She paused in the driveway. She wasn't waiting to hear the end of a news story or to listen to a song on the radio. She had driven home from work that Friday evening with the radio off and no sounds to keep her company other than the dialogue in her head. The words from the fantasy script had mesmerized her, so much so that she realized she didn't remember the last few blocks of the drive home. She castigated herself for her carelessness. At least she hadn't careened into her husband's car as she pulled into the driveway. She didn't really remember doing it, but she could see that she had safely parked between his car and the sidewalk to the front door.
She took a deep breath and grabbed her purse from the passenger's seat. She opened the bag and removed a jewelry box. They'd been so excited when they bought it a month ago, with plans whispered together of what the choker would mean. Every Friday morning since then she had put the jewelry box in her purse when she left for work, and then every Friday night she had lost her courage on the drive home.
Not tonight, she decided. Not this weekend. They had no plans or obligations, and they had waited long enough. She opened the box and stared at the simple stainless steel links of the choker for a few long moments. She forced her breath to come deep and slow as she worked up her nerve. When she removed the necklace from the box, its links felt heavy in her hand. Then she removed the locket she had worn to work from around her neck and replaced it with the choker. The metal was cold for a moment before her body heat warmed it. She stowed the removed necklace in the now empty box and then shoved it into her purse. Flushed, she opened the car door and walked into the house, trying to make her steps sound more confident than she felt.
The front door was unlocked. As she swung the door inward, she could hear him in the kitchen, starting dinner. She closed the door and turned the bolt before calling out to him.
"I'm home!"
"Hey, sweetie, how was your day?" he responded from the kitchen.
Most nights, she would answer that question with brutal honesty. Usually, she'd tell him about what a bitch Brittany had been and vent about workplace politics. Then they would spend the evening discussing first her day at work and then his. Instead of answering like usual, she paused for a second. Her hand went to her neck and she fingered the warming metal. She dropped her bag on a table beside the door and walked to the kitchen as she answered.
"Fine," she answered. "Best of all, it's a Friday."
She strode into the kitchen with more enthusiasm than confidence in her step. He was dropping pasta into boiling water as she rounded the corner into the room. He turned as she entered. His eyes flicked over her, pausing at the choker for a brief but noticeable moment. He gave the pot a stir.
"Fridays are more fun than Mondays, that's for sure," he told her. He poured two glasses of red wine, perhaps a bit fuller than normal.
She took her glass and kissed his lips.
"Thanks for starting dinner."
"Oh, you're welcome."
She started making a salad. He stirred a pot of simmering meat sauce, then stirred the boiling pasta again.
"It's nice to have a free weekend," she said as she diced a tomato.
"It sure is," he agreed. He reached out a hand and rubbed the small of her back. She leaned against his touch.
"We can sleep in tomorrow," she told him.
"That'll be nice," he agreed. Even after so long together, even with knowing each other so well, it was hard to talk through the tension. They were both relieved when a timer dinged to signal that the pasta was ready.
He drained the pasta and mixed it in with the sauce. She set the table. He poured a bit more wine into their glasses. They ate with the uncomfortable pauses of a first date. Whispered suggestions and fantasies were one thing, but bringing them to life left them both nervous.
After lingering over empty plates with talk of the weekend's weather forecast (rainy, all the more reason to stay inside), a look of resolve mixed with anticipation settled on his face.
"Do the dishes," he ordered, " and I will find a movie for us to watch."
She thrilled at the command as she hopped up from her chair. She rushed to load the dishwasher and scrub the pots and pans with peculiar enthusiasm. She worked as fast as she could, eager for whatever would come next. Finally, she put the last pot on a strainer to dry and wiped her wet, shaking hands on a towel. Her mind raced with the possibilities for the evening, possibilities she had put out of her control by wearing the choker. She took a deep breathe and smoothed her dress. Looking down, she noticed that in her haste she'd splattered water on the bodice. Round dots of wetness were scattered there among the buttons. She chided herself for not wearing an apron. A splattered dress wasn't as elegant as she wanted to be tonight. It was too late now.
She steeled herself and walked to the living room. He stared at her as she joined him.
"You look like you made quite a mess playing in the water," he commented.
"Yes," she answered. Then, remembering herself, "Yes, Sir."
"I'll have to remember that for later. For now, come and sit with me."
She joined him on the couch. He pushed play on the remote control and put his arm around her.
"Oh my!" she exclaimed as the opening scene began. It was the movie they'd seen on their first date. "I'd forgotten that we even had this one!"
"Everything has to start somewhere," he told her as the sappy rom-com began. As the opening credits faded away, he unfastened the top button on her dress and stroked the skin revealed. Slowly, he undid more buttons as the couple in the movie met and fell for each other. After each button, his fingertips played like feathers on her newly exposed flesh. She remained as still as she could through the process to let him have his way with her, but she couldn't contain the tremor that shot through her with every button undone. By the time the movie reached the inevitable but temporary breakup ninety minutes in, he had opened the dress to her waist.
As each of the characters commiserated with friends about the unfairness of love, he parted her dress to expose her breasts. He pulled her to lean on her side across his lap as the gentleman-hero of the movie reached an epiphany and went off in search of his lady. As the couple on the screen were reunited, for good this time, his fingers traced light circles over her nipples within her bra. She pressed against his hands, but every time she pushed her chest forward he denied her firm pressure by sliding his hands to her stomach. When she leaned back against his chest, he retuned to stroking her breasts softly through the shear fabric. She fought to resist the urge to seek more contact. He continued teasing her breasts through all of the closing credits, his fingers looping in spirals expanding from her nipples to brush the swell of her breasts.
When the credits finished, he finally cupped her breasts with his entire hands. She thrilled to the contact.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir," she answered.
"Good," he said. "Now, get across my knee. You have ten swats coming for your carelessness with the dishes."
"Yes, Sir." She tried to sound meek instead of eager.
She draped herself across his lap. Her face was mashed into an arm of their couch. She smelled the leather. He pushed the skirt of her dress up over her hips until the entire thing was wrapped around her middle. He shifted his feet to raise his right knee and lower his left, which lifted her ass maybe an inch higher to present a better target. She held still, exposed and vulnerable. Then his right hand came down, gently and softly, barely brushing the exposed flesh around the edges of her panties. His fingertips trailed down the back of her thighs and between her legs. Every time he lifted his hand, she braced for it to come down hard, but every time his fingers returned with a faint graze of her exposed skin. She sighed and relaxed.
SMACK!
His hand came down hard and sharp on her right ass cheek. She yelped with pain and surprise. She tensed for another blow.
Instead of delivering another whack, his hand grazed the back of her right knee. His fingers skimmed her thigh up to where her ass still burned. Then he traced up her left leg, from her knee, over her ass, and to the small of her back. His index finger traced the line of her panties again, first on the left side, then on the right. Over and over again, his fingers traced up her thighs and along her ass. She focused on relaxing beneath his gentle touch, knowing that somehow the less she expected the next blow the better it would be.
SMACK!
She managed to contain herself to a whimper instead of a scream when the second blow landed on her left cheek. Now both sides of her ass smarted, but the left side was burning with fresh heat while the pain in the right side was fading.
