My Wife Asked Me to Bring Her the Cane to Punish Me

Casilda was always jealous, and not in an ordinary way. It was something almost pathological, a flame she had carried inside her long before we got married. When we were courting, she was already jealous of any woman who came near me, but marriage made things worse. One example is enough: what happened when we had barely been married two weeks.

I had started working as foreman in a friend’s olive grove, and it was olive-harvest season. The estate was a fair distance from the village, so most of us laborers went back and forth by bicycle. One noon, on the way home for lunch, one of the girls on the crew asked me to give her a ride on the back, on the luggage rack.

They were three sisters. Two shared a not very big bicycle, but the youngest had come on foot and couldn’t keep up with the others. She asked me to take her as far as my house, even if only that far, and from there she would keep walking to hers. I didn’t know how to refuse, though something told me that if Casilda saw it, she would not like it one bit.

Luckily, we lived on the outskirts, on a road almost no one used, so the girl got off well before we arrived. Maybe she didn’t see us, I thought. But as soon as I rounded the last bend, there was my wife, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and her face blazing. The moment our eyes met, I knew she had seen everything.

—Hello, darling. Good afternoon —I said, trying to sound calm.

—And just who was that, may I ask?

—Who was who?

The first slap landed before I finished the sentence. Then another, and another, half a dozen in less than half a minute, until my face was burning.

—Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I was born yesterday? —she repeated with every blow—. Who was that, Mateo?

—Casilda, she was one of the crew. She was with her sisters and they asked me to give her a lift, that’s all…

—Of course, and the gentleman does as he’s told. If he has to put the first little tramp who comes along on the bike, he puts her on.

—Hey, hold on. I’m no fool, and the girl isn’t any tramp.

—Don’t you talk to me in that tone! And don’t you defend that one, because if I say she gets on the first bicycle she sees, then that’s what she does. Get inside.

—Casilda, please…

—Get inside, because I’m going to give you one that’ll have you shaking for the rest of the morning.

***

As soon as we got in, she closed the door behind her. Just as I was about to explain again that it meant nothing, I noticed she put her left hand on my shoulder and lifted her right leg back to take off her shoe. It was her usual gesture, the way she took off her shoe when she meant business: the foot a little to one side, the hand catching it in the air.

That noon she was wearing red-and-black checkered slippers, the flat kind with yellow rubber soles, the kind that stuck to the skin and left the mark burning. She wore them closed because it was cold, but that gave her no trouble. She got it off in a flash.

She grabbed it firmly by the toe, bit her lower lip, and started lashing me with the slipper without even looking where the blows landed. She hit my back, my shoulder, the nape of my neck, the arm I used to try to stop her. When she had worked off some of her fury, she lowered her aim to my backside, and there she struck with a rage I had never seen in her. Even over my trousers, the stinging was tremendous, but she knew perfectly well that a proper punishment wasn’t given over clothes.

—Your trousers. Down —she ordered after a good beating.

—Casilda, for God’s sake, will you calm down?

—I said down. Shall I take them down for you?

I knew her temper, knew what she was capable of, but I couldn’t let her treat me like a child. It was the first time she’d hit me since we were married, and something told me that if I gave in that afternoon, there would be no turning back: it would be like that forever, or worse. And though, to my shame, the slipper blows were turning me on, I tried to bring some reason to bear. I grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the slipper.

—Casilda, enough. You’ve already hit me plenty. Now we’re going to talk.

But wild mares aren’t tamed by grabbing them. She wrenched free and went livid.

—If I say the trousers down, I mean the trousers down! —and every word came with a blow—. Take them down, Mateo, because you’re asking for trouble.

I saw her so beside herself that I decided to pull my trousers down before she had a fit. She did not waste the gift. With one sharp yank she pulled my underwear down too, grabbed my arm, and started spanking my bare ass as if there were no tomorrow.

—Stick that ass out! Today you’re going to find out who I am —she said breathlessly, blow after blow.

I don’t know how I endured such a thrashing. I took it until she herself ran out of strength. Then she tossed the slipper aside, picked it up with her foot, and slipped it back on half on, like a sandal, with that grace of hers. And as if nothing had happened, she said:

—Wash your hands, come on, we’re going to eat.

***

I was speechless. Since I didn’t know what to do or say, I washed my hands and sat down at the table. The first few minutes we ate in silence. I looked straight at her; she looked at me out of the corner of her eye. We had only been married a few weeks, and at that age the blood boiled: we fucked at night and at midday, before or after lunch, never skipping a single time. That afternoon the tension could have been cut with a knife, but beneath the anger, something else very close to desire was beating in both of us. She was the one who broke the ice.

—Do you think it’s nice that I had to give you such a beating?

—You too, Casilda? On top of the thrashing you’ve given me, you’re still blaming me?

—You know what I’m like. Jealousy eats away at me from the inside. And now you know how I handle things, so you can decide what you do.

—I knew what you were like, but what happened today has no excuse. Whipping me like a child, and for nothing on top of that.

—Don’t tell me it was for nothing, eh, don’t you say that to me. You know perfectly well why I hit you. And if you behave like a child, I’ll treat you like a child.

—I’m your husband, Casilda. What would people think if they saw what you did to me?

I thought she was calmer now, that after lunch there might be a truce, and perhaps even something else. But I didn’t know her yet. All of a sudden she flared up again.

—I couldn’t care less about people. The one I care about is you, and I want you all to myself. If I catch you with one of those women again, I’ll make your ass as red as a bell pepper. Do you hear me or not?

—Woman, there’s no need to get like this.

—I get however I damn well please. And I’m not finished with you yet. This afternoon I want you to bring me a cane.

—What?

—You heard me. A good olive branch. I don’t think I need to explain what I want it for.

—Are you crazy? You think I’m going to spend this afternoon cutting a branch to bring home so you can beat me with it?

—For your own good.

—And should I tell everyone while I’m at it? “Give me a hand finding a good cane, my wife wants to whip me when I get home, the slipper isn’t enough for her.” Is that what I’m supposed to tell people, Casilda?

She got up, took the plates away, and without looking at me, declared:

—Tell them whatever you like. But I want the cane here this afternoon. If the cane doesn’t come, then neither do you. And forget about the rest: until the punishment is over, there’s nothing at all.

I slapped the table in sheer rage. First because of the cane; then because on top of that she was punishing me without sex, just when I was already imagining us fooling around a while before going back to work. She put the dishes in the sink, turned toward me, and with her hands on her hips warned me:

—Stop banging the table, or I’ll take off my slipper again and leave your ass burning. I’m in a devil of a mood this morning, in case you hadn’t noticed.

The look we exchanged was sparking from both sides, but that was as far as it went. We finished lunch, had coffee, and when I said goodbye I gave her a wet kiss. When I saw she didn’t pull away, I slipped in a little tongue and stroked one breast. She gently wriggled free.

—I love you very much, my darling, but go on, you’re going to be late.

—I love you too, darling. I’m going.

—Don’t forget what I told you. Oh, and make sure it’s green, so it bends well.

What a piece of work you are, I thought as I left.

***

I spent the whole afternoon chewing over two things: how to get the cane and how to bring it home without anyone seeing me. Telling the girl I couldn’t give her any more of a lift was the least of it.

I was lucky. I found a cane perfect for what my wife intended: a little thicker than a finger, smooth as a reed, slightly curved, green and flexible, just as she had asked for it. I hid it under my clothes and managed to be the last one out of the olive grove, when there was no one left who could see me.

The first part of the plan went perfectly. When I got home, Casilda was gathering the hens in the yard, chatting with a neighbor. I greeted her from a distance and went straight to the shower. When I came out, I could already hear her bustling in the kitchen, preparing dinner. I went to her, hugged her from behind, kissed her neck, and breathed in that lavender scent that was hers alone. I started stroking her slowly.

—You have no idea how much I want you, my love.

And she, without batting an eye, at least on the outside:

—Did you bring me the cane?

My heart dropped. I had held out hope of slipping away from the punishment, but this woman was relentless. I’ve got to try anyway, I told myself, and kept up the flattery.

—Of course I brought it to you, darling. Your wishes are commands to me, you know that.

—Don’t be a flatterer. Show it to me.

I showed it to her. She took it in her hands, looked at it and looked at it again, then swung it a couple of times through the air until it whistled.

—I like it. I’m going to grease it with bacon.

—What?

—My mother had one, and every so often she would rub it with a strip of bacon rind so it would be oiled and wouldn’t break.

—And what did your mother want it for? Did she use it on you?

—She never had to touch me. But my older brother and even my father got a taste of it more than once.

—Your father too?

—Yes, boy, yes. One night he came home a bit drunk, and my mother took him out to the yard, hosed him down, and gave the cane a good greasing that left him brand-new. So you’d better take the hint.

—You’ll never have to hit me, because I adore you. You know that, right?

And without giving her time to react, I started kissing her, pampering her, touching her everywhere as if I had eight hands, until I was guiding her, without resistance from her, to the sofa. Once she was on it, I unbuttoned her blouse and started with her breasts, licking them slowly, biting her nipples until they stood up. Then I worked my tongue down her belly, moved her skirt aside, and went lower, to the sex that was already hot and wet from fighting with me all afternoon.

I was surprised by how receptive she was. She wanted me even more than I did. I ate her cunt slowly at first and hungrily after, until she came arching her back and digging her nails into my shoulders. While she recovered, I went back up to her breasts so I wouldn’t give her a moment’s respite.

My intention was to fuck her hot, without letting her think, and that’s what happened. Before she had finished catching her breath, I was already climbing on top of her, and I drove into her in one thrust, effortlessly, sunk all the way in. The strokes came hard, rough, almost furious; I rammed her against the sofa arm until she came a second time, this time taking me with her.

***

Half an hour later, while we were having dinner, she shot me a look over the rim of her plate.

—Don’t think you’re getting out of the cane.

—I think I’ve earned it.

—That’s what you think.

—I don’t care if you hit me with the cane. With that beautiful face of yours, you could beat me to death and I’d still love you just the same.

—What a rogue you are —she said, and for the first time all day a smile slipped out.

And that was how, that afternoon, I got away from that fearsome instrument. Only that afternoon, because later on I tried it, and not just once. But that, and one rather surprising secret of Casilda’s, is another story altogether.