Catching a Wave

The year was 1983. I was the harried young mother of an active toddler. Randy was glad to have landed a computer programming job at a whopping ten dollars per hour. I was working as much as I could, doing freelance writing out of our home. Spanking and sex had become little more than treasured memories from our golden past. They were gone forever, or so it often seemed. I was both physically tired and tired of being mommy all of the time. With Randy working over 50 hours a week, we both needed a break.

We hadn't enjoyed much of a honeymoon when we were married a few years before. Money woes greatly constrained our love for travel. Finally, we decided we needed the big vacation. Randy, planner that he is, mapped out an intricate itinerary. I was ready for anything, anywhere, so long as it got me away from that house. My mother agreed to watch our adorable junior terrorist. We were all set.

The trip was all we dreamed and more. We visited many different sights. The natural beauty of mountains, beaches, rivers, lakes, forests, and waterfalls was unbelievably spectacular. However, the most vivid memory for me happened indoors.

We stayed at a lodge up in the mountains. Randy booked a fancy suite. The guy had taste, even then. One of the big attractions was a waterbed. I had never slept on one, but I was perfectly willing to test it out. Did we ever!

On the night we arrived, we were a bit tired from our long trip, but definitely not too tired to take full advantage of this unique opportunity to be alone and uninterrupted. After some smooching and caressing, we settled down onto the bed. Our hands worked quickly to remove clothes and become intimately reacquainted. As we progressed toward what seemed to be a delightful lovemaking session, Randy suddenly sprang from the bed as if struck with an irresistible idea. I knew better than to try to stop this inspiration.

Randy ran to the living room and quickly returned with a big vinyl beanbag chair. He sat in the middle of the bed with his legs crossed. Then he placed the beanbag chair atop his lap. He had me straddle him facing away. This wasn't easy at all on a waterbed. Slowly, he helped me down onto the beanbag. Once in position, my face was down on the bed, my bottom was way up in the air, and my legs were spread wide. Between them was my loving husband. This predicament gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "assume the position."

Randy began playfully drumming on my jutting bottom with his open hands. It didn't hurt too much at first. In fact, it was fun. He pounded out a number of familiar rhythms. I distinctly recall the drum line from the Fleetwood Mac song "Tusk." Slowly, he increased the intensity. As he drummed, the bed rocked in time. I have no idea how long the spanking lasted, but I was definitely loving every swat. This was what I had been missing all those lonely months. I was a sexual being again. I was a woman in love.

Despite my healthy glow, Randy's hand gave out before my bottom did (I recall we purchased a plastic hairbrush the next day). That was fine because he leaned forward and followed the spanking with some skillful oral gratification for me. I completely lost it! I know I must have been screaming. I was just incredibly turned on and his mouth and fingers felt so wonderful.

Once I extricated myself from that awkward position, I returned the favor. He too found his excitement barely controllable. We were like wild animals suddenly released from a constricted cage. Moments later, he positioned me against the beanbag, face up this time. There we made love and reached an explosive crescendo amongst the waves.

This experience was an oasis in the desert. That era holds relatively few memorable spankings. But the vacation will always be special for us. We rediscovered our love and our sexual hunger. Both remain quite healthy to this day.

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