Love, Laughter and Happily Ever After: A Short Story Collection

by Daisy Prescott

  I roll myself up in one of the hotel robes before crawling into the down-covered bed. I feel like a marshmallow inside a giant jar of Fluff.

  I’m weightless, ageless, and carefree as I drift into sleep.

  It’s dark outside when I open my eyes. I hear the TV from the other room and Ben’s lowered voice. It’s Saturday, but the man never stops working.

  I vow to put his phone in the room’s safe for tonight. I stretch in my Fluff cave. My inner sloth debates whether we should get room service and stay in after all.

  One Saturday night.

  One.

  I get one Saturday night on this trip in Aspen.

  My inner twenty-something shouts at me. She’s very bossy, so I listen to her and crawl out of the warmth of Fluffland. I pad over to the door and listen to Ben drone on about reports and projections.

  I’ll take a shower, no a bath, and hope he’s off by the time I’m done. I check the clock and see it’s five. Plenty of time to soak for a bit.

  I’m surrounded by bubbles in the jetted tub when Ben walks in with a glass of wine for me.

  “Hi, sleeping beauty.” He hands me the glass and kisses my head. “Good nap?”

  “Hi, handsome.” His outrageous ski clothes have been replaced with lounge pants and a thin sweater. So much better.

  He sits at the end of the tub. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

  I swallow a cool sip of pinot noir. “Nice try. Dinner at the Jerome and then I’m not telling. Wear jeans. No clown suits.”

  “Should I wear a shirt?”

  I splash some bubbles on his leg.

  He jumps away. “Fine, shirt and jeans. I’ll be ready.”

  When I finish in the bathroom, Ben is sitting on the sofa in dark jeans and a charcoal gray shirt with the cuffs rolled up.

  I’m in leggings with leather tuxedo stripes and a flowy, coral pink blouse that stops at my hips. Underneath is a lace bodysuit with boning and built-in bra. From the outside it’s invisible, but I hope Ben discovers it while we’re out. Short boots and my black faux fur vest finish off the outfit. Ben pauses when he sees me.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in any room.”

  I smile. “I’m the only woman in the room, but thank you.”

  “I said any room. And I meant it.” He stands. I walk to him, wrapping my arms around him. In my boots, we’re closer in height.

  “I love you,” I whisper into his neck.

  “I love you, too.” His arms meet at the base of my back and he squeezes me. “Let’s go.”

  I grab my floppy black hat and a scarf as big as a blanket to wrap around my neck for the short distance to Hotel Jerome.

  As we walk through the charming streets of Aspen, a light snow begins to fall, dusting us both in large flakes. Ben stops in the glowing lights from a shop to kiss me.

  “What was that for?”

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “It must be the snow, but something about tonight makes me feel twenty-years younger. I want to kiss you in the street, push you up against the side of a building, and make anyone who sees us jealous.”

  His words cause my breath to hitch. He hasn’t spoken like that in years. It didn’t matter in college if we were alone or in a room full of people. We’d kiss and try to crawl under each other’s skin if we could, never able to get close enough.

  As tempting as making out in the snow against a building sounds, I’m beginning to freeze, so I tug him behind me down the sidewalk.

  Chapter 4

  “Where are we going?” he asks as I steer us down yet another street lined with brick buildings after dinner. It’s a little before ten and we’re tipsy from cocktails and wine. Laughing, I stumble on my heels, but he catches me before I can tilt toward the ground.

  I intertwine our fingers as we traverse the cobblestones along Hyman Avenue toward our destination. When Stan told me the name last night, I knew it was too good to pass up. Escobar, named for the infamous Colombian coke kingpin, was not only the hottest dance club in town, but also a tongue-in-cheek nod to Aspen’s own long history with South American snow.

  Ben seems delighted by the name, but a little wary of the ultra-hip club. He pauses outside as yet another gaggle (school? pride? murder?) of snow bunnies giggle their way past us.

  I pull his hand. “Come dance with me. It’ll be fun. I promise.”

  He relents and pays the cover.

  We’re the oldest people by a decade, at least, but I don’t care. We find a tiny table and order expensive cocktails that aren’t half as good as Stan’s. Electronic dance music pulses in the small space. The small dance area is half-filled. Bodies grind with the pulsating beat.

  Ben extends his hand and we join the fray. It’s tight and we’re old, but I don’t care. I dance like I’m twenty and kidless. I dance like I’m seducing my date for the first time.

  We move like a couple who knows each other, but tonight our energy is different. I can feel an undercurrent of anticipation. I’m going to get laid tonight. Hotel sex laid.

  Ben’s energy has changed too. He’s dominant and territorial, touching me, moving against me in a way he never does anymore.

  Wearing the bodysuit all night has not been my best decision. It’s the kind of seductive lingerie that should be worn for the briefest period of time before being torn from the body.

  The lace is beginning to chafe a little. The boning pokes a rib. A big part of my dancing is finding a way to alleviate the awkward feeling of having a row of snaps across my vagina.

  Finally, Ben’s hands sweep over my hips and under my shirt. They pause for a beat.

  This is the moment. Will my self-torture be worth it?

  I sway my hips and place my hands over his, encouraging him.

  He moves higher, feeling the lace between our skin. His fingers sweep over the curves of my breasts and his thumbs circle my nipples. We’re pressed together so tightly, no one can see what he is doing despite being surrounded by people. The idea turns me on and I moan, tipping my head back and letting my hair sway behind me.

  His lips brush my ear and he says, “What’s this mischief?” as he pinches my nipples through the thin lace.

  I turn to speak into his ear. “Part of the evening’s surprises.” I nip the corner of his jaw before I lean back to see his eyes.

  They are half-closed and intense with desire. He roughly clasps my hand and draws it between our bodies to let me feel his hardness through his jeans.

  “Oh.” I exhale. I squeeze him and his eyes fully close.

  He narrows the small distance between us, trapping my hand. I stroke him as his palms wander beneath my blouse, down over my ass, which he cups, grinding himself and the snaps further into me. The sensation goes from unpleasant to oddly stimulating.

  The blessing of being forty-something is that no one pays attention to us.

  Ben and I are practically humping in the middle of this dance floor, and we’re invisible. More bodies crowd in around us, creating a wall between us and anyone seated at the bar and tables. I wonder if I were wearing a skirt, if we could have sex right here and no one would notice.

  As if reading my mind, Ben whispers into my ear. “We need to leave before I try to take you on a dance floor.”

  I need no further encouragement before I’m pushing through the crowd of hipsters and snow bunnies faster than a bargain hunter on Black Friday. We get our things from coat check and tumble out onto the street.

  This time he does press me into the cold brick of a building around the corner. It’s not private or dark, but we don’t care.

  Our kiss is messy and passionate, sloppy, and I couldn’t care who sees us. However, I have more planned for tonight than making out like horny teenagers in the snow.

  “Take me home,” I say between kisses.

  “That’s too far. How about the hotel?” He breathes warm air over my neck.

  “Deal.”

  We behave ourselves through the lobby and into the elev
ator, or so it would appear. Ben has his hand under my vest and traces lace patterns on my back.

  When our door closes behind us, he says one word that ignites me.

  “Strip.”

  I blink as he prowls toward me, backing me into the bedroom.

  “Now.”

  I shrug off my vest and pull my blouse over my head, exposing the black lace of the body suit and the boning of the bra. I kick off my boots before bending to slowly peel off the leggings. When all clothing is gone, I climb across the bed to where I’ve hidden the last surprises.

  Behind me I can hear him removing his own boots and clothes. He’s standing in his black boxer briefs when I turn around. His eyes widen when I lay out my purchases.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “A shop.”

  He blinks and reaches out a hesitant finger to stroke the suede of the small flogger. It’s petite, pink and looks harmless, but I know from the quick lashes the saleswoman did on my arm, it packs a sting. Next to it sits a mask and a pair of small clamps that promise to blow my mind. I have to admit, they kind of terrify me.

  “And the roach clips?” His eyes meet mine and I see excitement, but also confusion.

  “Not roach clips. They’re, um, for, um, mynipples,” I mumble the last two words together into one.

  “Really? Because I have pot.”

  “What? You do?”

  “Yeah, the guy at the ski shop told me where to buy it. It’s legal here.”

  “Wait, you have pot?”

  “You have deviant sex toys. The pot is seeming like the lesser of the two.”

  “How much pot? And since when do you smoke pot again?”

  “Just a joint. And I haven’t smoked in ages. But it’s legal here.”

  I flop on the bed. “You said that. So you want to get stoned?”

  “You want me to pinch your nipples and hit you with that thing?”

  I nod. “We can do both.”

  “Which one first?”

  I eye the nipple clamps. “The pot.”

  He hops off the bed and walks into the closet.

  “Can we smoke it in our room? I don’t want to get kicked out of The Nell for drugs.”

  “We’ll open the door to the balcony.” He nods toward the living room.

  I stare at him. We’re doing this. Like college kids.

  “Okay. But I’ll freeze.” I grab my fluffy robe and put it on. Ben dons one too and we turn into a snow-people couple.

  “Matches?” I ask.

  “Right.” He goes back to the closet and gets a lighter. We sit cross-legged in the open door to the small balcony, wrapped in robes. Not weird or obvious at all.

  He lights the joint and inhales, then coughs like he has coal miner’s lung. It’s not sexy, but it is funny.

  I laugh until he passes it to me and I do the same. “Damn.” I take a shallow breath to stop the coughing. “This burns.”

  He snickers and gestures for me to pass it back. He exhales a small cloud that billows over the railing and dissipates into the falling snow.

  After two hits, the floaty feeling I remember returns. I haven’t been really stoned since college. I giggle at nothing and he joins me.

  “What’s funny?” he asks.

  “I have no idea.” I laugh louder, tipping back into the room and lying on the carpet.

  “Do you want more?” He holds the glowing joint near me.

  “Just one more or I’ll be too high for sex.” I inhale, and keep from choking this time.

  I sit up to blow the smoke outside then hand the joint back to him. I flop back on the carpet, but roll to the side away from the cold air.

  I attempt to stand up by moving to all fours and feel the snaps of my bodysuit give way. It rolls up my torso like a window shade.

  It’s both horrifying and liberating at the same time.

  Laughing, I lose my balance and end up on my belly on the floor.

  “You okay?”

  I turn my head to see he’s standing over me. He’s closed the door to the balcony and put out the joint.

  I roll over and hold up my hand to get him to help me stand.

  “I popped my snaps.” I open my robe to show him, essentially flashing the mountain if anyone happened to be out there in the darkness.

  “What’s going on down there?” he leans toward me.

  If it weren’t for the tie of the robe keeping the bodysuit at my waist, it would be under my boobs by now. As it is, I’m pantsless in all senses and flashing my husband. I close the robe.

  “Nothing to see here. Let’s move along.” I turn around and try to resnap myself, but it’s super awkward due to the fact that I might be on my way to being incredibly stoned.

  “What was that we smoked?” I ask, my words sticking in my mouth like honey.

  “Marijuana,” he says with a straight face, flopping on the sofa and pulling me down on top of him.

  “I know, but was it military-industrial complex strength? Like from Nam or something?”

  “What are you even saying?”

  “I have no idea. I’m thinking that in about fifteen minutes it’s a good thing we have a bar full of complimentary snacks and beverages.”

  “That is a very good thing.”

  I lean my head on his shoulder.

  “Do you still want to have sex?”

  Sex! I’d forgotten.

  “Yes!” I jump up and run to the bedroom.

  I strip off the fluffy soft goodness (so fluffy) and the snapping lace torture costume. I struggle with getting it over my head and tip on to the bed face first. Before I can right myself, he stands behind me, his thighs brush mine.

  “Stay still.”

  I don’t really have a choice. I’m bent at the waist, face down in a fluffy Fluff bed with my arms and shoulders bound by lace.

  I wait for him to do something. And wait.

  Finally, I turn my head to see him standing there staring at my ass, the flogger in his hand.

  “Hello?”

  “I don’t think I can do this. I keep thinking of Monty Python and the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “That’s not sexy.” I frown, trying to scoot up the bed and lose the lace.

  “You’re the one who bought the torture devices.”

  “They’re adult toys. We’re adults. These are age appropriate.” I pick up the nipple clamps that do indeed look like roach clips, but why would anyone need connected roach clips?

  “You’re not thinking of using those on me, are you?” He covers his tiny man-nipples with his hands.

  I open and close the clamps like miniature alligator jaws. “I want to bite your nipples,” I say in a creepy Boris Karloff voice.

  “Why do you sound like Karl Rove?”

  “I’m doing Boris Karloff.”

  “No, but you’re doing a spot on Rove.” He chuckles.

  “Is it turning you on?” I lunge at his chest with a clamp.

  He shrieks like a little girl and dodges the petite maws of pain. “Not sexy,” he says from the other side of the room.

  This is not going how I planned. At all.

  I stand up, stark naked and walk over to where he’s sitting in the chair. “I’m sorry for the Spanish Inquisition and the Rove. Let me make it up to you.” I kneel in front of him, face level with his cotton covered penis. I stroke him, bringing him to life. I reach my hands under the waistband and tug away the fabric. He lifts his hips to allow me to remove his boxers.

  I cup his balls with one hand and roll them around like a gambler with a giant pair of dice.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh… I’m playing with your balls. They’re so fun. How do men not play with them all day long.” I make myself laugh. “Oh, wait, you do.”

  His hand stills mine. “You said something about a blow job?”

  I don’t remember saying anything, but I am on my knees making eye contact with his one-eyed-wonder. “Right, that.” I wrap my hand around his semi-ha
rd length and stroke.

  His eyes watch me. “Use your mouth.”

  I stare back at him. Oh, right. “Right. I’m getting there. Shaking hands first.”

  I lower my mouth to the tip and kiss it. He moans.

  I lick it like an ice cream from base to tip and he groans, but in a good way. I lick again and swirl my tongue around the top. This is fun. I smile and exhale a little puff of air over the tip before wrapping my lips around him and slowly descending toward the base. I suck and lick, kiss, use my teeth a little, and even blow, putting the blow in blow job.

  I crack myself up and try to laugh with a mouthful of Ben, and nearly gag. I go back to the ice cream licks for a while.

  “It’s not a popsicle,” he whispers.

  “There’s a reason it’s called a job, you know.” I swallow his length as much as I can stand, using my hand to cover the rest.

  “Mmm… that’s nice,” he says from above.

  I meet his eyes again and attempt a wink, which makes him laugh and bob in my mouth.

  I sit back on my heels. “I don’t think either of us is supposed to be laughing while I’m doing this.”

  “Or talking. Usually there’s a lot less talking.” He lifts my hands and pulls me up to standing.

  “I’m really thirsty now.” I walk, still naked, to the bar. I open a bag of tortilla chips, a tube of gummy bears, and a jar of almonds, and begin eating all three.

  “I thought you were thirsty.” He grabs my chips and eats one.

  “Right. Right.” I open a bottle of water, take a long swig, and offer it to him. I shove a handful of gummy bears into my mouth.

  “Still want to have sex?” he asks.

  I notice his erection has only deflated a little. He’s still raring to go.

  “Right. Sex. Let’s go.” I bring my snacks and water with me into the bedroom.

  We settle ourselves in the middle of the bed, like always. I roll toward him and he faces me. We kiss and I taste a combination of smoke and tortilla chips on his tongue. He rolls us over so he’s on top and slowly strokes me his fingers.

  “I think you like giving blow jobs more than you admit. I can feel how excited you are,” he whispers.