spanking Elizabeth


Elizabeth Preston decided the sheet was definitely grey. It hung in a fold down over George’s shoulder and against the fine silver white of his hair – he still had a lovely head of hair, though he could have gone quite bald by now, which was acceptable in a banker, but George had instead achieved a thistledown perhaps more suited to a man of the cloth, purple cloth, she thought would be nice – against the white of his hair, the sheet was dull and lifeless. She would have to speak to Missus Quaid, obviously something was being neglected, either bleach in the washing, or the discreet sun-drying on the line hidden in the shrubbery which Elizabeth insisted on despite the housekeeper’s objection to lugging wet sheets ‘half the way to Moscow’ as she told Mister Quaid. Or could it be these weren’t her own sheets, but some inferior count of unnatural threads, switched by gypsies? Elizabeth tried not to squirm, the sheet didn’t look old, it just wasn’t white. “D’ you think maybe Missus Quaid’s got past it, George?”

George grunted his exasperation, considered the alternatives of ignoring his wife or screwing her brains out the top of her head, knew he couldn’t ignore her, she’d just repeat herself on a higher note, and felt a distinct wilting that left him no option at all. What was he doing with an erection at his age anyway? He’d probably just needed to take a leak. His wife was plucking at the bed sheet falling from his shoulder. He grunted again and waited for the blood to rise above his belly.

“It’s this sheet, George. I’m thinking she’s not up to pulling her weight around here anymore.”

The point about Elizabeth was that he’d married her for her instincts and, despite her sometimes ravenous nature and her always startling capability for casual offence, she’d never before been a worry to him, managing her own insecurities, when she had any, with the sureness of a shark. He neither could, nor wanted to, control her. Indeed, what possible use could he be, he who every day felt his own grip weaken in the clasp of indifferent hands that soon enough wouldn’t even bother to wave. The world seemed no longer designed for his opinion, it didn’t care what he thought of the year’s new Beaujolais, about the state of anarchy among suit jacket lapels, no one tried to seduce him to Jamaica. Of course, his approval might be sought for a merging of vintners, a shearing of wool futures, and anyway the bank had a pink house in Bermuda whenever he needed it, but it wasn’t the same. And it didn’t matter that he thought wine a weak drink in the first place, or that he invariably wore notched lapels, or that he thought the act of visiting Jamaica in this day and age must be a bit like slumming into the Harlem clubs once was. Nobody cared what he thought about the frivolous things and that made him feel unwanted.

Supporting his own weight on his elbows wasn’t the problem, it was what to do with his knees that he found increasingly complicated as the years improved, once in place they tended to lock and fall off to sleep. He needed to collect enough strength in his shoulders to make his next move graceful. His feet, of course, might as well be dead, what with all the blood pooled at his groin, and he’d have to clutch the corner of sheet where it fell from his shoulder in order to roll off, taking his knees with him without uncovering Elizabeth.

“That corner, yes, look at how grey it is. What are you doing? Oh.” It just happened that way with her. Elizabeth had noticed quite some time ago that she had – at some point on her way to sixty, so actually not that long ago – she had noticed that her mind just never seemed to lie still with her body anymore. Perhaps it never had and her youthful lovemaking had been simply a lack of responsibility, fewer important thoughts to be busy with. She did feel an obligation to George, though, a duty, and that made her uncomfortable because she knew that a woman of Germaine Greer’s generation – wonderfully preserved for a horsey woman – shouldn’t feel guilt so much as annoyance. Annoyance with George for fumbling about, pawing at her like an old spaniel, while she was trying to do her best to deal with this… well, disaster, really. Her sheets weren’t white, her housekeeper was losing it. My god, I don’t know where the vacuum’s kept! And all George can think of… !

It’s not guilt, it’s anger. That’s better, anger’s the thing, the appropriate response to this… well, abuse, really. He has nothing on his mind but the satisfaction of his lust. Rather pathetic when you come to consider it. Forcing himself into the busy office of your mind, trying, in a manner of speaking, to have you over the desk of your responsibilities. It’s too much! Anger’s correct, morally and politically, “It’s morning for godsake, George. Grow up.” He spanked her then. He’d had enough, he threw off the bedcovers, rolled her on her hip and spanked her ass. And because his hand was a banker’s hand, the spanking cracked like whip snaps.

from “Anglican Cowboys” by Robert Thompson


~ by Rocky Green on January 27, 2007.

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