For Cinner
The lobsters' succulent white meat disappeared almost as rapidly as the shells lost the heat from their steaming. Almost as rapidly, she felt the effects of the wine filling her with warmth and bringing a delightful energetic fuzziness to her brain. While they did share wine and other spirits frequently, something seemed different with the wine in her glass that seemed never to empty. By the time she had downed her fourth glass she realized noticed the yellow lights of the candles and lamps flickering as mischievously in his eyes as the smile that graced his lips.
"How is the wine?" he asked in a casual voice, sipping from his glass of water.
"It's wonderful," she replied hesitantly, realizing he had not touched his own glass, simply refilling hers as she emptied it. The buzz in her mind and body grew more intense as she said this. "It's different, is it a new" she asked in a puzzled voice. His widening grin told her that it was not and she realized what she thought he had done.
"You bastard!" she blurted with a laugh. "You spiked the wine!" Her cheeks flushed pink from the wine and excitement of having fallen so easily into one of his little game-traps. Her nipples surged erect in anticipation, knowing that earlier playing would soon resume in earnest. "What's in it?"
"Oh, just a little candy for you."
She knew that meant only one thing – he had laced the wine with cocaine, her favorite occasional and recreational drug. She could feel the tell-tale surging of energy, the way that her heart beat faster, sending blood coursing through her body, speeding along the alcohol to moderate and subtly enhance the high. With a thrill of delight she swallowed the remainder of the glass, swirling it first around her mouth and across her tongue before letting it drain down her throat. She speared her last chunk of lobster after putting down her glass, exaggeratingly dipping it in the butter before bring it slowly to her lips, drips of the greasy yellow coating splattering across the simple table cloth, her sweater-bound breasts, chin, and lips. She smiled enticingly at him in challenge.
The mischievous grin that had sat upon his face for the course of the meal disappeared as quickly as the wine had sluiced down her throat moments earlier. Slowly and deliberately he pushed his chair back from the table, patted his own lips with a linen napkin, and placed it across the cracked lobster shells on his plate, a dark cloud passing across his face.
"When did I give you that sweater?" he asked her coldly, making her look down at the greasy wet spots of liquid butter she had created in her teasing last bite of lobster. Her own face paled in realization that she had perhaps picked the wrong instant or at least the wrong clothing in which to play her own teasing gambit. She cast her eyes down, shoulders tensing, head lowered in surrender of her sin. When she did not respond he harshly prodded her again with the biting tone of his voice. "Well? When did I give you that sweater?"
She still hesitated, lower lip quivering at the rapid change in his mood and tone. He was no longer her mischievous playmate and lover. He was now her Master. When she spoke it was in a meek, tiny voice. "You gave this to me the first day we made love, Master."
He did not nod, did not respond in any way to her statement, continuing to stare at her coldly. The sat as such as a minute crawled by, followed by another and yet another again.
"Is that how you treat a gift to commemorate such a significant event?"
She had not completely surrendered herself to him on the day they first made love, a marathon session of wet, messy, frenzied, scrumptious passion. At least she had not realized that she had surrendered herself completely to him on that day until much later. The sweater, intricately woven Irish wool dyed a passionate and irresistible red, he had told her when he gave it to her, symbolized the ardor they had shared and that they had sparked in one another.
"I..." she whispered, eyes closing to hold back the tears of uncertainty that threatened to spill down her long lashes to her cheeks. Was his anger genuine? Or was it part of the game. The wine and cocaine flowing through her system confused her, quickening and dulling her thoughts at the same time as she sought the proper words. "I...I am..."
He cut her response short, standing with a dismissive grunt that told her to be quiet. He stepped toward her and entwined his hand in her long hair, twisting it so that the locks wrapped around the back of his hand and back into his palm. A quick jerk brought her bounding to her feet, her chair tipping over in her haste as her scalp prickled with pain as he pulled her hair. Her head tilted back with the continued strain of his hand pulling her hair, her throat bared to him, pulse pounding in her neck veins. She kept her eyes closed, surrendering to his anger and disappointment. She knew her mistake had earned her a yet undetermined punishment.
"Remove your jeans." His voice was low, a growl emanating from deep within his throat. She fumbled with the button and zipper, hands rushing to obey his command. With the fly flaps spread open she tried to slip the jeans over the swell of her hips and buttocks but found that she could not push them down far enough with him holding her hair and head erect. When she tried to speak, to tell him of her difficulty he cut her off, demanding more insistently that she remove her jeans.
