The biggest risk we ever take, this morning’s screaming-fest excepted, is on rare evenings when he orders me onto the dining room table—his centerpiece, he calls me. The view out the dining room window looks out over the very back corner of Mrs. Koslowski’s yard, where her garden is, but she usually stays indoors in the evening. There’s a little thrill to being told to climb up there under the chandelier and pose naked, posture perfect, while he reads and pretends to ignore me as I balance obedience, impatience, and fear.
We keep our kinks to ourselves, that’s the rule. We never bring it up with our friends, never even whisper a kinky thought at a party, never call each other at work with obscene phone calls where coworkers might hear.
I decided to call my husband.
“This is Dan.”
“I got three compliments on my posture today.” I could hear voices in the background. Men’s voices, women’s voices.
There was a long pause. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes. The first was Mrs. Jackson, you know the nice older lady who always walks that golden retriever puppy by our house every day? She lives two blocks from us, it turns out. She brought the little guy in to get fixed this morning.” I work mornings at the animal shelter, and every two weeks a veterinarian, Dr. Reed, comes in as a public service. I used to have a better job, but didn’t we all?
“We neutered the poor little bastard.” “Oh no.”
“Yes. It had to be done.” “So what did she say?”
“When I walked out to call her name and I crouched down to pet the puppy, she said, ‘My, you have such wonderful posture. You just don’t see that anymore. So graceful.’ I said, ‘Thank you! I work on it, you know.’ If she only knew how hard I work on it.”
“Mm-hm.” I could still hear voices in the background. “There’s more, I take it?”
“Yes. Dr. Reed complimented me, also.” Another long pause.
“Oh really.”
“Yes. He said I had amazing posture. That was all he said.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said, ‘Thank you…sir.’”
I bit my lip. I was pushing it. Dr. Reed wasn’t half bad looking, and Dan knew it.
“You said there were three.”
“I’m not sure you know her. Jenny McNeil, I know her from the gym. Gorgeous redhead?”
“ . . . No.”
“She brought in a little kitty.”
He didn’t say anything. I think he was still thinking about the doctor.
“She said she admired my posture, especially considering my shoes.”
“Which ones?”
“The black stilettos.”
He sounded almost indignant: “For work?”
“Not the ones we play in. The three-inchers. Still, though. She loved them. You don’t know her? Very pretty redhead, works out a lot, adorable little pussy . . . cat? Loved my shoes.”
I licked my lips and bit my lower one again, waiting for him to figure out what he could say at work.
All he could manage was, “Really.”
“Yes. I just thought you should know, maybe brighten your day at work. People really do notice my posture, thanks to you.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” “Bye, honey.”
Now it was his turn to wait. This was a thrill. “Good-bye.”
Who was I kidding—I was in for it.
My phone rang at exactly 4:45.
“Hello?” I said, as if I didn’t know his ringtone, his picture on my phone.
“Dinner in Heels,” he said. I felt a tightening in my stomach that I knew was not going to go away. Maybe I should have thought this through; neither foresight nor patience is one of my stronger virtues.
“Okay…Sir,” I said.
He hung up.
Dinner in Heels means just that: dinner served in nothing but heels. It follows a very precise, prescribed ritual that evolved over time, until it reached what my husband felt was perfection and so it has remained the same since. It is rare—maybe once every three or four months, about as often as the Kitchen Counter Encounter. But they’d never happened on the same day before.
I kneeled naked by the front door, a vodka cocktail in my hands, smell of fresh basil in the air. I was waiting even before I heard the garage door open. On these occasions, he likes to come in through the front door, Ward Cleaver–style, and walks around the house as the garage door closes. It’s more formal, somehow.
I straightened my shoulders as the doorknob turned, and he opened the door.
“Hello, husband,” I said, and offered the drink up to him, holding it above my bowed head. The ice clinked in my shaking hands.
“Hello, dear.” He petted my head, ran his hand over my hair, and took the drink.
“How was your day?” I asked, and bent down to untie his shoe.
He hesitated, and I knew there was tension—was it work, or me?
“Not bad,” he said, as he lifted his foot from the shoe that I held. “A few problems. Nothing that can’t be corrected.”
I untied his other shoe and couldn’t think of what to say. He pulled his foot from it, too.
“Smells good in here,” he said. “Is dinner ready?” I nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
I can only blame myself for having to call him “Sir” during Dinner in Heels. It is the only time I call him that—not even when he’s whipping me, disciplining my posture, making me come. (And now you see why referring to Dr. Reed that way got him so riled up.)
These rare nights of serving him dinner naked are the only times we mix daily life with our…thing, and it somehow makes it all the more intense, like I’m an actual slave girl. I once called him Sir, on my own initiative to see what he would think, and let’s just say he liked it.
He sat at the head of the table while I brought him his dinner on a little silver serving tray. I wore the five-inch heels, nothing else, and I kept my posture perfect, the click, click, click of my shoes the only sound as I exited the kitchen.
I always fix one large portion only, and I always keep it light and very neat—penne pasta, salmon maybe— because I am to kneel beside him while he eats, my back straight, and he feeds me off his plate. I don’t get as much to eat as usual, but I’m barely hungry anyway. My stomach is usually in knots doing this, and tonight it was especially so.
He always begins by asking me “How was your day?” and the ridiculous twist on domesticity, having such a mundane conversation while he slowly reaches to my open mouth with a forkful of pasta, is an exercise in anticipation, a lesson in patience, in waiting.
Tonight he didn’t say a word. He ate, and he fed me. My one consolation was that the crotch of his trousers, always swollen during this ritual, was stretched tight tonight as well.
His breathing was heavy. I ate the food he fed me, barely tasting the marinara I had cooked from scratch, without saying a word. Finally he was finished and decided I was, too.
“Clear the table, put the dishes in the sink. Then report back here immediately.”
Well, of course I would. What else was I going to do? I wanted to kiss his feet, suck his swollen cock. I wanted to apologize for the phone call.
“Yes, Sir,” I said. “Do not dawdle.” “No, Sir.”
“Up on the table,” was all he said as I stood before him. He looked up and down my naked body. This was not usually a part of Dinner in Heels, but this was a command, not a request. I stepped on a chair and climbed up in silence.
When I am not naked, I have opinions, often strong ones. But when I am, I speak only when asked a direct question. And I am perfectly fine with that. I will just go ahead and admit that right here.
I assumed the Dinner Table Position: hands and knees, legs spread, all the goods exposed, chin held high. I was his prize show dog. I raised my ass and head as high as I could, arching my back. I was going to get a whipping later anyway, for my prank, and I didn’t want to give him a reason to start early. My posture was perfect. I waited patiently (no, impatiently), felt t
he hard wood under my knees.
He stayed seated. He watched me carefully, waiting for any move, searching for any error in posture. He said nothing, didn’t pace around the table like usual, like I was some sculpture in a museum. He just sat.
I heard him dial his phone.
“Mrs. Koslowski? This is Dan, your neighbor. Yes, how are you? Oh, good. She’s good, too, thank you. Oh, really—no I hadn’t heard that, I hope she’s okay. Oh good. Good. Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
What the hell was he doing? Besides listening to our neighbor talk about her grandchildren, that is—god, that woman could go on. At least I knew this wouldn’t have anything to do with me posed motionless and naked on the table—private stayed private, that was the rule.
The rule I’d broken this afternoon.
“Well, listen, Mrs. Koslowski. The reason I’m calling, I’ve been noticing your wonderful garden, over the fence there.”
Oh, no.
“Yes. Well, you’ve got such a wonderful crop there, especially this late in the year. You really have such a green thumb. Oh, you’re welcome. Second crop, you say!”
He wouldn’t.
“I was wondering if I might be able to buy some vegetables from you. I noticed the yellow squash are looking especially nice. Zucchini? Yes, I’d love some zucchini. Oh. Well, now, you’d—yes. No, you’d have to let me pay you. You just can’t get vegetables that fresh even at the farmer’s market. No, I insist. Well, are you sure? Okay, then. You’ll at least let me trade some of my wife’s cookies for them. I’m sure we can work something out.”
He looked at me, I saw at the very edge of my vision— I was looking straight ahead, not moving a muscle.
“Are you busy right now? I could meet you at the fence. Okay, sure, I’ll come around, then. Be right there. And thank you!” He ended the call.
He stood, looking out the window at Mrs. Koslowski’s garden.
“It’s getting darker earlier this time of year, isn’t it?” he said, to me.
This was a question. “Yes, Sir,” I said.
He turned and smiled, a little. This was the first time I’d ever called him that after Dinner in Heels—had I just started something new?
He reached to the light switch and turned on the chandelier above the table, above me. The room was now brighter than it was outside, making me all the more visible from out there.
My only movement: my jaw dropped open. He was breaking the rule—what was this?
He must have been angrier than I’d realized, to risk not just a flash of my flesh but his entire reputation around the neighborhood—Mrs. Koslowski loves a good bit of gossip, and this would be, to say the least, somewhat interesting news.
He works in risk management, for crying out loud. Why was he going to such dangerous lengths to drive the point home, over such a silly little trick?
“Just so you know,” he said, “I couldn’t get up from my desk for a good fifteen minutes after your call. I was like a teenage boy. I ended up late for a meeting— my meeting. But I couldn’t very well get up there in front of everyone with my dick tenting my pants, now could I?” Question? Or rhetorical question? I couldn’t decide whether to answer him or not.
He turned on the recessed lights along the wall to brighten the room even more.
“Be right back,” he said.
If she saw me, she didn’t let on, which would have been quite a feat. Perhaps it was because I never once moved that she didn’t turn her head, open her mouth in shock. I watched carefully as she and my husband joked and gestured and talked about vegetables. I knew that he saw me; he looked directly at me several times. I brought my eyes directly forward each time.
He returned, set the basketful of vegetables on the counter and said, “I’d like another vodka tonic.” He went into the den in the back of the house.
I climbed down and made his drink.
The den is the only room we haven’t remodeled, all heavy ’50s ranch—stone fireplace, low beamed ceiling, big sliding glass doors leading out to the backyard. We had no choice but to decorate it mid-century modern.
He had a baseball game on the TV.
I kneeled to serve him and he pointed to a spot on the floor, and I knew that I was to stand there, at perfect attention, until he told me to stop.
This too was not entirely new. He sometimes has me stand straight and at the ready while he pretends to ignore me because he knows it drives me crazy and because he likes the way I look that way—shoulders back, tits out, as he’d say. The twisted incongruity, the casual obscenity of my nakedness versus the comfortable husband watching a ball game in such an old-fashioned room has always held a certain perverse, antiliberated thrill for us both, my increasing impatience and frustration a part of our game. At least the ball game was nearly over.
The game went into extra innings. He said nothing to me the entire time, only shouting out occasional frustrations or satisfactions at the players and umpires on TV. His team won, with playoff implications.
He turned the TV off and stood, walked to the wall and pulled the cord that opened the curtains that covered the big, double sliding doors. It was now completely dark outside, and in the interior light I was fully exposed to the outside world.
He wasn’t exactly parading me around the neighborhood. Neither neighbor could really see from where this room was set. But we had no privacy fence—anyone walking their dog behind our subdivision or still biking on the trails by the woods or, if their vision was truly sharp, driving home on the freeway off in the distance, could stop and watch as long as they liked. I was free for the viewing.
I wanted to cover myself and hide, but I held my place as I watched my reflection in the glass. I looked my own body up and down, as Dan had done earlier and was doing now: breasts, stomach, hips, thighs. He was right—a girl does look better standing straight than slouching. How’d he put it? All my assets properly displayed. I pulled my shoulders back a little farther— this was a punishment.
But then he turned, not saying a word, and went upstairs to our room, leaving me alone without telling me I could move. Oh, this wasn’t a punishment—this was just a big damn tease, was what this was.
Once again, it was my turn to wait.
I am waiting here still. It seems like hours, though it hasn’t been, and my feet are starting to hurt in my heels, but I am aching even more with desire. At least he is not one to leave me here all night—his crotch was as swollen as mine was wet. Is wet. I want to move my hand toward it, but my reflection reminds me not to.
I calm myself with the knowledge that his patience is also limited, up there by himself. There is a whipping or perhaps even a caning to be administered, which I know he is dying for because I can hear him pacing above me, and then he will fuck me into sweet oblivion as I hold still for it and then, yes, he will massage my sore feet.
I want to go upstairs to him, but he knows me too well. With any other man I’ve known, I would have quit this ridiculous pose long ago, demanded fair play, slammed the door of our room if he refused it, told him to sleep on the couch.
Yet here I am, at perfect attention, watching my own naked reflection for any slips in posture as I wait to be called up, while yearning for release from this torture of endless anticipation that I myself have caused.
How many women would marry a guy because he makes her stand naked while he watches a few innings of baseball and then leaves her to simmer in her own juices, ponder her mistakes?
This gal would raise her hand in the air, if she hadn’t been ordered to hold perfectly still until further notice no matter how insane it drives her.
You?
THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON
Valerie Alexander
Tell me what I want.”
The man in the black suit sits across the table with an impassive face. I’m on my first date of the night, a private session, and my first time with him. His handsome face is composed, his black hair laced with silver. He’s probably a wealthy execut
ive visiting the local biotech corporation. He’s not a club regular or that would have been noted on the date request. All Babylon performers get intel on the men and women who bid for our services, so we can decide if we want to accept or not. His only contained a headshot, a bid, and his sex requests. Private session, straight sex, some roleplay, bondage, Dom-switch. And because I like a bit of mystery, I accepted.
“You want me to crawl. You want me to beg for your cock.” These executive types usually need to feel worshipped for at least part of the session.
“And?”
His pale eyes are cold. But I know what he wants. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon is known for its beautiful performers: angelic-looking boys, heartbreaking girls. The club is also famous for its elaborate bondage and suspension performers—unusually flexible, able to be tied up in strange contortions for long periods. But I’ve become known as an expert Dominatrix as well. And despite the client’s patrician aloofness, I can tell he’s looking to grovel.
Outside our private lounge room, the club music is booming. I slide off my chair and get on all fours. My stockings will rip and my long hair hangs over my carefully made-up face, but I crawl around the table and look up at him like a pet jaguar who could purr against his knee or tear out his throat.
“And you want me to suck you like this.”
I push down my corset to show him my nipples. His eyes lock on my tits and he swallows visibly. Definitely an overworked executive in one of the top firms. Maybe he’s older than he looks, one of the customers who still aren’t used to brothels being legalized. The older ones have never gotten used to these fantastic new clubs where they can buy dazzling boys and girls to fulfill their dirtiest fantasies.
On to his zipper, where I’m rewarded with a hard, smooth cock. I suck his entire shaft into my mouth, undoing his last vestiges of control, and work him over until he’s panting—and then I jump to my feet, take his wrists, and swiftly lace him into an arm binder behind the chair.
Erotic Teasers Page 10
