Tuesday is not "Sex Day." It's not like we sat down and had a discussion and scheduled it in our phone calendars, a little recurring appointment with a secret code name, "Tuesdays: Berry Picking, 9PM". And we certainly have sex other days. Tuesdays just sort of...happened.
I'm a Team Lead at Target. As something of a night owl, I stay up late whenever I can, and because I I have a closing shift on Wednesdays, Tuesday nights I can.
For David, who's scheduled weekend is Sunday-Monday, Tuesdays are the start of his work week. His job pays pretty well, and his quarterly bonuses paid for the ring on my left hand which my sister described as "a boulder of bling" (it's not that big, she just has to tease because her dating life is, in her own words, like a shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat).
But the work David does for his bonuses is shit. The call center he works at is a collections agency. So by the end of the day on Tuesdays, he usually needs to unwind.
You see where this is going.
Yesterday was Tuesday, and I'm still mooning over it.
"Let me see that," My fellow Team Lead Chaz says to me. "Is that the planogram?" I quickly fold up the piece of paper I'm reading and cram it back into my pocket. Chaz is helping me condense the leftovers of the Christmas merchandise and set up the "Stuff Santa Forgot" display. The planogram is a printout of what goes where.
"Ohhh, I know what that is," they say with a grin. Chaz leans down to slice open the box of signage with his cutter. "Another love letter from your boyfriend?" They've worked too many Wednesdays with me to deny it.
"Fiancé," I say, feeling my face warm up. It's not actually a love letter. Much more simple than that. But the first time Chaz caught me daydreaming over a paper that wasn't on company letterhead, it was just easier to call it a love note than saying what it really was.
On Tuesdays, David gets home from work about an hour earlier than I do. Yesterday, when I got upstairs to change out of my work uniform, this note had been sitting on my side of the bed.
Priya,
I've been thinking about you all day...
And here's what I've been thinking. After your shower, put on:
Short skirt (over the knee, your choice)
T-shirt (your choice)
Your cat-ear hoodie
Your blue stripe thigh-high socks
Panties that go with socks
Then come meet me in the kitchen.
Love you My Beloved,
-Your Beloved
It's not uncommon for him to do something like this, but it still gave me butterflies. When I'd gotten home, we'd embraced and asked each other about our days. David hadn't given any hint that he already had plans waiting for me upstairs. He's the good kind of sneaky.
It's not much, but I'll reread my little instructions at least a dozen times at work today. I have coworkers who smoke, and when something stresses them out, they'll say things like "Ugh, I need cigarette." But if a customer bitches me out, or if I have to cover because Jesse calls in again, I'll just find a quiet moment, pull out David's note, and that's my little pick-me-up.
I never used to wear thigh-high socks. I've never been a huge fan of my body. I certainly never enjoyed showing off what some asshole in middle school gym class called my "thunder thighs." Before I met David, my entire wardrobe could be described by the word "baggy."
I still struggle, but when David dresses me up like that--and the expression he has when he sees me--well, let's just say that he looks at me through much kinder eyes.
Revisiting his list, I see the thought he puts into it. It's the beginning of January. The blue stripe socks are one of my thicker pairs, and they keep my legs warm when the only other thing I have on my lower half is a skirt that barely covers my butt. They stay up without a sock garter and also aren't so tight that I feel like I'm squeezing my legs into a sausage casing. David also knows how much I hate wearing a bra, so when I'm home, he never makes me wear one. My cat-ear hoodie is warm too, so even though he had me dressed for his desires, I was also perfectly comfy.
After I showered, I tried to put a similar effort into assembling an outfit that would be to his liking. To go with the socks--which were two tones of blue in alternating horizontal stripes--I picked a pair of panties that was close to the lighter blue and also happened to be trimmed in a powder pink that matched the color of my cat-ear hoodie.
For my t-shirt, I picked a simple white one with a blue logo on it from some 5K walk years ago. David would be happy with that. He likes all my t-shirts. Or more specifically, he just likes t-shirts. He says that a t-shirt and panties are what he considers lingerie.
For the skirt, I waffled a little bit. I rarely wear anything other than pants if I'm going out of the house, and would never wear a short skirt in public. But when it's just David...
I was in a good mood, I guess. I dared to look at myself in the mirror and chose the shortest skirt I have: a plain, black, ruffly one, David's favorite. Layered under the hoodie, it looked like barely more than a bit of fringe. Even pulled low down my hips, I barely needed to bend for the blue and pink of my panties to peek out.
And so I went out to the kitchen as instructed.
David got up from the living room sofa and came to kiss me. I don't know how, but he has this way of smiling and gliding toward me that makes me feel like I'm his prey and he's stalking me, ready to pounce. I could only stand there and wait, a deer transfixed.
He enveloped me in a tight hug around my waist, and his warm tongue in my mouth had me salivating as if to set the tone of the entire evening.
"Mmm...what sounds good for dinner, Priya-berry?" He said, hands still on my hips.
"You." I said. We both knew I was going to say it. This conversation is practically a script we follow.
"Yes, but if we jump right into that, we'll get distracted by our stomachs growling."
"But it's what I want."
He kissed me again, this time just on the lips, then broke our embrace to look in the fridge.
"We still have some leftovers from Christmas," he said.
"Oof," I said, coming to stare at our options with him. "No more stuffing for at least a month."
"Really? No more stuffing?" He grinned. I stuck my tongue out at him.
After nearly ten minutes of debating and being indecisive, we settled on breakfast for dinner: omelettes and English muffins.
If we have a meal that requires anything beyond just chucking something in the oven or the microwave, we cook together. In this case, that meant David cracking eggs while I chopped an onion and some broccoli. Then he governed the frying pans while I loaded the toaster. These were our roles, our little dance. David finished the omelettes, slid them onto plates, and brought them to the counter where the toaster had just popped. I started buttering.
"Need some stability?" he asked, stepping behind me.
"Always!"
A silly little thing we do, but "providing stability" meant that David pressed his front against my back. He slipped his hands under my skirt, caressed my hips, held me as firmly as if he truly did mean to make me more stable. But if anything, the effect made me a little shaky-legged. I couldn't help but let out a small moan.
And when he gave me a few kisses on the back of my neck, well, I was just glad that the only thing in my hands now was a butter knife. Anything sharper and I'd be afraid to let myself be so deliciously distracted by the tingling sensations he sent down my spine.
Somehow, I finished buttering, and we went to the living room. We turned on an old season of Iron Chef and sat down to eat. Don't judge us! Couches and old reruns of cooking shows, that's dinner at home for us. It would feel weird to do anything else.
We finished eating and let a second episode play as we digested. I sat on the long side of our L-shaped sectional and he sat on the short side so we could both lounge with our legs up.
Sitting in those spots, I was extremely aware that he had an excellent view of me, a view of exactly what he wanted to see by putting me in such a short skirt. I can't tell you how it feels to me, feeling those eyes that I love and trust looking slyly at me with that hunger. He acted like he was stealing glances, but we both knew they were freely given. I shifted my legs, squirmed a little, teased him, let him see a little more, a little less.
I don't know if he knew it, but I was admiring him too. I'm less visual than he is, so his clothing isn't quite as important to my arousal. He wore Christmas pajamas of a red and white plaid with a plain black hoodie, one loose enough that I could see he had no shirt on underneath it. He looked comfy too, ready to snuggle and have my face buried in his chest. But more than what he looked like(A vaguely Christmassy teddy bear with glasses, a beard, and a ponytail) I admired him. I admired his expressions, his smile with the one dimple on the left side, the little laughs he might make at Alton Brown's commentary. The flush in his cheeks when I spread my legs a little wider and immediately caught him looking. While I squirmed with purpose, he squirmed in reaction, adjusting his pajamas 'for comfort.'
I'd only had the ring on my finger for a few months so far and I hadn't gotten used to it. I felt it on my hand, spun it with my thumb. We knew fairly early in our relationship that I took more of a submissive role. His submissive, he sometimes called me, making his mellow voice extra low and gravelly.
But ownership works two ways. I'm his. And he is mine. We just show that in different ways.
