At least your are safe. Can you think of what would have happened had you lost control? If you had injured yourself? If you had injured someone else?”   Rebecca paused, allowing Sam a chance to reply, but none was forthcoming.  “How do you feel about that? About what you’ve done?”


“I’m so sorry, Rebecca,” Sam replied, eyes still on his bare feet.  Rebecca considered taking him to task on the lack of her proper title while under discipline, but hearing her name made the appology more sincere, and she deeply hoped that he was sincere.


“Last time it was the hairbrush,” Rebecca continued. “As that seems to have been insufficient, we’ll move on to the belt.  If this happens again, I’ll send you for a handful of switches, just as you are. Do you understand?” Rebecca wondered if that last was a step to far.


“Yes Ma’am,” Sam answered again, with a deepening blush but no hint of rebellion.   


“Bring it to me, your brown one.” Rebecca ordered, and watched with a small amount of satisfaction as Sam did as requested.   He handed it to her and stood to her right, just as he always did before being drawn over her lap.


“It will be different this time,” Rebecca told him. “I can’t get enough snap using this with you over my lap. Bend over the foot of the bed” She was surprised again yet deeply moved at how easily, silently, Sam complied. That bit of this arrangement she could certainly get used to, if only she didn’t feel so strange giving the stern orders that brought about such instant obedience.


She took up position behind Sam, trying to envision the distance she’d required between her and the pillow she’d placed in a similar position that morning. She’d practiced for a good half hour after Sam had left for work, nearly making herself late, but had finally managed to master a technique where she could reliably strike the pillow where she had intended.  The snap of the belt had been frightening, but also satisfying. She hoped she could cling more to the latter emotion now that it came time to do it for real.


“The ticket said you were 30 over the limit. Therefore you will receive 30 strokes.” Rebecca announced. She quickly commenced the punishment before Sam had a chance to reply, swinging the belt in a wide, smooth arc. Sam grunted as he tried to absorb the pain. Rebecca was somewhat shocked; usually it took far, far more than one swat before Sam became vocal during his punishments. Part of her wanted to stop, or at least lessen his sentence, but she tried to steal her resolve. This needed to be difficult, it needed to be painful. It needed to never happen again. She delivered the second stroke, slightly lower but with nearly identical force, drawing a nearly identical grunt from her husband.   


The third stroke was followed by a louder grunt, almost a wail, as her husband reacted to the crossing of welts. Rebecca delivered the next three strokes in quick succession, hoping to reach the end of the ordeal faster- for both herself and Sam.  


She allowed a longer pause after the tenth stroke, nearly a minute of rest and silence during which Sam caught his breath and she reminded herself why this was necessary. When they were both ready, she delivered the next ten strokes at a more measured pace before pausing again.  She cringed at the sight of the swollen, red welts rising on her husband’s bottom, and more so at the way his legs had started to shake slightly.  “Ten more,” she announced, reminding them both that the end was in sight.


The last ten strokes she delivered as quickly as she could, trying her best not to be softened by the howls Sam gave in response as he struggled to cope with the pain of the punishment.  She let him rest for a minute, moving close to him as he lay over the foot of the bed, resting her hand supportively on his back.  When his breathing had calmed, she helped him up and wrapped him in a hug that he tenderly returned.


“Never again,” she said, pulling away from him to look him in the eyes.  Her voice was still stern, but she couldn’t completely hide the inner plea, the inner terror that there might be a next time that ended in something far worse than a strapping. “Never again do I want to hear about reckless driving.”


“Never again,” Sam promised. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, I assure you, he said with a wince as he rubbed his reddened bottom.  I don’t want to see you hurt.  But I needed it, I needed the reminder. And it will help, I promise. And. . thank you.”  


4 thoughts on “Into Discomfort (F/M)

  1. An excellent story. Clearly, you don’t have to be into F/M to write it; you do it so well.

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