Clint and the Empty Chair

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                                                    Clint and the Empty Chair


A bit of explanation: At a 2012 political event, Clint Eastwood gave a rather rambling "talk to an empty chair" that had folks on both sides of the political aisle smiling and scratching their heads. I thought Clint resembled a slightly scatterbrained but loveable old man ranting at his wife, so this story was born.

Old Clint Westwood addressed the empty chair sitting in the middle of his bedroom, “I know what you’re thinking Barbara.  You’re thinking, ‘That cataract-challenged old man can’t even read that credit card bill.’  If that didn’t work, you probably figured you would just delay your comeuppance until the old man forgot.  Failing that, you probably think you’re smart enough to talk this addled old coot out of paddling you.”

Actually Barbara, Clint’s wife, had thought all three of those thoughts, one just seconds ago.   Now she finally knew for sure why she was in trouble, and why Clint had sent her to the bedroom to “prepare”.  Her bubble thoroughly busted, Barbara wisely opted for silence.

“Change” he bellowed, “You promised change.  We’re not rich enough to continually go around hot dogging it.  Times are hard, so you promised me that you would change your ‘high-maintenance’ ways.  But our credit card bill looks like the national debt.  This is a disgrace Barbara, a true disgrace!”

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Given that Barbara was a shapely and nubile lady who had married a moderately wealthy man nearly twice her age, most people automatically dismissed her as a “gold-digger”, a floozy out to inherit a lifetime meal ticket.  If you were to know her though, you would know that she was wholeheartedly in love with her man. 

Oh yes, before marriage they had frank discussions about her “bedroom needs,” and together they had figured out how to manage them quite well.  Clint still had occasional teenager-like erections.  They tended to be brief, so the two had learned to  “strike while the iron is hot”.  Since this usually happened first thing in the morning when they were still both nude in bed, there was little inconvenience.  If they wished sex on a more premeditated basis, there were always those purple pills in the medicine cabinet.   Even when his body wasn’t totally willing, Clint found ways to satisfy his wife.  His fingers and tongue still worked perfectly well, and he knew dozens of tricks with a vibrator! 

Good as all those things were, they paled next to the thrill of that certain bedroom activity that had brought them together; spanking.  Clint had cherished his first wife, even though she was an incurable vanilla.  When he finally got over her death and started again to desire female companionship, he had one inflexible criteria; his new mate would be a spanko.  He had found Barbara on the Internet after a long search.  She had turned out to be all he ever wanted, and more woman than he ever expected to attract.

As fun and as satisfying as their erotic spankings were, there was a reckless thrill-seeking part of Barbara that sometimes caused her to risk the very real possibility of receiving a memorable punishment paddling from her man.  Today’s “trip to the woodshed” was a result of one of those times.  Her punishment spankings were an overt part of their prenuptial contract, but something she had eagerly agreed to. 

So Barbara had purposely put herself at risk just for the thrill of it.  Usually, she got away with it, but today her bottom would pay the price.  Deep down in her belly, she felt a frisson of fear; but it was fear laced with excitement and sexual arousal.  Her man was about to “take her in hand”.        

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“OK” Clint said, “So now I’m about to paddle your beautiful bottom until it glows.  Stick it up in the air for me.”

He squinted at the chair, but it wasn’t that famously flinty squint of that movie star named Clint.  No!  This was the slightly befuddled squint of a man who could barely see. 

Clint jumped when her voice came from behind him, rather than from the chair, “You sweet, half-blind, loveable old coot.  I’m not kneeling on that chair, I’m here in the corner where you told me to be.  I put the chair where you told me to put it, and I’m here naked in the corner just like to told me to be. Turn on the lights.  You know you need more than that nightlight to see.”

“Oh” he mumbled as he felt his way to the doorway and fumbled for the light switch.      

As she climbed up on the chair to present her still-firm bottom for the paddle, she remarked “This is getting ridiculous Clint.  Next week we’re seeing a doctor about your cataracts.”

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Clint was no hero of the silver screen, but today his image was easy for any passers-by to see, a shadowy profile projected through the couple’s translucent bedroom curtain.   It showed the chair with a feminine form kneeling on it, bottom stuck out saucily, and the outline of Clint masterfully swinging his paddle.  If one stood quietly on the sidewalk, there would not only be the moving picture, but sound; The crack of the paddle and Barbara’s voice coming through loud and clear.  “Ouch!  Ouch!  I’m sorry honey!  It won’t happen again.  Please stop!  Owwwww!”  

And of course Clint’s voice could also be heard, “Just run up the credit card bill any time you wish Barbara.  Go ahead honey, MAKE MY DAY”!

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