Marianne stood at the window, naked but for the sheet wrapped around her torso, and watched her husband and his friends shoot the breeze beside their pickup trucks in the driveway below.

She took another draw on her cigarette. Usually the nicotine helped to calm her in moments like this, but she was still angry, still unsatisfied by her last little act of rebellion.

“Shit, is he home already?”

The flabby man in her bed shot up from the mattress with an alertness that reminded her of a marmot, and she chuckled to herself. He snatched up his clothes from beside the bed and ran down the stairs. He’d use the side door, of course. She doubted that he would have even seen the front entrance when they’d stumbled inside the night before.

His name escaped her. Not that it mattered.

She counted the minutes as the man she married continued his oblivious conversation, his words silenced by the glass and the distance. Her playmate had already vanished into the woods, of course. One of these days, her husband was going to catch her in the act, and she quivered just thinking about it.

What did those men even have left to talk about? They’d been living in the same bunkhouses for the last few weeks, making new subdivisions, building houses that they’d never afford themselves. Didn’t they realize how pointless it all was?

Her husband gestured toward the house, waved goodbye. Finally. She had a last puff and ground the remains of her cigarette into the windowsill.

They’d bought the house less than a year before… no, it was fairer to say that Marianne’s parents had given it to the newly married couple, a dowry of sorts for their troubled – and troublesome – daughter. She still hadn’t come to think of it as home.

Despite building houses for a living, her husband had yet to spend any time working on his own. The walls of their bedroom were splashed in some antique white that made the space look larger than it was, but Marianne would have said it made the room look as barren as she felt.

She considered the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. She’d tried to peer into it the night before, hoping for a glimpse of her own features in the throes of passion, but caught nothing. The angle had been wrong, maybe, or she hadn’t been able to see herself past her partner’s bulky frame.

Or maybe the whole experiment had been for nothing. That explanation made the most sense, in the light of day – she didn’t look ‘ravished’, just tired. She was twenty-eight and old before her time. Dark circles gathered under her pale eyes, and her pallid skin clung to her thin frame like birch bark, her small breasts shrunken and blue-veined in the cold morning air. She shivered and wrapped the sheet tighter around her narrow hips.

From downstairs, she heard a creak as the front door opened, the familiar thump of her husband’s work boots on the foyer.

“Marianne?” he called.

“Up here,” she replied, barely raising her voice.

He walked in, the relief plain on his face. And then he took in the bed, in a mess of covers, his wife bare and hollow-eyed in front of the mirror, a stale aroma of sex still in the air.

“Dammit, Marianne. Not again.”

“You said you’d be home yesterday,” she said sullenly.

Her husband strode past her, yanked open the door to the empty closet. Finding nothing, he glared out both windows, peered under the bed, even began to yank out the dresser drawers, as if her paramour might be hidden among the socks.

His scent washed over her, sawdust and desperation. It smelled… sour.

“Why? Why do you do this to me? Do our vows mean that little to you?”

“’To have and to hold’, you said. But when I need you to hold me, you’re never here. It’s always work with you. I get lonely.”

“I rushed to be home for you!” He gestured to the unkempt bed. “Am I going to find you tramping around like a cheap slut every time I have to travel for work?”

She stuck up her arched nose in the way she knew he hated. A slut she might be, but she drew the line at cheap.

“Maybe. What are you going to do about it?” Before he could answer, she added, “I know you’re not going to leave. My father paid for this house, so you’re stuck with me. To have and to hold, remember. In sickness and in health.”

“What do you want from me, Marianne?”

She took his hand in hers and rested it against her face, feeling the smooth metal of his wedding ring against her cheek. His palm was calloused, and coarse – and trembling with rage.

He pulled it away. “No.”

“I want you to be a man, Jeffery, a real man. Fight for what’s yours.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. This was what she deserved, she was sure, for hitching herself to a common labourer - a rough man, she’d led herself to believe, but where was that roughness when she needed it?

“Pussy.”

She hadn’t even realized she’d said it out loud until she saw him cringe. That got his attention, then. She grinned and kept at it, “Pussy. Puss puss puss…”

“Grow up, Marianne.”

But Marianne’s parents hadn’t raised a quitter. Everything she ever wanted had been gained from persistence and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. She’d spent almost a full week in bed during the time that he was gone, so tired and lonely that she’d wanted only to sink into the mattress and never come up. She’d needed a distraction. But this... this tension, this barely restrained fury coming off her husband in waves… it was invigorating. She had to have more.

She put her hand against his chest and pushed, just a little. He grunted, but was unmoved.

“Stop that,” he growled.

She pushed him again, the sheet loosening around her, grinning when he was forced to take a step back.

“What are you going to do about it?”

He was still mad. Good. But she wasn’t getting the reaction she wanted. She pressed forward again— and this time he moved aside. Her makeshift dress, caught under her heel, did not.

Marianne overbalanced and fell, flailing at the empty air. The instant before she would have hit the carpet, her husband caught her, hooking her safely beneath his muscular arm.

She blinked.

And then an explosion of sound and heat struck her upturned rear end. She struggled, but her husband’s hold on her waist was solid and she had nowhere to go but the floor.

Instead, she resorted to her usual approach, “How dare you raise a hand to me! I’m your wife!”

But if even her husband had been surprised by his sudden action, the shock had worn off. His breathing was slow now, his rage still present but measured. And he hadn’t relaxed his grip. He wasn’t a big man, but she knew how strong he was.

“Is this the reaction you wanted, young lady?”

Behind her air of bravado, Marianne gulped.

Another blast followed. He was really spanking her!

“I want to be sure I have your attention,” he said calmly, punctuating every few words with a further smack to her bottom, “I travel for work so I can afford the food in our fridge and the roof over our heads, and not only do you carry on with other men while I’m away, but you have the nerve to blame me for your own behaviour? If you think I’m putting up with that, you have another thing coming.”

She bit her lip. Yes, each swing of his arm brought with it a new dose of pain, but the feeling of his tough palm against her ass brought her excitement beyond words. Her traitorous body wriggled and kicked, instinct screaming at her to break free.

But instinct had no power over Jeff Frobisher. Her fighting only seemed to encourage him to spank her harder and faster, his swift hand roasting her helpless little caboose. Without meaning to, she found herself crying out with each strike.

“Ow!” she yelled. “Fuck you!”

“I’d be a lot more apologetic if I were in your place, Marianne.”

Her feet scraped the floor, giving her the illusion of gravity. She was trapped in her husband’s arms, and there was no place she’d rather be. God, why hadn’t she done this earlier?

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry! Now put me down!”

To her surprise, he did exactly that – without notice or ceremony. She tumbled to the floor, still tangled in the sheet. Her bottom was sore and tingling worse than any bee sting she could remember, but at the same time she felt disappointed that the spanking had ended so soon.

Jeff knelt down beside her, close enough to catch the fragrance of his sweat through his clothes.

“I hope you’ve learned a lesson from this. If not, I’ll be happy to repeat it the next time I have to leave for work.”

There was a note of conviction in his voice that she couldn’t remember hearing before, and she discovered to her excitement that she believed him. And with him a hair’s breadth away from her on the floor, she couldn’t resist.

Before he could react, she hurled herself at him, kissing him with abandon, two days’ worth of stubble scratching at her chin. Surprised and off-balance, he could offer no resistance as her weight bowled him over, her fingers grappling with the buckles of his overalls.

He gasped for breath. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?” she grinned. “I was out of line, and you put me in my place. That’s what a husband does, isn’t it?”

She enjoyed herself for the instant that satisfaction, confusion and arousal fought for expression on his face. But she knew which one would win out once she started popping the buttons on his shirt.

“Don’t you want me to get clean first?”

She buried her face in the thicket of his auburn chest hair, inhaling his scent. No, a shower wouldn’t do. Just like that – that was how she wanted him.

Her eagerness was getting the better of her, though. Her hands were shaking, and she’d only gotten through half of the buttons.

“Take it off,” she said imperiously.

A flash of irritation warned her that she hadn’t completely overpowered him, but she grasped its meaning too late. He grabbed her by the forearm and pulled, yanking her into his lap. Before she could manage even a squeak, his hard hand went back to work.

Her ass was still smoldering from the first spanking, and she hadn’t expected a second. It was scorching, made only worse by her brief respite, and the pain took her breath away.

He was… masterful. And he didn’t even know it.

“Ow! Take it off, please!”

“With pleasure.”

Jeff scooped her up and carried her to the bed, the tangled sheet trailing her like a new bridal train. He set her down with care, minding her sore derriere, and dutifully began to strip off his work clothes.

An impulse struck her, and she rolled over on her stomach. When his head reappeared from under his shirt, he found himself greeted by the sight of his wife’s blushing backside. He whistled appreciatively.

“Admiring your handiwork?”

“Feeling a little sorry for you, actually.” He’d made it down to his briefs. She could see the outline of his cock straining under his waistband.

Good. He’d have to be at full mast for what she had in mind.

“Don’t tell me that you’re done with this ass yet. You’ve got some lubricant in one of those drawers, am I right?”

Jeff froze.

“We… we haven’t done that since before the wedding,” he stammered.

“And…?”

He didn’t need any further convincing, but she wasn’t done playing with him yet. The lube was cold, and the moment it touched her tight hole she started to buck and squirm like a greased pig, nearly knocking Jeff off the bed. He growled and seized her ankle. Holding her in his iron grip, he held her down as he straddled her legs. His free hand poured another dollop of lube between her cheeks.

“You’re my wife,” he snarled, his breath hot against her neck. “Say it. You’re mine.”

“You’re mine,” she hissed back.

It was uncomfortable at first, as it had always been, trying to fit him where size and design had worked against them, but once he was inside her, it felt like he had command over her, his thrusting shaking her whole body, making her toes curl.

He slumped over afterward and went straight to sleep.

Marianne rose gingerly to her feet and inspected herself in the mirror. Pink speckles decorated her entire bottom, giving way to purple bruises in places. She was pleased to discover that she was still hot to the touch. He’d been enthusiastic as well as thorough, and she’d be still be feeling the effects for at least another day.

But as she watched, her glow faded. The rings under her eyes began to reappear, even after she rubbed them and looked again. His treatment had been brutal and exciting, but in the end only temporary. She would not be tamed so easily.

What would have happened, she wondered, if the other man had still been here when he arrived?