Treat Me Like I’m Just A Woman – Fetish

Treat Me Like I’m Just A Woman

Joan wants to be treated like she is just a woman

Author’s notes; The story is about a woman who wants treatment as if she is “just a woman,” meaning the man is the man of the house and bedroom. If you are a feminist, I would suggest you skip this story. All characters are imaginary, and any similarity to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Warning: There is spanking, foul language, and an underlying patriarchal dominance theme.


They had been dating for six months as both had lost their long-time mates a couple of years ago and were lonely. They met at a senior citizen event and were desperate for the love and affection of a mate, but they were not stupid. Taking it slowly, they had begun with occasional dates. As they began to get to know each other better, they spent more and more time together and attempted to get on with their lives. Her name was Joan, and he was Ward.

As the French say, Joan was a woman of a certain age. She was about five feet three inches tall and had a slim figure, ample breasts, rounded hips, and a tight butt for a woman her age. Overall, she was lovely. Ward was a couple of years older, about five feet nine inches, slim, broad-chested, had a full head of hair, was well-muscled for a man his age, and was still rather handsome.

Their latest date ended badly, not that they had argued but that there had been a very unpleasant incident. In a rather high-class restaurant, a drunken patron at an adjoining table had loudly used foul language. Joan had commented aloud on the man’s untoward remarks. Hearing her comments, and rather than apologize for his crudeness, the man threw unwarranted insults at Joan. The unfortunate phrase that he used was “useless old cunt.” Ward, an army veteran, stepped in to defend Joan’s honor. Ward received a punch with a fat lip. His assailant received a blackened eye, a broken nose and an off-duty policeman arrested him.

Joan had gone almost hysterical, screaming and crying, much more than Ward figured was right or typical. Her tears seemed inconsolable, and she fawned over Ward’s bruised and cut lip, but he had been hurt worse in pickup basketball games. It took Ward’s insistence for her to take a trip to the ER and a pill to get her calmed down.

Having just returned from their date and seated on Joan’s couch, they began necking. Their necking was much hotter and more passionate than any time previously. At about the same point, both realized this. In their embarrassment, they disengaged, sliding slightly aside. Joan appeared to be struggling as though she wanted to say something.

So, being a gentleman, Ward asked her, “Is there something troubling you, Joan?”

“I need to tell you something,” she began hesitantly, “but I need a judgment-free zone.”

Ward cocked his head and squinted, with a confused look, on his face, “When have I been judgmental?”

Joan sighed a highly troubled sigh. It was a sigh somewhere between terror and frustration.

“You haven’t love,” she whispered, tears beginning to well up in her eyes and using this endearment for the first time. Settling herself, as if she was finally resigned, she began, “I have to tell you some things about myself and my past. When I was a young girl, just twelve years old we were on holiday in New York City. It was summer, and we were in Central Park. There was a street vendor. Forgive me, but I cannot remember what he was selling. Dad stepped over to the vendor, and mom and I continued to walk on the path. We had just turned a bend and were out of sight when a man lunged at us from the bushes, pushing me aside and grabbing my mother. He tore her blouse and pushed her roughly to the ground, pawing her like an animal. I screamed, and within a few moments, dad grabbed the man pulling him off my mother.”

Joan had to stop because tears flowed regularly, and she could not talk through her sobs. It took several moments of Ward’s comforting for her to continue.

“Anyway, the would-be rapist jumped up as my father knelt to help my mother, and the bastard pulled a knife. Screaming insanely, he lunged at my parents. My dad threw himself between my mother and the assailant who stabbed him in the shoulder. Dad took the brunt of the blade but pushed back and threw a punch that felled the guy, and then dad stomped on the man’s ankle. I can still remember the snapping sound and the man’s screams,” she stopped again, breathless.

Once catching her breath, she continued in a whisper, “at that point, a cop came by and called it in, cuffing the would-be rapist and helping mom and dad to a bench. Before the ambulance arrived, my dad passed out, and spent three days in the hospital,” she finished sighing.

“My father was a good man, but he was a man of his time, a WWII veteran who had seen a lot of combat in the Pacific. My mother was a good woman but a woman of her time. That meant that my father was in charge and wore the pants in the family. He was the boss, and my mother was the good house frau. He supported us, and she served us. I remember several times when my father would get angry over something my mother had done, spending too much or some mistake. He would turn her over his knee and spank her, sometimes in front of us kids. He didn’t beat her. It was just a few whacks on the ass, she would cry, and he would comfort her,” she said, dropping her eyes and tears dripping from her cheeks.

“Well, as you can imagine, when I got older and went to college, the feminist awakened in me, and I was appalled at how my dad had treated my mom. When I began to date, I looked for men I could control and rejected any with what I considered had any degree of masculinity or who I perceived were misogynistic or patristic. I finally met who I thought was the perfect man and emasculated him. I’ll be honest I was in charge and wore the pants in the family. I ran the family, and I even slapped him several times in front of the children,” she sobbed.

“One day, when my oldest was about thirteen, my husband and I went for a jog in our neighborhood. As I turned a corner, a man attacked me from the bushes knocking me roughly to the ground. He pushed my top and bra up and shorts down and slobbered on my neck and breasts. Somewhere in the distance, I heard my husband say, ‘I’ll get help,’ and then he ran away. I fought the guy you’re, damn right, I did. I kicked and bit and fought, and the son of bitch beat me with his fists until I couldn’t fight anymore,” she stopped as though the memory of it paralyzed her vocal cords, trembling all over.

The silence was so long that Ward muttered, “That must have been horrifying.”

“When the cop pulled the bastard off me,” she growled, glaring into Ward’s eyes, “he pulled the bastard’s dripping penis out of me too.”

She stopped, paralyzed by the memory.

Again Ward, because the pause was so long, whispered, “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”

She looked into his eyes, the anger and resentment burning in her frown.

“My fucking husband didn’t touch me or try to cover my nakedness. The cop did it after he had the bastard cuffed and fully restrained. You see, I had what I deserved, a gutless wimp,” she spat out.

Ward sat there in profound confusion, “What was he to do?” he wondered.

“From then on, until the fucker died, I lost all respect for him. I never trusted him again. If I were a different type of woman, I would have left or cuckolded him, at least. I am not that type of woman. It was then I knew I had traded what I wanted and needed in a man for my misguided beliefs,” she said, her eyes and face softening. “You showed me tonight that you are a man like my dad, a real man,” she said, her eyes softening.

Ward just stared at this woman. She had all the time seemed confident and assured, but now she looked like a beaten dog.

“So,” she continued, “I appreciate how you treat me in public, like a queen. But, from now on, when we are in private, I want you to treat me like a woman. Treat me like I am just a woman. You make the rules, and I’ll follow them and punish me if I don’t,” she said, trembling.

“I…I… I’m not certain I know how,” Ward said, “or if I want to. My mother was a feminist and taught me to respect all women. Dad taught me to respect and protect them.”

“That is obvious because you showed that by protecting me tonight,” Joan said. “It’s simple just do what you want, make the rules.”

Then she reached forward, grasping his head with both hands, and pulled him into a kiss.

“Were you planning to ask me out tomorrow?” she asked, the words sensuously breathed directly into his mouth.

Nodding and quickly realizing he needed to verbalize, he croaked, “Yes, I was.”

“We’ve gone out every Friday and Saturday for several weeks now. May I come over early tomorrow morning, say 8:00 am, and be with you the whole day, and then we can go out?” she proposed timidly.

“Sure,” he said, kissing her again, “but I think it’s time for me to go home. The doctor at the ER said you needed rest.”

So, the two parted, as they usually did, kissing at the door. Only perhaps, a little more prolonged, and Joan was a little more passionate.

She arrived on time. When Ward opened the door, he was a bit floored. Joan had a dress with a button-front, tight bodice, tight waist, and a knee-length skirt that flared out so much he knew it had to have a crinoline slip underneath. Her high heels clicked on the wood floor. As he stepped back to let her in, he noticed she wore nylons and smelled of flowers. There was a pearl necklace choker with matching pearl earrings. What topped off the entire outfit was that she had on an apron. Not a full apron that goes up onto the chest but a waist apron with two large pockets that covered the front of her skirt neatly tied in a bow behind her. Ward hadn’t seen a woman with an apron on since his memories of his mother and grandmother. She looked like something from a Life Magazine photo shoot of the average American wife from 1958.

“Good morning, love,” she said, using this endearment for only the second time while cupping his rather startled cheek with her hand and giving him a peck on the lips, “how are you this morning?”

“Ahh…hi,” he said, stammering, “h…how are you?”

“Wonderful, dear,” she said, beaming. “Now, what would you have me do?” she said in an expectant sing-song voice.

Ward had wondered long and hard about what she expected him to do, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea. He had grown to care for Joan and decided to try anyway.

“Well,” he began barely above a whisper, “the bed needs to be made.”

After a few moments, Joan cocked her head towards him, the nonverbal signal of “is that all?”

So, he tried harder, “a…a…and the living room rug could use a vacuuming.”

Again, he stopped, and she did not change her posture, so he took a deep breath and let go.

“And the kitchen could use a once over, the countertops, a few dishes in the sink, mop the floor. Come to think of it, the bathroom could use a once over too, and while you are at it, you could dust and pick up the magazines on the coffee table,” Ward said, all in a rush.

Joan smiled and shivered a happy shiver like a cold shiver up the back.

“Wonderful,” she exclaimed, in delight,” I will get right at it.”

“Have you had breakfast?” he asked, cutting her off.

She shook her head, saying, “No, I haven’t.”

“Then perhaps we could start with breakfast. The other stuff can wait. Perhaps, eggs and bacon, and there is bread and butter for toast,” he said, getting more comfortable with this “thing.”

“Oh, and the coffee pot is on the counter, and if you prefer, there is tea in the cupboard,” he added.

As bright as she previously looked, she brightened even more, squealing in veritable delight, “Yes, sure.”

“While you are doing that, I will read my paper, and perhaps you could make my coffee first?” he ventured.

If he had said this to his wife of forty years, she would have given him “what for,” and he fought the survival urge to duck.

“Certainly, love, I will get it right away,” she said, stepping briskly to the kitchen.

Let’s face it. In the modern world, not the world of Ward’s father and grandfather, he should expect coffee laced with rat poison and his head flattened with a frying pan. So, he tentatively seated himself at the small breakfast nook he had made in the three-season room and hoped to survive. To his surprise, she brought the coffee to him, smiled, and gave him a peck on the lips when he said, “thank you.”

The woman was amazing. She found everything she needed in a strange kitchen, and the house was filled with the aroma of cooking bacon. Soon, Joan returned with two plates, his bacon, eggs, and some hash browns on one, his toast on the other. She then disappeared, bringing the same for herself and setting them on the table. Returning to the kitchen, Joan retrieved a trivet, a pot of coffee, and her cup. With all this accomplished, she sat down demurely, scooping her skirt underneath her.

“Oh god damn it, I forgot the napkins,” she growled.

At that point, Ward did something strange. He caught her arm before she stood, and she turned to him with a frown.

“Dear,” he began, not tentatively but commandingly, “we do not use that sort of language in this house.”

Joan’s left eye closed. A snarl began to make her lips curl. Just as suddenly it seemed, a light bulb went off in her head, and she softened and became apologetic.

“Yes dear, I am sorry dear. It won’t happen again,” Joan whimpered, eyes lowered.

“Holy shit,” he wondered, “this woman truly means it.”

She had almost reverted to her customary way of treating her husband but caught herself.

Slowly she rose and soon returned with the napkins. Ward smiled to soften the mood.

“Thank you, sure looks like it is going to be a beautiful day, don’t you think?” he said, smiling.

Seeing his lightheartedness, she brightened even more, exclaiming, “Yes, I think this is going to be a wonderful day!”

They ate breakfast, and he retired to the couch to read the paper and eventually a book as she did the chores around the house. Ward marveled because he had not seen a woman vacuum in a dress, stockings, and heels since the dim memories of his mother. Joan was wearing a crinoline slip, and he couldn’t help but get an occasional glimpse of her upper thigh displaying her stockings and garter belt. Perhaps she did this purposely, providing him the forbidden sight every schoolboy raised in the 1950s and early 1960s drooled over.

Joan finished the vacuuming and turned off the machine, making Ward happy. He hated the sound of a vacuum, and his wife usually did the job when he wasn’t around. She went to the wall socket, unplugged the machine, and hit the auto retrieve on the vacuum. The wire got twisted and jammed in the retrieval mechanism.

Joan then spat out, “God damn it!”

Instantly realizing what she had said, she cupped her mouth and turned to face Ward. Ward lowered his book, frowning.

“Oh, I am sorry, dear,” Joan said fearfully.

Either she was actually afraid, or she was an Oscar-winning actress.

“What did I tell you this morning?” he demanded sternly.

Dropping her eyes, she said, “That is not the language for this house.”

“That is correct,” he said.

“I’m sorry, love,” she replied.

“We will let it go for now, but no more. I think it is time for lunch, don’t you think?” Ward said, slowly bringing his book back into position to read.

“Yes, dear,” she said, retreating to the kitchen with an almost disappointed look.

Ward was unsure of what was going on. Her look was not one of relief. It looked more like frustration or disappointment to him. What did she want him to do?

Lunch was soup and sandwiches, and the mood returned to a bright, happy day. After lunch, her chores done, she put her apron on the back of a dining room chair and seated herself on the couch. Joan then crossed her legs reading a magazine while Ward read his book. They sat like that, perhaps, a quarter-hour or maybe a bit more.

Finally, Ward got up to go to the bathroom. As he re-entered the room, unnoticed by her, he stopped to look at her. She sat, flipping the magazine pages, almost to the end now, with her legs demurely crossed at the knee, a bit of the crinoline showing. He had debated and decided what he wondered she wanted him to do. It was a gamble, and he hoped he would not ruin everything. While gonna the bathroom, he noticed, through the door, that she had not made the bed. With all he had given her to do, it was an easy slip of the mind. It was certainly no big deal to him. More than once, the bed had gone unmade. Girding up his courage, he then went into the living room.

“Joan,” he said rather sternly.

She looked up at him quizzically.

“You didn’t make the bed,” he said, maintaining his grim look.

Joan scowled as though she was trying to remember.

Then she looked at Ward and smirked, saying, “Damn it. I forgot.”

Instantly she cupped her mouth with her hand, obviously feigning fear.

“How many times must I tell you?” he said, growling as she rose.

He took her roughly by the upper arm and marched to the dining room. Selecting a chair, he turned it out and sat down, pulling her across his lap. For a moment, he debated about what to do with the skirt. Should he lift it and slap her panty-clad bottom?

He opted not to go that far, held her firmly, and said, “That language has no place in this home or coming from your mouth.”

With that, he gave her three solid whacks on the ass.

Of course, he couldn’t see her face, but she let out a howl and began to cry. With the last stroke, he was panting hard, holding her in place, but it wasn’t because of the exertion. It was because of the sheer taboo of the act itself. Ward had never intentionally struck a woman. It was horrifying yet, at the same time, somewhat exhilarating, even erotic. Gulping, he let her up and seated her on his lap, allowing her full reign to cry and sob into his shoulder, which she did for some time. Eventually, his cooing lovingly into her ear got her sobs to subside.

“I am so sorry,” she whined. “You are right that language has no business coming out of a woman’s mouth,” she said, starting another round of sobbing.

Not being a psychiatrist, he figured that if the sobbing wasn’t acting, it had to do with deeper issues. Considering the crinoline slip and dress, he doubted she could feel the blows. Finally, he got her sobs to subside, got her on her feet, and led her to the sofa, where they snuggled and necked for a time.

“Where would you like to go for dinner,” he asked, “perhaps Caliante’s?”

He chose this because it was a very upscale restaurant, and he felt a little guilty. No, he felt very guilty.

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I need to change, though,” she said, “this outfit doesn’t fit the times. Would you be a love and get the suitcase from my trunk?”

He gladly did this because it was more like what he was used to, taking care of his lady. That evening he treated her like a queen, and when they finally returned to his house, they necked passionately on the couch.

This time there was no embarrassment when they realized the level of their passion, and as he held her close, she asked, “Can I come over again tomorrow early, like today, please?”

“Sure,” he said, “but tomorrow, I will come and pick you up. I don’t want you to drive home so late by yourself.”

She stretched sensuously into his arms, sighing, “Yes, just like a real man.”

The following morning, Ward picked Joan up early, and at the door, there was her suitcase that she indicated she would need. He wondered nothing of it since she had had one the night before to hold her “going out” outfit. Joan dressed quite similarly to the day before, and the day went pretty much the same. A couple of hours after returning from the restaurant for dinner and Joan having changed back into her retro 1950s clothing from her “going out” dress, Ward noticed that the bed was still unmade.

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