The O-Bay Club

Betty had known she wouldn’t like her job very much. She felt it was beneath her and she told Michael so.
“If you don’t make a go of it, the only thing beneath you will be my knee,” he had threatened. It was not an empty threat as Betty knew all too well.
Every Sunday night she ironed her uniform, and every morning, Monday to Saturday, she walked the short distance to the supermarket, checked in with her boss, and started her duties.
“You can’t be a kept woman for ever,” Michael had told her. “I won’t have my wife living in the lap of luxury without lifting a finger.”
They were due to be married in a few months’ time and her ‘training’, as he called it, was becoming more intense. He had started a new system – an experiment in effect – whereby instead of dealing with her transgressions on a daily or even (sometimes) hourly basis, she was to keep a record of everything she had done or not done which required correction, and they would have a more prolonged session on a Saturday afternoon or evening.
He had chosen Saturday because it was the end of her working week and he could therefore encompass all her wrongdoing for the preceding six days. In many circumstances, it would have been easy for Betty to do a cover-up job on at least the part of the time which she spent at work. However Michael had closed this bolt-hole very nicely: he knew her boss, Bernard.
In fact Michael had arranged the job for her. She had been formally interviewed, and given a trial day, but she knew that behind the scenes it was a done deal.
Michael was not the sort of man who needed to know all the details of her day - ‘the ins and outs of a duck’s arse’ as he put it crudely - but he had an almost uncanny way of detecting the areas which she least wanted him to know about. And then he had Bernard as a source of information. Betty didn’t have access to this information so she had to be very careful not to contradict anything that Bernard might have said.
In other words, if Betty had a reason to lie to Michael, or to conceal some part of the truth, she had to be aware that her punishment could escalate rapidly. Michael hated a lie above all else and he had arranged everything to make sure that she had very little scope for it. There was Bernard at work to betray her, and there was Michael’s house itself, where she was living. Sometimes it seemed as if the very walls might deliver her up for the chastisement they knew he would mete out.
Last Saturday evening had been a relatively painless affair. Michael always found fault somewhere so she had not got off scott free, but a few minutes bent over the bed with her pants down, and some red finger-marks on her bottom to view in the mirror afterwards, was the sort of thing she could easily take in her stride.
But this Saturday was going to be very different. Of course she would do her utmost to deliver her list of confessions in a way that put her in the best possible light, but she had some difficult material to work with.
After some plain-sailing at work on Monday and Tuesday, she had become rather complacent. She had forgotten to tidy a whole section of one of the shelves which was in her charge, and Bernard had made a tour of inspection and called her into his office.
When he confronted her with this oversight, she had not been able to help herself – she hated the stupid job so much. She had cheeked him and told him to do it himself if he wanted it done. Bernard had looked at her, the finger-tips of his two hands pressed together. There was the same predatory look on his face that Michael wore when he was on the point of giving her a spanking. Maybe Bernard was itching to do it, but there was a window in the door of his office and besides which, it was Michael’s job. He had lashed her a bit with his tongue instead and sent her back out to rectify the omission.
That incident all by itself would earn Betty something fairly spectacular by way of a punishment at Michael’s hands. Or maybe not hands. He could choose from a slipper, a hairbrush and a paddle, these being the implements he had available during the sessions. There was also his belt, God forbid.
Apart from her bad behaviour at work on Wednesday, Betty had also done something she knew she would regret right in front of Michael. He had told her she should be applying the tidy ways she had learnt at work in his own kitchen, and she had lost her temper and stormed out slamming the door. She had opened it again and poked her head in to apologise, but Michael’s eyes were not receptive. He was obviously restraining himself with difficulty from bending her over there and then. She had felt like a child, skipping away without thought for the morrow. But the morrow always comes.
So on the Saturday afternoon, Betty dragged herself home from work with dread in her heart. The supermarket had been busy and all she wanted was a cup of tea and a bath, and not to have to relive her wrongdoings in front of Michael as he went through her list and decided exactly what form her punishment would take.
She boiled the kettle, made her tea, and drank it sitting at the kitchen table while she updated her list of confessions. She added a last one which said:
‘I had a bath knowing that I wouldn’t be ready for the SASS (Saturday Afternoon Spanking Session).’
She left the week’s record of misdemeanours on the kitchen table for Michael to find, and went to have a long soak in a foam-filled tub. Maybe Michael would delay the session till Sunday morning. It had never happened before, because he liked her to wake up with a sore bottom knowing that there was the possibility of reinforcement at any point during the Day of Rest, but there was always a first time. Something delayed was something that hadn’t happened and might never happen, she told herself, and allowed herself to believe it.
She never heard Michael come into the house, but all of a sudden he was in the bathroom. He towered over her while she shrank in fear under the foam, trying to conceal the tight nipples which betrayed her arousal.
He never said a word and his actions could have been those of a robot. He reached into the bath and grabbed her arm. Then he pulled her, all pink from the hot water and as slippery as a fish, into a standing position, and from there over his shoulder into a fireman’s lift.
A fireman’s lift is embarrassing enough when you have clothes on, but Betty was naked as the day she was born and extremely vulnerable. She also knew from bitter experience that to be spanked on a wet bare bottom was more than usually painful.
So she hadn’t managed to delay anything, and on top of it all she had made Michael mad. This was going to be a very difficult experience to live through.