I adore libraries. The quietness, the exploration, the knowledge just waiting to choose its compatriot. I can, and have, spend days in a library. I’m drawn to the old, dusty books that have been lonely for some time. There are secrets within those bound pages. Those secrets are shared with only a select few. The once who show compassion and perseverance. They have joy and sorrow and information and helpful hints hidden beneath lovely yet rarely opened covered. Sometimes, those covers may seem bland, but that may be intentional to trick the casual bibliophile into not seeing that which is not meant for them.

They, in many ways, feel like kindred spirits.

I, too, am what many consider old – at least older. I’m 45 years old. I dress simply – sheath dresses, flats or sneakers, little to know make-up or jewelry, and my long, plain brown hair worn straight most days. I am a plain covered book with hidden secrets meant for only those who can see past the simpleness of my outer appearance.

For the last 20 years, you see, I have been my husband’s submissive. No, I’m not a ‘trad wife’ in the “I make my own butter and grow my own wheat” type of wife. I am, instead, a Taken in Hand (TiH) wife. ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzJeJhzPW04).

I have responsibilities, the most important is open and honest communication. This lifestyle choice doesn’t work for everyone, just as no book is suitable for everyone. Still, this choice is one that Husband and I have made, and one that suits us perfectly.

I look down at the book in my left hand and begin reading about food that Elizabeth I would have eaten. It’s fascinating to me. Without consciously think, my right hand goes down to my hip and I begin to rub my posterior without realizing it. When I raise my hand to turn a page, I smile.

This morning was a maintenance session. Before Husband left for work, he sat on the edge of the bed with me over his knees. I recited each of my expectations as he punctuated them with a sharp spank. He asked if I had anything else on my mind once I’d finished. I did. I slid to the floor, knelt before him, and told him of my concerns for the weekly budget given the rising costs, how I had neglected the garden all week, and how much I truly disliked when all his friends came over and I was relegated to our bedroom.

He agreed with that the budget needed to be adjusted and asked that I work on an updated one. He scolded me for neglecting the garden as it not only provided fresh vegetables for us, working in it gave me a great deal of satisfaction and stress relief. For that, he decided that I would bear the punishment of fifteen swats with his belt. He was genuinely confused about my final point as he had never required me to remain in our bedroom when his friends came over.

“I know,” I said quietly, “but I don’t like football, and that’s pretty much all you guys talk about.”

He thought a while and asked, “What would you rather do?”

“Well, I’d rather be out of the house. Maybe at a coffee shop reading or a bookstore or visiting with friends or my parents now that they’re getting older.”

Nodding he replied, “That seems fair. But, you don’t see well at night to drive. Why don’t you take a ride share instead of driving yourself. I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”

And so we agreed. Then, though, it was time for my correction. He stood up, arranged a pillow on the bed, and helped me to place myself into position. I was allowed, encouraged even, to holler or cry, but I couldn’t cover my ass or move my hips. This was for my safety so that he wouldn’t unintentionally spank a part of my body he wasn’t aiming for.

Fifteen stripes may seem like a lot, and it IS!, but Husband begins at the top, round part of my bottom and works his way downward, stopping mid thigh. He uses medium force – hard enough for me to feel each blow, but not so hard as to bruise or cut the skin.

Once finished, he lies beside me, holding me, soothing my hurt, and assuring me that all is forgiven. I feel as if a weight has been lifted and that his arms will always be there to protect me, to love me.

This morning, I didn’t cry, so once my breathing had calmed, I turned to him and murmured, “Make love to me.”

And he did. Slowly, gently, allowing me to ride him in consideration for my freshly reddened bottom. I came. I always come quickly in this position. He encouraged me to come more. And more. And more.

“Husband, I can’t anymore. Please. Fill me,” I beg as my body became more and more engulfed in the pleasurable exhaustion that only this type of exertion can give.

He granted my wish, filling me with his sweetness.

Now, standing here, holding a book that probably hasn’t been opened in years, reading its secrets, I feel blessed, chosen. This volume holds knowledge that few others will every know or want to know. Yet, for the privileged few, that knowledge is priceless.

My marriage, similarly, holds secrets which, to Husband and me, are priceless.