"I don't want you to wear any panties today," the voicemail said.
Sammi looked to her phone in disbelief. She presses play and listens again. The smooth, low tone of her husband plays once more. "I don't want you to wear any panties today." And that was all. No instructions, no I love you. Nothing to take away. She considers for a moment, then biting her lip calls his number.
No answer.
The dials again. Waits for his voice mail and tells him to call her back before putting the phone down and watching it, like water set to boil. After a moment she walks to her full-length mirror and surveys the simple, mid-thigh black skirt and bites her lip. Then, one last time, glances back to the phone in hopes that it would ring. When it doesn't she takes a deep breath, pulls the skirt up just enough to move her hands to her beautiful, black lace panties and take them off. She discards them with a a disdainful grunt before taking a few steps back and forth in front of the mirror.
No, she thinks. This is obscene. I can't go with something this short.
Then she's flinging things around in the closet, searching for that one piece that she can never find when she wants it. When she does find the longer, black skirt that will meld and accentuate the blue of her top.
Stepping back in front of the mirror she surveys herself directly and in profile, the new skirt reaching just beneath her knees. She sits, crosses her legs and even leans back under the gaze of the mirror before accepting his command. And with confidence comes resentment, being asked to do such a silly thing from a man she knows so well. Sammi picks up her phone, switches it to off and makes her way to their brunch date.
The cafe is busy, though due to the unseasonably cold, the terrace is empty save for one man wearing a sports jacket that almost melds into his chocolate skin. He sits still, easy, as though the weather isn't a factor. Like a statue in a way. As she approaches from behind she can see his head tilt in such a way that he hears the clack of her two inch heels and seems to know it was her.
They look at one another as she steps in front of him, pulls out her chair and sits down.
"I ordered you hot chocolate," he says with a wink. A joke he never seemed to get tired of.
"Oh good. I wonder if it'll actually be hot this time."
His facade cracks and his smile fades. He stops looking into her with eyes like warm secrets and instead looks to the still steaming tea which he stirs with a spoon.
Sammi wonders why she said it all. Why she couldn't just let the past be. She trusted the man, she did, but with the recent developments she couldn't help but be hurt. "I'm sorry," she says.
"It's alright." He forces a smile and looks back to her again before the waitress arrives with her hot chocolate. She is about to order before he raises a finger. "We actually need a few minutes."
The waitress nods and goes back into the warm embrace inside as Sammi looks to him with confusion.
"What are you doing? We're not eating?" Sammi blows on her hot chocolate more out of habit than anything.
"I wanted to talk."
"I told you," Sammi says into her cup, "I'm not ready yet."
"I know." And in that moment she is entirely the man she loved. Soft and strong all at once. Open and listening. Ready for anything she might do and always pushing her to the next step. But still, it wasn't enough.
"I think, maybe I should-" She places the cup down and starts to shift in her seat to push it back but his wrist snares her. He holds her tightly, a reminder that he is so massive compared to her.
"Just sit. Just a minute."
Sammi nods before she agrees, then pulls back up to the table, picks up her chocolate and sips it in order to seem less nervous, to avoid his gaze. It doesn't seem to work though, because every time she looks at him he's either processing what he's going to say or looking deeply into her.
"I should have told you I was going to see my her." He takes a breath. He draws it in fully. "If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't. But I promise you, nothing happened."
She nods but her eyes are buried in her drink.
"Do you believe me?" He asks.
She nods again. She's looking at every ripple, every bit of steam in her cup until she feels his hand on hers. Then she looks to it. The manicured nails that he must have done this morning. The cuff of the nice shirt she always likes him in. Then up the jacket that was clearly pressed before it was last warn. Then to his shoulders, broad like they can hold her burdens. And finally to his very beautiful face.
"Do you believe me?" He says it with a lower register this time. His more natural tone.
"Yes."
His hand slides up her arm like a warm intruder, until his thumb brushes over her skin. "I promise," he says as he strokes her. "I will never do that again. All I was trying to do is-"
"Stop while you're ahead."
There's a moment where they look at one another, his thumb dead and her gaze hard. Time is still in it and the world is dead around them in the cold. Somewhere, a coin is being flipped and if it comes up heads she forgives him then and there. Tails, she doesn't and the story goes on in another dozen ways. Here, something deep within becomes warm and open as the coin lands.
She smiles, then he laughs, then she laughs. Then she embraces his touch. She kisses his hand and he moves it further into her skin, covering more of her face.
They hold each other like this, in a single gaze, for a longer moment—though neither would ever think that was the case.
Then, after sipping their drinks for warmth he asks it in such a way that causes Sammi to sit back. "Did you do what I asked?"
"What do you mean?" She asks it not to deflect the question or to be coy because something in her won't allow her to say yes or not. She's no vixen. She's no concept. She can't just turn the "fun" on and off like a toy. There is a lifetime of experience and doubt and fear between her ears and none of it says that it's okay to admit to not wearing panties when you're trying to reconcile with your husband.
"Did you do what I asked?" He says it again but his posture and tone has shifted. He's more confident now, sitting back in his chair as he sips his drink.
She considers, yes and no, lying and being honest—the irony not lost on her. Finally she takes a long pull of her hot chocolate and leans forward as she places it down. "What do you think?"
"Yes." He says it nearly without pause. "Now hike up your skirt and show me."
Sammi blinks, registering the words, allowing them to come into focus. As she does he moves his eyes to her knees and she looks at him looking over her until their eyes are back on one another again.
"Do I have to repeat myself?" He says before looking at her knees again.
She takes a deep breath, grabs the fabric by her fingernails and, after a steadying breath, pulls the first centimeter up. She hopes he'll relent. That it's all a big joke. That it all means nothing. But he is as still and silent as a statue. Like a predator.
A deep breath to focus. Then she pulls the fabric up until it reveals the whole of knees, the light skin above them, the outside of her thighs and, finally, her chill-kissed pussy. She watches him stare at it, lean forward only the slightest of amounts before his eyes flicker over to the door and his hand motions at her to bring the skirt back down.
The waitress reappears and he says that they need just one more moment before she vanishes again and Sammi feels alive. She is frustrated, aghast that this almost happened, unsure of her emotions but most of all—alive. And whatever she felt, she was still at the table.
He pulls out his wallet, a gift from her long before he had enough money to pay for such a thing, and places a single bill, much larger than the two drinks, on top of the table. Then he rises, offers her his hand.
"I don't know where-"
"And I don't want you to ask any more questions."
She looks at him for a single, stunned moment before taking his hand and being easily hoisted up. There he guides her into the warmth of the body of the restaurant.
There's noise from the chatter and the clang of plates, but mostly for Sammi it's a daze. It's just following him as he guides her through the singular glances and a world that feels very distant.
Until the takes her to the men's bathroom, pushes her against the wall and growls lowly in her ear, "stay there."
She holds a moment, heart beating so fast it could jump out of her throat and vision almost fuzzy. She wants to object as he slides over to the door and locks it before pulling a small, metal bar out from somewhere within his sports jacket.
It glints, and for a moment she cannot make out what it is. He catches her eyes following it and grins, "are you afraid? You could always scream." He takes a step towards her, flicks it in a circle and then brings it up to her neck before pushing it into her skin.
She closes her eyes and whimpers, ready for the cut.
But it never comes. The metal is cool, soft and not at all sharp. She opens her eyes to look at it in greater detail ignoring the diabolic grin he has on his face.
It's just a metal bar. No weapon, no threat to it at all. No more dangerous than his massive fist. "It's a good thing I was just in trouble, or else you would be." He slides over to the door, latches the bar in the handle and wedges it in such a way that nobody could push or pull the door open without taking it off its hinges.
When he turns the smirk on his face is gone. His eyes are strong and have a singular purpose, but they are his eyes again, not that of anyone or anything she has to bear. "Now come over here and take off my jacket."
Sammi moves over with a bowed head and lips sealed together tight enough to keep her smile from showing. She waits until his arms raise, like a bird about to take flight, before beginning to take the sports jacket off him. She hangs it tenderly on a combination hook/doorstop screwed into the door and turns around—immediately grateful that he is not wearing a vest today.
