Β© 2008 Duelduet. All publication rights reserved.
Dear Reader,
When a man has all he wants in life, what do you give him for his birthday? A card is nice, something thoughtful written within. Perhaps a small present, a trinket for on his desk. Other things. Over the years, I've gotten a lot of nice things from those who love me. Some of them remembered. Some forgotten. The old cliche fits so well; it is the thought that matters, not the gift.
It is the thought that matters, not the gift itself. Yes, I repeated that on purpose. Here is a gift of giving. The giving of one's self to another. Submission. Many argue it is not so. Not a gift but a selfish act. They are fools. I say to them, and you, Dear Reader, that here is love. Read and know the love of my girl for me.
I confess I was a little shocked to read this. It made me ask myself, "Am I this man?" Perhaps sometimes. I hope not all the time. Claire made a point to me with this and I point it out so you, the Reader, might see it as I did. She has given herself to me. She is Mine. All Mine. Not for any other. I'm posting this in Romance for truly this is about love.
Claire wrote this for my birthday present. There will be no answering story like the others we've posted. How can one respond to this. I suppose I could but no, not this time. Here is a prize I will hold dear to my heart and not forget. A gift from her heart, from my Claire, my love.
I love you Claire, so much. Thank you,
James
*
You walk in to the mud-room, tired from your busy day. The smell of barbecued ribs fills the air and you sigh as your mouth starts to water. Quickly you get rid of your coat and boots and come into the living room.
I come out from the kitchen, nude except for a plain pink kitchen apron, my hair in a ponytail high up on my head.
"I'm so happy to see you, Daddy."
I have a tray -- scotch and a cigar for you to enjoy. I set the tray down on the end table, stand up on my toes, greeting you with a kiss and then indicate your favorite chair. You sit and I kneel at your feet, laying my head on your knees while I massage your feet. You lean back and close your eyes, letting go of the day while you sip your scotch.
Your stomach growls and so do you. "Where's my dinner, girl?"
"Right away, Daddy."
I rise slowly, showing myself off for you, twirling a little and you growl again, giving my butt a light smack.
"Well, get to it!"
I pad off to the kitchen, a little spring in my step. Moments later, I call you into the dining room. The lights are dimmed; I've lit candles and put out the best silverware. You sit down at the head of the table and I bring you a Blue, in a frosted mug. I go back, then return with your dinner, a big rack of steaming ribs. Golden corn gleams mellowly in the candlelight. I've done up a baked potato just the way you like it, all the trimmings. Suddenly you're ravenous and attack your meal like you haven't eaten in weeks. I also eat, not much; making sure your beer is always full, that you have enough to eat.