Ed and Lorraine: Gratitude Clause

[domestic discipline] [M/f] [HoH] [otk] [spanking] [cornertime] [oral worship]

Continued from: Ed and Lorraine: Ordinary

Oh, dear readers, if you’ve made it this far into my tale, you’re about to peek behind the curtain at the parts of our life that even Nancy, my dear witness and confidante, hasn’t fully seen. You remember how we shared the contract with her that evening—reading it aloud, her eyes widening at the discipline details, but stopping short of the truly intimate clauses? Those hidden sections were for Ed and me alone, born from whispered confessions in the dark, where our domestic discipline bled into something deeper, more primal: the world of BDSM. It wasn’t just about correction and structure anymore; it was about surrender, power exchange, and fulfilling fantasies I’d harbored for years—secret desires to be not just a disciplined wife, but a sexual submissive, owned and used in ways that made my pulse race with equal parts shame and exhilaration.

I should confess something here: Nancy has her own hidden longings, ones she’s shared with me in hushed tones over coffee or during those rare moments when the wine loosens our tongues. She’s always been the strong one, the independent brazen woman who rolls her eyes at traditional roles, but deep down, she envies what Ed and I have. She’s admitted to fantasies of being a sexual submissive herself—kneeling before a dominant man, bound by rules and rituals that strip away her control, her body offered up for pleasure and pain. “It’s the release,” she’d say, her voice barely above a whisper. “To just… let go.” I nod knowingly, because I live it. But those are her secrets, tucked away like mine were once. Perhaps one day she’ll find her own Ed, but for now, they’re just dreams she shares with me, her “spanked wife” friend.

Back to our contract—the parts Nancy didn’t see were explicit, raw, and unapologetically erotic. We detailed rituals that went beyond spankings and timeouts, stepping into bondage, insertable toys, and service that blurred the lines between punishment and passion. There were clauses about me wearing a collar during private scenes, symbolizing my submission; about Ed binding my wrists or ankles for “reflection time,” leaving me exposed and helpless while he decided my fate; about denial and edging, where he’d tease me to the brink but withhold release until I’d earned it through perfect obedience. 

These weren’t for every day—they were reserved for when the mood struck, or when a punishment needed that extra layer of intensity to drive the lesson home. It was all consensual, of course, with safewords like “yellow” for caution and “red” for stop, but oh, how they ignited us both.

One clause in particular stands out, and I’ll describe it in detail because it’s the one that embodies my deepest desire to submit, to thank him not just with words, but with my body and soul. It’s the “Gratitude Ritual,” we called it—mandatory after any spanking or punishment, no matter how tearful or humbled I am. Whether my cheeks are still stained with tears, my sobs hiccuping out uncontrollably, fresh from the timeout corner with my bare bottom throbbing and my nose pressed to the wall, or straight off his lap after being draped over his knee for a thorough paddling that leaves me kicking and pleading—this is how I must show my appreciation.

I lower myself to my knees before him, my arms clasped behind my back in a position of utter vulnerability, my head bowed low. I kneel right at his crotch, close enough to feel the heat of him, my punished body still smarting, perhaps my skirt hiked up or my clothes discarded entirely from the discipline. This is Ed’s cue—he unzips his pants or pulls them down, producing his bare penis, already stirring from the power of the moment. My voice, shaky and small, must form the words exactly: “Thank you for my punishment, may I please suck your cock, Sir?” It’s humiliating, saying it like that—reducing myself to begging for the privilege, my submission laid bare. But it’s my rule, one I insisted on including, because nothing reinforces my place like this act of devotion.

When he grants permission—and he always does, his voice deep and approving—I lean in slowly, pressing my lips to the tip of his penis in a soft, reverent kiss. “Thank you, Sir,” I murmur against his skin, my breath warm and trembling. Only then do I take him into my mouth entirely, beginning the blowjob with all the care and enthusiasm of a wife eager to please. I worship him there on my knees, my hands still behind me, focusing solely on his pleasure—swirling my tongue, taking him deep, letting him guide the pace with a hand in my hair if he chooses. It’s intimate, intense, a bridge from pain to connection, my tears sometimes mixing with the act as I serve.

And when he reaches his climax, ejaculating into my mouth or onto my face, my breasts, or wherever he desires to mark me, the ritual isn’t over. I must swallow if it’s in my mouth, or let it linger if it’s on my skin, and repeat the thanks in the same humble manner: kneeling, head lowered, arms back, voicing my gratitude for his cum as if it’s a gift—which, in our world, it is. “Thank you for your cum, Sir,” I say, perhaps kissing the tip again if he’s still presented. It’s the final seal on the punishment, wiping the slate clean, leaving me feeling cherished, owned, and utterly at peace.

These hidden clauses aren’t for the faint of heart, dear readers, but they’re the spice that keeps our marriage blazing. Nancy knows the basics—the spankings, the corners—but these? They’re our sacred secrets, fueling nights of passion that follow the sting of discipline. If you’re blushing now, just wait; there’s more to share about how these rituals play out in real life, the times they’ve tested me, thrilled me, and bound us closer than ever.

Sincerely, 

Ed and Lorraine W. 

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