Reminder before Dinner
I debate the merits of earrings while he dresses behind me. My gaze in the mirror shifts to him working his way up to the second button, unzipping his freshly-ironed pants to tuck his shirt neatly into them, re-zipping and then sliding a belt through the loops.
We are expecting company, and due to my earlier preparation, I am calm.
The table is set with an eclectic mix of white dishes and antique Fostoria. Gladiolas drink from the tall, clear vase in the kitchen as the salmon absorbs its syrupy, nutty topping in the oven. Tomatoes have been skewered with fresh mozzarella, basil and oil; a spinach salad chills in the fridge next to a platter holding our dessert of individual cheesecakes topped with chocolate shavings. All that is left is the stuffed apricot appetizer, awaiting assembly. The apricots, due to their tendency to dry, should be prepared just before everyone arrives, in just under an hour.
The finishing touch will be mascara to distract from what I hope will be red-rimmed eyes.
There is time then, I think, as I place my wine glass on the dresser and turn to make my request. It is a practiced speech but still difficult to manage.
“I drink too much,” I blurt, which was not how my speech was supposed to begin.
“No you don’t. You drink rarely,” he counters.
“Yes, I do. I drink too much around your friends. I say things I shouldn’t say and I’m sure they all think I’m a twit. You all are so much older than me, and I feel like the little sister begging to be included. So I drink too much around them, trying to be comfortable. I don’t want a repeat of the last time we all were together,” I say as the recollection from six months ago replays, yet again, in my mind.
If I could take back the water I threw on D at our last gathering, I would, and have imagined a dozen different ways of handling myself.
“So don’t drink too much,” he shrugs as if that is — of course — the easiest solution. And it would be, except that I know myself. And I know the wine that I’m serving. And I know how much I desire to be liked.
“I need a reminder.”
“They don’t think you’re a twit.”
“I need a reminder,” I repeat, raising one eyebrow and glancing pointedly toward the armoire where our implements reside, “and there is time and I haven’t put on my mascara yet. So could you, please, remind me to behave myself? Tonight is important to me.”
“Behave yourself,” he laughs as my lips turn downward. “No? That’s not the kind of reminder you were looking for?”
I quickly gulp the last of my wine and, in two long strides, unlatch the armoire. Cane, strap, tawse, paddle…all removed and placed on the bed.
“Wow. That’s some reminder. How much time do we have?” He asks as his attention gravitates toward the cane.
“Not all of them. I mean, unless you feel it necessary. But I think one might be enough,” Lord, help me, let one be enough.
“And you think this will help you refrain from over-indulging?”
“I think so, yes. If every time I sit and stand, I remember why my butt hurts, I’ll be less likely to make a fool of myself — and you — again.”
“You shouldn’t have thrown that water on me,” he admonishes, echoing my earlier thoughts. I could clearly see him realizing the logic of my request.
“I know,” I blush. “It was a joke gone wrong.” Really wrong.
“Four glasses of wine, including the one you just swallowed. That is all. And plenty of water — to drink, not throw,” he instructs.
“Yes, Sir. Four glasses is plenty and I will drink water, not throw it.”
“All right then,” he pauses to grab a pillow from the bed and place it over the foot board, “pants down. It’s time for your reminder.”
Except now I’m pretty sure I don’t need a reminder. I’m confident that I can handle myself, without this bit about the cane, which he’s flexing as he waits.
But I’m not so confident that I refuse. I unzip the side closure of my pants and slide them to my thighs, place my hands on the mattress and lift my hips over the pillow he placed there.
“A thong,” he says in surprise. I rarely wear them, but given the fit of my pants tonight, any other style would be obscene. “Very nice,” he admires as he fingers the lace that disappears between my cheeks, making me wet with expectation.
“Oh, and one more thing before we get started, Pink. My friends like you, but even if they didn’t, I wouldn’t care. You are mine and I love you. So no more trying to impress them. Is that understood?”
“Yes, understood. And thank you,” I murmur against the comforter as I prepare myself for the fire of the cane.
It is quickly delivered, but the speed does not prevent my whole body from rebelling. I forget the position and lift my torso off of the bed to steady myself against the impact; his hand pushes me back down. My disobedient right leg kicks to shield my clenching cheeks, and he slaps at it with the cane, all the while air is sucked in and pushed out between gritted teeth.
I believe it was thirteen strokes, but it could have been any number by the time I felt him ease the admired thong past my hips. The shirt he so carefully tucked is pulled quickly away from his straining cock as he enters me in one forceful thrust.
I am preparing the apricots, squeezing a cheese mixture into their palms. My pants are tight; my cheeks swollen and marked. I feel the remains of our climax wet my thighs as I place the apricots on a plate and readjust my hair.
Time to apply my mascara.