I came home from work to an empty house, but found a sandwich in the fridge with a note toothpicked into it: "Out with the girls. Don't wait up." And then, like an afterthought, "Or maybe you better." She'd dotted her i's with hearts.
I shrugged and sat down to watch TV and eat. Good sandwich. TV was pretty lame, though. I kicked off my shoes and put my mind on hold.
I must've dozed off. Some idiotic infomercial yammered its drivel at me. I snatched up the remote and was halfheartedly hunting as her key hit the lock.
"Hi baby," she sang. "Miss me?" She was a little drunk.
"Oh, were you gone?"
"Beast," she replied, and came up behind the couch. She bent down and wrapped her arms around my neck and down onto my chest. "Whatcha watchin'?"
"Pretty much nothin'" I said. "Have a good time? With the girls?" I flipped through some more channels of crap.
"Mm-hmm," she said, and came around to perch on the arm of the couch. "We went to Ladies' Night at Captain's Cove." She was dressed for the office: matching gray wool jacket and pleated skirt, white silk blouse. She pulled off her sensible shoes and wiggled her toes in her white stockings. She must've made me that sandwich in the morning and gone out right after work.
She plopped down onto the cushion, so I had to slide over to make room. She put her arms around me and kissed me under the ear, then nuzzled my neck and slid three fingers under my shirtfront.
And then she was gone, and I heard her voice from the kitchen. "Did you like the sandwich?"
"Amazing sandwich, baby." I'd found a late movie.
Tarzan & His Mate.
Damn, but Maureen O'Sullivan was hot in her day. And this was the one, if memory serves, where Jane swims naked. Tarzan movies were pretty heavily censored after this one. Catholic League of Decency or something. Got their rosaries in a knot. Jane wore a much less skimpy leather outfit in the later ones, and never skinny-dipped again. Even Cheetah seemed less happy after that.
And then it occurred to me: Captain's Cove? Ladies' Night? What is it, Thursday? Yeah. They've got male strippers there on Thursdays. My wife had been—
"Daddy?" It was her voice from the bedroom.
"Mmm?" I answered. On the TV, English bounders in starched khaki safari gear were trying to talk Jane into coming back to London. As if! I muted the sound.
Hmm. She'd been out with the girls. Whoopin' and screamin' and stuffing bills down sequined speedos. That meant—
"Daddy. I've been a bad girl."
Then she was standing in front of the TV. She'd gotten rid of the gray jacket, untucked her blouse and unbuttoned it better than halfway down. A long string of pearls hung between the cups of a wispy black-lace bra.
"I've been very naughty."
The English bounders were showing Jane some fancy satin gown they'd brought her from London. I didn't give a shit.
"What have you done, Susan?" I rumbled as I killed the TV. When my wife called me Daddy, it merited my full attention. She'd backed up against the TV screen and I could hear the static crackle on the wool skirt. She chewed her lip and looked at the carpet.
"No, let me guess," I continued. "You've been out drinking mojitos and staring at naked men again, isn't that it?"
Her hands drifted nervously to her skirt and fidgeted with the hem, and I glimpsed, halfway up her thighs, the lacy tops of her stockings.
"ANSWER ME!" I bellowed, and she flinched, her eyes went wide and her breasts jumped and swayed inside the blouse. Then she flushed and her eyes ignited.
"Yes! Yes, I have! So what?"
I just eyed her with a cool, appraising stare. My look said that I wasn't so much angry as very, very disappointed. Her defiance ebbed away until she dropped her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she murmured, and pouted a little. "I've been naughty."
"Well, that's more like it," I said. "Come sit on Papa's lap and tell me all about it."
She brought her hand up to the necklace and traced the row of pearls down between her breasts with her fingertips. "You won't yell at me anymore?" she said, and her hand lingered on one of the three remaining buttons not undone. She shifted her weight to one hip. My God, she was a beautiful woman.
"Come here," I repeated, gently. She smiled and slowly walked toward me. It was more of a slow strut, really, all the more amazing because she was doing it in high heels—
when had she put on high heels?
—and she'd had a few pops at the bar. But then, she'd always known how to move. Graceful and sensuous, but not like some emaciated runway model. And that smile, like a sudden sunrise, like a little girl given a pony—and, I noted, like somebody who'd won the fight and gotten their way. Hmph.
Then she blew the illusion by teetering a little too far to the side on one of her heels and almost falling. I was tensed to roll up to catch her, but she recovered and we both laughed, but quickly had to get all serious again or we'd spoil the game. Tonight, apparently, she was in the mood to play Papa Spank.
Suits me...
She crossed to me and stood before me, feet on either side of mine. She looked down at me, eyes half closed, lips parted—
Well now, she's freshened her makeup, maybe added a smidge extra
—and I reached out and grabbed her shirtfront over her belly and pulled her down to straddle my lap, her knees on the sofa cushions, her throat within nibbling distance. I let go my grip on her blouse and unbuttoned the bottom button.
"Tell me about your night," I said. "Did you see lots of boys in skimpy shorts?"
That smile again. "Yes."
"And were they all very cute, with ripply muscles and six-pack abs and tight butts?"
She blushed again. "Yes."
"Were they all oiled up, and shaved like babies?" I asked as my fingertip circled her navel.
"Babies don't shave." She draped her forearms on my shoulders and stroked the hair at the back of my neck.
"Hush." I unbuttoned the next button up. "Did you pay them for dancing up close to you, with their skimpy shorts near your face?"
"Yes."
I traced the outlines of her hipbones with my fingertips. "You could see the outline of their junk, couldn't you?"
"Yes, Daddy."
I ran my fingers down and up her thighs, just above her knees. "Did you want to touch them?"
". . . Yes. But all I did was look."
I waited.
"But . . . but one of them, he . . . well, he pulled me up on stage . . . and, and all the women were screaming
Go on, go on
, and he . . . took my hands and put them on . . . on his stomach—"
"On his rock-hard abs?" I prompted.
"Yes!! Yes. And then he slid my hands w-way down his stomach and-and then around behind his back to his . . ."
"His rock-hard butt?"
"—and I grabbed it and squeezed. A little. And everybody screamed some more and I got flustered and sat down again."
"But you stuck a five in his speedo first?"
". . . . A twenty."
"A twenty," I echoed [we would have a discussion tomorrow], "down the waistband of his speedo—"
"It was more of a thong," she murmured. I watched her breasts sway as she took my tie off.
"—and his cock was semi-erect, and you thought it was for you. And all those other bitches wished they were you."
"Yes!"
"Did that make you hot?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Did it make you wet?"
She tossed her head, throwing her long hair back off her forehead, then lay her head back and brought her throat to my mouth. I took a little skin between my teeth. She sighed and said Yes.
"And you wanted to touch his prick," I breathed onto her neck. My hands were on her thighs, well up under the skirt. "Didn't you? You wanted to stroke it, feel it get harder in your hand."
"Oh, Daddy," she moaned. Her hands went again to her necklace, then slid down to clutch her breasts through the silk, pushing them up and together so the lush mounds spread the gaping fabric farther apart. I seized the collar of the blouse and slid it off over her shoulders and down her arms. The last button held.
"Didn't you?" I persisted.
"Oh, Daddy, yes!"
"You had filthy thoughts about some complete stranger's body, and all the things you'd like to do with it, and what you'd like it to do to you. Isn't that right?" I gripped her arms and shook her. A little. A crinkly brown areola peeked out of her bra.
"Oh, Daddy, yes! And I thought about it in the car afterwards; I couldn't stop thinking about it."
I pulled the blouse back up to cover her shoulders again. Her heavy-lidded eyes opened wide. "Just as I thought," I said sternly. "You're a slutty little whore."
She looked me full in the eyes for a moment, and her lips parted to speak, but all at once she looked down ashamedly and sagged back and down 'til her butt rested on my knees.
Barely audible:
Yes, Daddy.
"Speak up!"
"Yes, Daddy. I am."
"Yes, you are. You've been a very naughty girl, and you must be punished."
"Oh," she said. "Please, Daddy, no?"
