Dust covered trail winding up the mountain pass
Lines of tiny flowers, white, purple, yellow, orange
dotting the hillside.
We are on the new man and new woman program
partnered in healthy eating, hiking
losing those extra pounds brought on by school, travel, stress.
The conversation is light
while our long sleeves feel heavy
as the sun pokes through the blanket of clouds
The trail goes on, mile after mile,
until we reach the peak and can see out over the sea.
The trek down is quick,
bee colonies swarming around overgrown bushes
encouraging us to move faster toward the end.
A tunnel, the path turning from dry dust to wet sand,
exits onto a brightly sun drenched beach
with waves rising tall and crashing in foamy sheets of
blues, greens and grays.
I kick off my shoes and Eric grabs my wrist.
"No Amy," he says, like I am a naive child. "The waves are too strong.
We'll go when the tide gets lower."
I pull away, laughing and tease him for being such a worry wart.
"I'm just going to get my toes wet," I say, backing into the ice cold water
and beaming at him as the sand beneath my toes sinks underfoot.
Suddenly, I am consumed by a large powerful blast of wet salty water
and I'm spinning in the ocean, pulled farther out to sea.
Once again, Eric grabs my wrist, his tennis shoes and socks now drenched
as he drags me back to shore. Matted sandy ponytail, I shake my head and
sputter, choking to expel the sea in my lungs and seaweed tangled throughout my hair.
I am hugged, my face is clasped in Eric's hands and he kisses wet salty lips.
I know there was a moment he was afraid;
afraid of a life of having to jump in and rescue me,
afraid even more of losing me.
We walked back to the car and took off everything that allowed us to remain decent.
Bare feet on the pedals, Eric pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to our cabin.
The original plan, lunch on the rooftop, abandoned for a hot bubble bath and dry clothes.
As we turned onto the highway, Eric's whimsical smile faded and his stern authoritative tone took command.
"Over my lap, Amy Lynn," he ordered.
Face buried in the fabric of his running shorts, I endured the sting of Eric's hand
slapping hard against wet spandex. There were no breaks between his swats. No
warm up or gentle caresses. My ass, one cheek, poised at the perfect angle for a
truly memorable punishment, took it all.
When he finished, I sat back in my seat, that warm tingling burn on the right side reminding me
to listen when my husband tells me to wait.
I stare out the window, stripes on the road, tiny flowering bushes lining streets, a hillside creeping with vines and big yellow blossoms.
The glass is wet, splattered with drops from the sea, spraying the window as my spanking ensued.