mel b owen and the Nine-Fold Path

I’ve shared a mel b owen story before and here’s another one. This was posted to USENET as my memory serves (or doesn’t) somewhere around 1999. To recap, “mel b owen” wrote F/M stories, mostly pseudo-autobiographical tales about his DD relationship with his psychologist wife, Abby. The tone is light. This couple has chosen this lifestyle and Abby doles out the discipline with a firm but loving hand. Mel has appointed Abby to be his disciplinarian and she fulfills that role with an attitude that is both serious and whimsical. I find these stories charming.

The Nine Fold Path

This is the sixth anniversary of the most memorable spanking Abbey has given me so far in our marriage. I thought that, in honor of the occasion, those who visit this site might enjoy an account of it.
I recall every detail with poignant precision. I remember the damp, lavender soap smell on Abbey’s right hand when I kissed her palm, for example. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I suppose the easiest way to explain how the incident began is to say that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Ken, Miles, Frank and I had been reasonably good buddies with Phil. Then Phil was transferred to California from here in Omaha. The transfer only lasted six months, but when he came back, Phil thought he was the coolest thing on earth — calling everyone “baby” and talking about “crazy” this and that, like it was 1958. It got to the point where the four of us decided to do something about it.

To make a long story short, Miles waited until Phil was in one of his most obnoxiously Orange County moods and then asked him, very confidentially, if he’d like to score some really primo weed. We all knew Phil had no experience with maryjane, but of course he couldn’t admit that, so he let himself be suckered into it. Around midnight that Friday night Phil drove Miles to a seedy little roadhouse about sixty miles out of town. I got to be the freak in disguise — aided mightily by a school-play wig and beard and the dark, smoky atmosphere. I sold Phil a baggie of oregano and a pack of rolling papers for $25. Phil got to work and sat there for half-an-hour like a horse’s ass, smoking oregano and thinking he was stoned out of his mind. The others had been sitting around drinking. When we figured Phil had learned his lesson, they came out of the darkness, I took off my lame disguise, and we started laughing our heads off.

Let’s just say Phil didn’t quite get it. Instead of being properly abashed about his own inanity, he got furious with us. He stormed out and drove off, leaving Miles there with us.

This shouldn’t have been a problem, because Ken had driven the rest of us out, and his car was still there. Unfortunately, Ken by this point was too blitzed to drive, and he said his wife Janet absolutely would not let him give the keys to anyone else — new car, insurance restrictions, etc.

It was now after one in the morning. The best solution was for me to call Abbey and ask her if she could drive Janet out here so that Janet could take Ken home and the rest of us could go home with Abbey. Ninety minutes later, Abbey and Janet were at the roadhouse, with Janet madder than a wet hen and Abbey wearning that tolerant, what-can-you-expect-from-men expression of hers. Janet was chewing Ken up one side and down the other, berating him mercilessly. Finally, Abbey said to her, quite calmly, “It’s up to you, Janet, but you might want to try for a little perspective. Boys will be boys, after all. Besides, nobody died and it was a pretty good joke when you think about it. Janet was still spitting and cussing as she piled Ken into their car, but the other guys all looked enviously at me.

With a tolerant sigh, Abbey climbed into our Jeep Cherokee and started the long drive back into the city. The conversation on the way back was mostly about what a great wife she was and how lucky I was. After she’d dropped the other two off and the door had closed behind Miles, though, the conversation changed — and not subtly.

She turned around in the driver’s seat to face me, her neck-length chestnut hair swinging. A devilish glint sparkled in her chocolate brown eyes, and a mordant grin split her lips.

“All right, cowboy,” she said. “Paddle or strap?”

“What about ‘boys will be boys’?” I asked.

“Boys will be boys, but there’s a time for hijinks and there’s a time for spankings. When a grown man pulls a stunt like the one tonight, he needs some heat for his seat. Now, one more chance: paddle or strap?”

This wasn’t a trivial choice. The paddle is a substantial piece of polished lumber that I made myself. It’s eighteen inches long, three-and-a-half inches wide, and a quarter-inch thick. It stings like hell, burns like a clothes iron, and leaves me with a throbbing, pulsing, nettlesome ache for days. The strap is a strip of leather sixteen inches long, four inches wide, and an eighth of an inch thick, with a braided leather handle and a hanging thong. It stings like hell cubed and burns like a blast furnace, but it only leaves me sore for a day or so. The choice Abbey was offering me was a classic trade-off of present pain versus future pain. I opted for present.

“Strap,” I said. “I guess I’ll sleep on my stomach tonight.”

“We’re not going to do it tonight,” Abbey said as she started the car and pulled away. “It’s way too late. You’ll get your spanking after you’ve had a good night’s sleep and a chance to think about what’s in store for you.”

I’d just about had time to digest that when we got home a few minutes later. As we walked from the garage into the kitchen, Abbey said casually, “Make a note on the calendar to be sure I don’t forget.”

There wasn’t any chance of Abbey forgetting, but I obeyed. On the calendar under the phone in the kitchen, I found the square for Saturday. Underneath “Dry Cleaners”, “Post Office” and “Groceries” I wrote, “Hard spanking for Mel — strap.” That was the final thought in my head as I climbed into bed.

I got up just before eleven a.m. As I showered and shaved, I could smell and hear breakfast cooking. I couldn’t wait to get downstairs to eat it, but my eagerness was diluted by the thought of what was going to happen as soon as the meal was finished.

I groomed myself carefully and put on nice clothes — khaki slacks and a pullover with a collar. Then I went down to the dining room. At my place I found a feast waiting for me: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fresh melon, hot coffee and orange juice. And as I sat down to enjoy it, I saw hanging by its thong from the back of Abbey’s chair a reminder of what else was waiting for me: the strap.

I was hugry and, despite my anxiety, I ate the sumptuous repast with delight. When I’d finished, I told Abbey how delicious it was, and thanked her for fixing it.

“You’re my husband and I treat my husband right,” she said, smiling. “Now, have you had all you want to eat?”

“Yes, I sure have.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good.” She stood up, took the strap off the back of the chair, and started rolling up her right sleeve. “In that case, please go into the den for your spanking.”

Even though I was psychologically prepared to take my punishment, I was jelly-legged and hollow-bellied as I stood up. My first steps toward the den were halting, and I must have paled. Abbey came over and laid a sympathetic hand on my arm.

“Don’t get too down on yourself, Mel,” she said. “I feel that you need to be taught a sharp lesson, but I’m not angry with you or terribly upset. This isn’t going to be a ferocious flogging — just a good, hard, old-fashioned, no-nonsense country whipping.”

Taking what comfort I could from that, I shuffled into the den. I saw that one footstool had been pushed against the end of the couch. Abbey marched me over to it, gave me our customary pre-punishment hug, then stepped back.

“As you know, Mel,” she said, “I believe that adult spankings should be administered on the bare bottom. Pull down your pants.”

I did as I was told. I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the clasp on my pants, and lowered my trousers and underpants. They fell quickly to my ankles. I took a deep breath. I was just about ready to handle this. Then, the phone rang. I grimaced in impatience, and muttered an expletive under my breath. With a meaningful glance at me, Abbey went over to answer the phone.

“Oh, hi, Melissa,” she said. “Yes, we’re planning on coming to the party tonight. Our plans haven’t changed. Listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I’ve promised Mel toasted buns for lunch, and I have to go warm them up. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

She hung up the phone and strode back over to me.

“This isn’t about getting something over with, Mel,” she said. “It’s about learning an important lesson. Are you in the right frame of mind for a constructive disciplinary experience? Or should we put this off for a couple of hours while you reflect on things in the corner?”

“No,” I said contritely. “I’m ready.”

“We’ll see.” Abbey shifted the strap to her left hand. She held her right hand out to me, palm up. I bent down and kissed it tenderly, drinking in the perfume of the lavender soap I mentioned earlier. Then I straightened and braced myself.

Then Abbey brought her right hand back and slapped me sharply across the face. I blinked in pain and my ears rang.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” She held her right hand out again, this time with the back upward. Again I leaned forward, kissed the back of her hand, and straightened up. She took the kissed hand across her body and administered a back-hand slap across my other cheek.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome. Now: acknowledge your fault, and ask for your punishment.”

“My behavior was foolish and childish, and I deserve to be soundly whipped. Please give me a hard spanking on my bare bottom.”

“That’s exactly what I have in mind,” she said. “Kneel down on the footstool, bend over the end of the couch, and present your bottom for the srap.”

I did as she said, easing myself into position and offering my soon-to-be-abused posterior for chastisement.

“Scrunch forward a bit, and raise your bottom a little higher in the air. I want to be sure to get plenty of licks on the part you sit down on.”

With considerable trepidation, I obeyed the instruction.

“All right, honey,” she said almost tenderly. “Hang on. This isn’t foreplay, this is discipline.”

There was a brief HISS, and emphatic SMACK!, and a gasp of pain from me. A sharp, emphatic sting blitzed through both cheeks of my bottom. I could already feel the scorching, red heat begin to build in them.

Abbey had promised me a good, hard, old-fashioned, no-nonsense country whipping, and that’s what she delivered. HISS-SMACK! HISS-SMACK! HISS-SMACK! Three seconds or so apart, each one searing my tender bottom. Her reproaches rained down on me along with the strap: ” . . . juvenile . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . . irresponsible . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . thoughtless . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . . inconsiderate . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . nonsense . . . (HISS-SMACK!).”

As the strap bit again and again relentlessly into my bottom, my gasps turned to grunts, then my grunts turned to groans, then my groans turned to yelps, then my yelps turned to squeals, and I knew I was on the verge of tears. What finally brought the sobs that eventually shook my body, though, wasn’t only the scorching sting of the strap but my realization of what lesson Abbey had wanted to teach me: I had let my buddies down; I was the mature one in that group; they might be ninnies, but I should have had the sense to see what the consequences could be. I knew she was right, and I wept with remorse even as my heart warmed with gratitude.

Finally, after four-dozen strokes, she paused. My bottom was throbbing, and I was panting in an effort to get my crying under control.

“Wait here a moment,” she said.

I heard her walking across the room and picking up the phone.

“Melissa? Your affair tonight — is that buffet or a sit-down dinner? Buffet? Great, thanks. We’ll see you there.”

She came back over to me.

“It’s a buffet tonight, with munchies on paper plates, so you won’t have to sit down. We can review the nine-fold path to marital harmony.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“First,” she said.

“Pain induces reflection.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Second.”

“Reflection induces remorse.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Third.”

“Ahhgh! Uh, remorse induces contrition.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Fourth.”

“YEEOWW! Fourth. Let’s see. Fourth: Contrition implies a firm commitment to do better.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Fifth.”

“OWWWWW! Fifth. A firm commitment to do better produces improved behavior.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Sixth.”

“OHHH! IT HURRRTS! Sixth: Improved behavior leads to a more constructive attitude.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Seventh.”

“YEEEEEOWWWW! PLEASE HONEY! Seventh: A more constructive attitude increases self-knowledge.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Eighth.”

“YIIII! Eight: Increased self-knowledge leads to enlightenment.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “And ninth.”

“OHWOWOHWOWOHWOW! OH MY POOR BOTTOM! Ninth: Enlightenment leads to marital harmony.”

“Correct.” HISS-SMACK! “Now, do you think you’ll remember?”

“UMFFF! Yes, yes, I’m sure I will. I deserved that spanking, and I know you gave it to me for my own good and because you love me. Thank you for disciplining me.”

“You’re welcome. Now go stand in the corner while I check this spanking off of our to-do list for today and have a cigarette. Then you can clean the kitchen, and it will be time to start getting ready for Melissa’s party.”

“Yes ma’am.”

At Melissa’s party that night, I walked a little stiffly, but I was happy, contented, warm and — and what? There was something else. I was . . . SMUG! That was it! I was smug! I looked around at my buddies and their wives and the tension subtly abrading their evening, and I thought, “I got my bottom spanked, and it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” Abbey and I had achieved catharsis and closure — and I had DEFINITELY learned a sharp lesson.

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2 responses to “mel b owen and the Nine-Fold Path

  1. A lovely tale. Very stiffening. Thanks

    Like

  2. I'll be posting more of his work. There isn't much of it. I always wonder about writers like this who post a few things and move on. Did they get bored? Some tragic event? Sadly, we'll probably never know. But maybe Mr. Owen will see this someday and drop me a line.

    Like

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