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Katy In Control by Grant Antrews – Sample

Katy In Control by Grant AntrewsChapter One


“There is something good in men that really yearn for discipline.” – Vince Lombardi

Katy had been working on a series of feature articles, a sensational ten-installment weekly extravaganza that would hopefully increase the paper’s circulation during the languid, humid days of late summer. “Ant Farm” she called it, an investigation into the underground sex industry in our city, the strippers, whores and pimps, the gay bars and “gentlemen’s” clubs, the porn shops and peep shows and massage parlors and online web sites, and she also took a close-up look at the city’s vice squad. “Ant Farm”: a fast-paced, busy, industrious village of hustlers and hardened, perhaps amoral workers all struggling like voracious insects, right under our noses. Katy had suggested the series to her editor and pushed it through the many layers of conservative bureaucracy that you would expect from a solid, century-old newspaper like the Philadelphia Times-Spectator. She had argued long and hard for her vision, for the chance to create a woman’s gentle exposé of the clandestine culture so ubiquitous in every city, the silicone-enhanced in cheap fishnet or spandex. The outcasts, supposedly losers and/or “perverts”, considered little more than vermin by mainstream society, but also an inevitable fixture of every city’s downtown culture. Who are these people? She wanted to know. How do they get into this business, and can they ever escape it? Wouldn’t everyone look up from the Jerry Springer Show to read a series of articles like that? Don’t all wives sometimes lie awake at night wondering, fearing that their husbands might be visiting some of “those” places? Katy’s goal was to strip away some of the mystery and also to expose the realities of life within this secretive aspect of society. Her articles had been appearing for weeks and were the buzz of the city.

I was especially concerned, but when the first of the articles appeared, it was so well done and entertaining that I had to be proud of Katy and everything she stood for. My wife had discovered and visited a local company that manufactured “marital aids”. Katy described their products as “soft, flesh-colored and pink vinyl carefully formed into probes and tools, the majority are anatomically correct human genital organs in sizes ranging from the fantasy-inspired to the grotesque and imbued with all the wonders of modern technology. They buzz, they blink, they vibrate, they squirt, and they guzzle.” She visited the company and spoke with management and the workers. “Do you have a research and development department? How do you advertise for help? I mean, if you put a want ad in the paper, what does it say? Are you paid on salary or piecework? What do you do with the seconds? Is there a family-oriented holiday party? What do you tell your kids you make at work?” She expected the series to run to eight or ten articles, and I wondered how she could possibly eclipse that first installment.

She had been completely absorbed in it for more than six months now, half a year. There were many nights when I had sat alone, watching TV, wondering where she was and if she was in any danger, hoping that her next focus might shift to the city’s bitter high school football rivalries or to the area’s challenging golf courses or vanishing cider mills that would soon be pressing another autumn’s harvest of apples. I wasn’t really comfortable with my wife wading around in a swamp of illicit sex, but I knew she was fascinated with the people she was finding and the culture that existed just below the surface of the city.

Looking back, this thing came into our lives at just the most opportune moment, when we could best appraise it and accept it into our everyday existence. We had recently sold the big colonial house in the fashionable upscale subdivision and moved into a quaint, almost rustic cottage, a secluded place with trees and flowers and a sweeping view of a rocky gorge. Katy loved the private swimming pool where she enjoyed sunbathing nude, and I loved the three car garage where I could fuss over my classic Corvette. “A house with identity,” Katy called it; warm, weathered, and woodsy, it was a cozy haven for two busy professional people. My businesses had grown, we were comfortable financially, and Katy enjoyed a solid career as a reporter and writer for the Times-Spectator. We had matured, and now we were able to enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Perhaps we were just ripe for it, almost too comfortable, too young to be so settled. Maybe we needed something exciting, something colorful to stimulate us both physically and mentally. We were overachievers, workaholics, rushing through life from deadline to deadline and one month end financial statement to the next. We thawed our evening meals in the microwave, spread our holidays over a series of three day weekends which were usually spent maintaining the house, and we made love on Sunday mornings as regularly as the recorded church bells pealed in the village. Maybe we just needed something new and exciting at that moment, and Katy recognized it in the least likely circumstances. A good reporter brings no biases to a story, of course. She told me later that she had been turned off at first, in her rich Talbot’s and Donna Karan and Chanel, her Fendi hose and La Perla lingerie. She thought she was viewing squalor as might a tourist in Tanzania or Bangladesh, gazing down into the gutters and seeing it all clearly but able to imagine almost none of the reality of these people’s lives. It had not been easy for her to hear her subjects clearly, to access their goals and needs and to appreciate how hard they worked to succeed in their chosen professions.

Katy had conceived of this series and had struggled to gain its approval. From the first, her concept had been to expose the basic humanity of the sex workers, to accentuate their familiar motivations and attitudes. She wondered if a stripper or hooker could go home after a night’s work and be a good mother and neighbor. She found, of course, that these people had constructed elaborate barriers between their professions and their private or family lives, and it often took a few meetings before Katy gained their confidence. To my wife’s great credit, she accomplished that delicate task, and her series was hugely successful because she had very skillfully and compassionately encouraged her subjects to display their naked emotions, dreams, and fears.

We were having dinner at Eduardo’s, sitting ‘way in the back’ at a private little table decorated with a stereotypical red and white checked tablecloth, a bud vase with a single scarlet carnation, and a matching candle.

“Honey,” she said softly but seriously, “I need to talk with you.”

I had met Katy seventeen years before in a locker room. I was playing defensive end for a visiting NFL team, and we had just severely trounced the Philadelphia Eagles in a key playoff game. Most of the local reporters were crowded into the Eagles’ locker room, but Katy was looking for a different twist on the story. I came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist and found her near my locker, interviewing two of my teammates. One of them unceremoniously toweled himself, exposing all his manly attributes, and Katy’s chatter seemed to break up a little bit as her eyes repeatedly darted to his ample endowments. I wasn’t really looking to harass the pretty lady, but in some wicked way I found the scene amusing, and as she moved closer to ask me a question, I unwrapped my towel and began to dry my back. Of course, my front was fully on display, and I saw her eyes dart to my male parts. She struggled to compose her question, stuttering slightly, and I couldn’t suppress a smile. She was the wide-eyed all-American girl on assignment to gather information in a NFL locker room crowded with boisterous, naked men. A country girl, I thought, serious about her work but vivacious as only a country girl can be, with freckles on her cheeks and flashing blue eyes that mirrored her great delight with life. When I stepped into my underpants, she actually sighed. Her eyes were beautiful, sparkling, and lively, and her questions were insightful. I took some extra time to give her a quality interview, and then I asked for her phone number.

I was playing for a New York team, and Philly wouldn’t be a long drive from my home. The young lady was incredibly pretty, with a quick, agile mind that excited me as much as her physical attributes. She had a great sense of humor and a gentle but insistent manner that I found intriguing. I was sure her article about the Eagles’ loss would be the best in all the city’s papers, and I was determined to read it. I found a piece of paper, jotted my address, and asked her to mail a copy to my home, and the smile that came over her set my hormones racing.

Love at first sight? No, but she had certainly caught my eye. Lots of pretty girls threw themselves at a “star” NFL player, but this woman’s reserved, professional manner in a hostile locker room surrounded by nude men had earned my respect. She was bubbly and joyous, clearly enjoying the glimpses of naked male parts and strong, muscular men, but never letting those moments get in the way of her journalist’s task. Having fun, she kept a cool focus upon business. The more I noticed her, the more I became aware that she was beautiful, sexy, and fascinating. I immediately wanted to spend an evening with her, to take her to dinner or a movie, to get better acquainted and watch her relax and see her laugh unrestrained. I would buy her a nice meal and fine wine, and if things went well, I would take her to bed and enjoy an athletic contest that would establish my team’s dominance over Philadelphia once and for all! I jotted my information on the slip of paper and passed it to her, blushing like a kid, and later that evening, she called me. We talked for over an hour, everything went well, and we made a date.

I drove down to Philadelphia and met her at a restaurant she had chosen. There were awkward moments at first, but she was beautiful and witty and we clicked. We had lots to talk about, and she laughed easily. In some uncanny way, Katy seemed to know me, to understand, and our conversation soon turned personal and meaningful. By the time we finished our desserts, I was treading carefully, not wanting to offend this fascinating woman. I wanted and needed to see her again, to share more of the magic that had surrounded our table that evening.

Outside, alongside her car, I leaned close to plant a light kiss on her cheek.

“Aren’t you going to try to seduce me?” she asked.

I could feel a blush heating my face. “Not tonight,” I whispered. “Tonight has been too special. I want to see you again.”

She smiled coyly and winked at me. “I’ve been fantasizing about your cock ever since I first saw it. Do you think someday I might feel it inside me?”

I was stopped dead in my tracks. “Yes… yes, of course!” I was stammering, utterly confused. She had been such a lady all evening, I was shocked. “I… I would really like that, you know. But I don’t want to go too fast and… make you uncomfortable.”

Now she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “You aren’t so tough!” she whispered, and I felt her hand slide across the front of my trousers. “Call me soon.” She threw her arms around my neck and hauled me close, and she kissed me long and hard on the lips, her body writhing all up against me. Then she broke the kiss abruptly, took her keys from her purse, and got into her car. I heard the engine come to life, and then she was scribbling something on a slip of paper, and the electric window came down.

“This is my private cell phone,” she told me, her eyes full of emotion and promise. “I can’t remember a more wonderful evening, David. Please call me soon.” The window closed and she drove away.

Six weeks later I played in the Super Bowl. I flew Katy to Miami, where she sat next to my parents, and they were delighted with her. Unfortunately, we lost and I was destined to live my life without a Super Bowl ring.

In the third game of the next season, a hulking offensive tackle fell on my left leg and the fibula snapped. My football career was over. Katy flew to San Francisco and stayed with me throughout my hospital stay, and when I was able to be flown home, she accompanied me, fussing over me like a mother hen. There were long months of physical rehabilitation, long nights of pain and despair. Where would my life lead me? Katy believed in me and encouraged me. As soon as I was able to get out on my own, I bought a diamond ring. I wasn’t able to get down on one knee to propose, but it worked out.

I bought a sporting goods store near Philadelphia and moved closer to her job. We were married in a traditional church ceremony, and I met Ralph. Ralph became my right-hand man, almost my business partner, and my business took off. Soon, I had a chain of seven stores surrounding Philly, and all the requisite distractions. My day was filled with emails and faxes, frantic cell phone calls, and meetings with vendors, lawyers, advertising people, clients, and old fans. I sensed an opportunity with electronics and opened a store selling all the latest electronic gadgets, and that succeeded far beyond our expectations. Soon, I had nine electronics stores, mostly in area malls, and my phone never stopped ringing. Thankfully, neither did the cash registers! We lived comfortably, Katy and I. We tried to have children, but it never happened. We established a core group of friends, she played tennis and I played golf, and the years passed.

We enjoyed a very conventional, good life in the suburbs. A hard worker, she pursued her career as a way of enhancing the city, striving to describe the many neighborhoods and personalities of Philadelphia and the rich, historical culture of the area.

That night at Eduardo’s, I knew some kind of dilemma or turbulence was bubbling under her cheerful facade. Something had been bothering her, occupying her thoughts. I had sensed it coloring her world for a while—weeks—and building in its intensity, but I also thought that it was somehow kind of uncomfortable for her, so I didn’t pry. She had been spending a lot of time and energy on her series of articles, and I knew she had been seeing some very disturbing things.

Katy could be a sexy tart in our bedroom, but she kept our private moments hidden there. She dressed conservatively but always in a most feminine manner. I suppose a new acquaintance might describe her as a beauty, but Katy is more cute than glamorous, a sparkling personality in a wholesome, blonde housewife package. Most men find her sexy, but in a very discreet, all-American way. Athletic, lean, and deceptively strong, Katy had dominated the women’s tennis competition at the club for years, and I know the men went crazy over her appearance in a little white tennis dress or a swimsuit. They envied me, of course, and I was always very proud to be seen with my wife.

That night at Eduardo’s her eyes were enormous, measuring me. She had asked me to go out and suggested dinner here, where it was quiet and we could talk. Every husband knows, when the wife wants to “talk”, trouble is brewing. Katy seemed apprehensive, even frightened, and I was concerned.

We were completely alone in the back of the restaurant, and I leaned across the table to be close to her and whispered. “What’s up?” Her eyes rushed to me and then just as quickly away, and I smiled, trying to encourage her.

“I need to talk with you. I’ve needed to for a while.” She pawed at her salad with a fork and nervously sipped her white zinfandel.

“Okay.” I tried to sound loving and available.

“You know my series.” She whispered, arched her shoulders forward as if huddling close to me, although we were necessarily separated by the corner of the table. “Well, David, I’ve discovered something. I know, everyone just assumes that everything I’ve looked at is tawdry and dirty and dangerous. A lot of it is all of that, but then I stumbled onto something that I think is… well, kind of nice, exciting, but in a funny or unique way. It appeals to me, and on the surface it seems bizarre, but it’s very stimulating to me.” She stopped, sipped from her wine again. Her eyes avoided mine, although they were alternating between hiding under lowered lashes as she studied the napkin on her lap and frequent, desperate glances around the restaurant to be sure no one could overhear her.

She took a deep breath and raised her eyes as if to flirt with me. “Exciting, for lack of a better term. Hot and sexy and passionate. I need you to trust me, to dare to explore a little with me, darling. I need you to come home early once in a while and crawl out of your businessman’s identity and play a role for me. Maybe a lot of roles, while I play some unfamiliar roles myself and explore my own fantasies. I need you to trust me and experiment with me and be daring and accepting. It’s very difficult to explain it all at this point, but I am so excited and my imagination is racing, and I want to explore where it’s taking me. With you, sweetheart! I have uncovered a range of feelings and impulses that I need to explore, but not in any way that would jeopardize our relationship.”

“I love you, David. I want to go back to the times when we first met, when you sat and talked with me until the wee hours and listened to me. We’ve both been too busy, darling. We don’t share enough, we don’t communicate. I realize that we’re both guilty. We both take it for granted that the other is comfortable and satisfied, and we don’t hear because we haven’t taken the time to really listen. Not really. We need to work on our relationship and enjoy each other to the maximum again. It’s, well… it’s necessary. That’s why I’ve been so careful for a while, so frightened of what I’ve been feeling and so terribly unsure how you might react. I’ve struggled, hoping there might be an easier way, but you are my lover, my romantic interest, and my life’s companion. You used to be eager and fearless, and I was the reluctant, virginal little good girl.” Her voice trailed as if she was remembering the early days of our relationship. She looked up at me, and her eyes seemed to be studying mine, looking deep into my head and heart to see if it was safe to go on.

“You have always been the sexiest woman on the planet,” I whispered, smiling, trying to offer encouragement and love. What could it be? Katy’s hand slipped across the crowded table and gave mine a squeeze.

I recognized what she was saying, to some extent. We had become older, busier. There had been the demands of our careers, and then there were always repairs needed on the house, mowing the lawn or raking the leaves, our active social lives, and of course, my golf and her tennis. Saturday evenings we went out to dinner or a movie, and the next morning we would each read our individual sections of the newspaper while we nursed a couple of lazy, laidback cups of coffee, and then we routinely made love in a scripted, carefully comfortable way before we got busy with chores and errands. We urged each other towards our separate climaxes, and sometimes they erupted at the very same moment and we laughed, but more often one of us came first and then nursed the other one along. My head reviewed all of these facts in the few moments between her sentences, and I wished we could be twenty-something and newlyweds again, but I knew it could never be.

And yet, the unusual thing was that Katy was initiating the conversation this time. She had conceived of this series of articles; she had painstakingly researched them, and she had discovered something. I suppose some guys might have been threatened by that, but I was intrigued and more than a little titillated. What sensual pleasures had she uncovered, and how would they affect me? Us?

She sipped her wine, lingering, soaking in its tart essence as she contemplated her next move. “David, before I get too deep into this, please promise that you’ll listen with an open mind.” Her eyes told me she was sincere and frightened.

“Of course.”

“Honey, I met a lot of people researching my series. All kinds of people. It was kind of like going away on vacation. I could visit and sightsee and then come home and leave all the places and the people behind. Then, well, I met a person I really liked…”

Perhaps my expression alarmed her.

“Oh no, no, I don’t mean like that!” Her voice became more urgent, insistent. “No, please. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to figure out how to talk with you about this, and I’ve screwed it up in the very first sentence. No, I’ve made a friend. That’s all. Another woman, a very educated, sophisticated, European lady. She has a husband but no children and a very successful career. She’s a college professor, and she is the most incredible gardener I’ve ever met. She’s into herbs and natural healing, she dances, she has written a number of books, and she has done lectures at universities all over the country. She would like us to come over and visit sometime for a cookout or something. So you could meet her and we can meet her husband Paul. I want you to make a special effort to do this and keep an open mind. I think they can be very good for us, darling.” All this had rushed out of her, and now she paused and sipped her wine again.

“Okay,” I said. “Of course.” I was a little wary.

Katy’s eyes seemed to be avoiding mine. “There’s more,” she said softly, and then she looked around to be sure we were alone. “Don’t you wonder how I met this woman while I’m researching the tawdry sex industry in our community?”

I admitted that I hadn’t put the two together.

“David, she’s a dominatrix! Secretly, I mean. Her professional name is Mistress Mary, and she has a studio, a dungeon, and she whips men for money. Important, powerful men! She wears exotic, bizarre leather and rubber outfits, and she has a huge clientele.” Katy paused, her eyes assessing my reaction. I waited, meeting her gaze, feeling a slight twinge of something familiar deep, deep inside but not wanting to go there. I had never allowed myself to access those thoughts throughout my relationship with Katy. My most personal defenses were up now, but I was merely curious, feeling no real emotion of any kind.

Katy looked down to her salad, spread creamy Italian dressing across the lettuce absent-mindedly, then whispered, her voice halting and breaking with emotion, “David, I’ve visited her and watched her work. I, well, I’m kind of fascinated by what she does.” Another furtive glance across the quiet room. She breathed deeply and sighed, her eyes reflecting something akin to terror.

I smiled, trying to encourage her. She went on. “Honey, it excites me. I find I’m bringing it home—the fantasies. I want to try it, to experiment. With you, sweetheart. I think it might be good for us. Maybe it’s just that I met someone really wonderful who took time with me and showed me what it’s all about, but I don’t think so. She’s such a wonderful person, and we’ve become such dear friends. She’s explaining things to me, David, and showing me, and it’s all so very exciting. I find that I react to it, that it stimulates me. Like right now, just hoping that you’ll love me enough to explore this with me. At this very moment, sweetheart, just discussing it with you, well, I’m very stimulated! Please say you’ll defer to my judgment this time, David. Please?”

There was a flushed, aroused look about her, a look I hadn’t seen in a while, and it intrigued me. I wasn’t sure what I should do or say, or even what I thought. I’ll admit that my first impulse was to retreat. I almost said, “But Katy, whips and chains?” And yes, there was a quick spark of excitement, of recognition, and I felt the first hint of a blush rising into my neck and face. I almost told her of my adolescent fantasies, a novel I had read long ago when I was young and inexperienced, just beginning to find my way with the potent sexual juices boiling through my body and mind. No, she would think her husband was a pervert. I had kept all that buried too long as I built a career as a sports hero and, supposedly, a role model. My private sexual fantasies had been kept secret for years, and I rarely visited them. I bit my tongue.

“You’re appalled.” It was a question in the form of a statement. Her eyes searched my soul.

“Katy, I love you, and I will do anything to please you. Let’s say I’m a little surprised. This isn’t like you. And maybe I’m concerned. Concerned for you, for our careers, for everything we have built together.”

“Okay,” Katy whispered, shifting gears to that incredibly cute, convincing attitude she often uses on me, her eyes coquettish as she seems to give in a bit but moves doggedly toward her goal. “I agree that it’s bizarre. I avoided the whole subject until the last of my series because I thought it was going to be too distasteful and sick for a mainstream daily newspaper. I arrived at Mistress Mary’s studio a little early for a lunchtime appointment and had the opportunity to sit in the lobby with a gentleman who was waiting to do his session. We chatted. It was like a light went on in a dark room, David. He was remarkably open, and when I said I wouldn’t use his name or any descriptions that might identify him to my readers, he was incredibly trusting and honest. I can tell you that he is an attorney with a very prestigious firm. In a few minutes he was going to take off all his clothes and be put into bondage and whipped severely, and he was nervous. He described his life, the model family, the huge house in the suburbs, the plush office with the fax machines and computer terminals and all the latest electronic marvels, just like you. He can’t go anywhere without his Blackberry. What’s missing, he said, is adventure. He drives a massive SUV and has a wickedly fast motorcycle he rarely gets a chance to ride. I couldn’t help but think of your Corvette, David. He has all the toys, but no adrenaline, no challenge to his authority. He wants to try snowboarding in the Alps or take his wife to a nudist colony. Anything to excite himself for a few minutes, to feel alive and daring again. Instead, he works seventy hours a week, wears Brooks Brothers suits, and goes to the dominatrix to be punished twice a month. He welcomes the challenge, the chance to pit his masculine endurance and courage against the helplessness and the pain. He says he comes away from a session feeling renewed, and his confidence is reinforced.”

She paused, watching my reaction. I sipped from my scotch and water, avoiding her inquiring eyes. I didn’t dare tell her that I was feeling aroused by this conversation or that her descriptions were stirring secret, private images in my head.

“I heard his words, David,” she continued, “and I recognized themes I’ve heard from you.” She paused to sip from her wine. “At the very least, darling, you’ve said we need to spice up our love life.”

“But I haven’t said I want to be whipped.” I winked at her. It was not an antagonistic statement, only a small impediment to her presentation. Without it, she would imagine that I shared all of her enthusiasm, which was so obvious, and I didn’t. Not then. I was concerned about our reputations. Or perhaps I was teasing? Drawing her out. How committed was she to this outrageous idea? Deep in my heart, I knew I might be tempted. A broad spectrum of troubling thoughts were bouncing and banging inside my head.

Katy pushed on, daring me. “A few days later, I met another gentleman. This man was much quieter, but you would know him, David. He’s a famous politician. You see him on the evening news all the time. He’s one of the promising, believable ones. I’ve heard you mention his name to your buddies.”

“You’re taking something a politician said to a reporter seriously? Now that’s pretty amazing!” I winked at her, trying to lighten the conversation.

“He must be very discreet. If that secret comes to light, his career will be over.” I wanted her to acknowledge the obvious. “Mistress Mary is very discreet, darling,” she whispered. It was a defining statement.

“Mistress Mary? Katy, if we play around with this, our careers could be jeopardized too!” I had to contradict her enthusiasm with some common sense.

She paused, took a deep breath, and sipped her wine. “Her professional name is Mistress Mary,” Katy whispered again, very seriously. “She’s originally from Austria and just absolutely beautiful and such a sophisticate. A conversationalist! She speaks, reads, and writes English, German, and French, and she can discuss classical art, literature, human psychology, botany. She’s so nice, David. Her husband is an executive in banking, a very accomplished, professional man. Very powerful and respected. He spends a great deal of time in Europe, France and England, and sometimes the Far East. I think he is involved in auto racing somehow, but you can ask him when you meet. I haven’t met him yet, but I adore Maria, and he must be special to be married to her. You don’t need to make any commitment tonight, David. Just promise you’ll think about it. Please. It’s very important to me.”

“Just a cookout in their backyard? No orgies or debauchery?” I winked again.

“Just a cookout and an introduction to a very interesting couple. You’ll like them, I promise. We can leave early, and I’ll listen to anything you want to say. Please?”

She took a forkful of fettuccine before it became too cold. I thought she was the prettiest, most delightful woman in the world. I loved her, and so when she looked up from her dinner and met my gaze, I nodded just a little and said, “Okay, but I reserve the right to be cautious.”

“So you will meet them with me?” Katy’s enthusiasm seemed to erupt! She stood up and leaned over the table to kiss my cheek, and she was animated and simply lovely. Her eyes expressed her delight as she sat down and rearranged her napkin.

“Of course I’ll meet them.”

She reached across the table, and when I responded, she put her hand in mine. “Oh, you’re a sweetheart! I’ll call Maria and set a firm date. I think she can explain things and allay a lot of your concerns.” She looked around the restaurant nervously, careful that her words weren’t getting too loud. We were quite alone.

Katy had always been a sexy woman, so full of joy and life that men just know that she would provide a spirited time in the sack. I knew. We had been married a long while. Katy was my life’s companion, my trusted confidant, my best friend. She could also be a terrific, exciting lay! And yes, we had become too busy, and that part of our relationship had suffered. Earlier I had seen the anxiety in her pretty azure eyes. Now I had agreed to meet her friend the dominatrix, and I saw her beautiful eyes gleaming with delight.

She was bubbling with enthusiasm, and it was inevitable that all of her desires would come tumbling out. “You know the other thing I want to ask of you, sweetheart.” She winked, playing the temptress now as she sought to win a jackpot. “I want you to cut back on your work, spend more time with me. You’re a success, David. Your businesses are wonderfully successful. You have managers you trust who can look after things when you’re away. I would like you to take Wednesdays and the weekends to be at home and spend time with me. It would be good for us in every way, darling.”

She had been asking for a long time, and I had been reluctant. She was right, my Blackberry was driving me crazy with messages all hours of the day and night. My managers were capable, and I trusted them. In fact, largely due to Katy’s coaxing, I had begun to consider scaling back my duties and sharing responsibilities with a couple of my management staff, maybe even giving them pieces of the business, making them partners.

The atmosphere around our table had changed. I lifted my glass and looked to Katy. “You’re right,” I whispered. “It’s not as easy as it sounds, but I’ll talk with the necessary people and try to start things moving in that direction.”

“Really?” Her eyes were on me again, searching me, but in a different way. She thanked me, her hand reaching for mine again. “I love you, David.”

“I love you too, Katy. I’ll make every effort, I promise.”

“On both ideas, David?” She was frozen, a fork suspended in midair.

“Of course, sweetheart.” I meant it. Yes, I would love to spend more time with her, and if the play got kinky, well, that might be fun!




* * *




Later, at home, I checked messages while Katy went upstairs. I made short work of my emails and hurried upstairs to find her standing beside our bed. Her back was to me, and I could see her discarded bra on the bed and her nightgown laid out and waiting for her to get into it. She wore only a sheer bikini panty, and she was beautiful. I went to her and put my arms around her from behind, startling her. My left hand was around her waist, my right around her torso to cup a naked breast, and my lips went to the back of her neck, a very sensitive area. She started, but immediately stood tall to give me access to all her charms, and her sigh let me know my attentions were welcome. I felt her nipple come to life, and she writhed as I kissed her neck and earlobe. My hand descended to the waistband of her delicate panty, but she squirmed away and turned to face me, then gripped me and rolled backward onto the bed.

My lips found her other nipple, and my hand managed to slip into the front of her panties. The thick pad at the edge of my palm was hard upon her golden fleece now, and she lifted her hips to meet the pressure. I stroked her, sliding that pad up and down on the glossy mat of her pubic fur as I kissed her passionately and cupped a buttock in the other hand. Katy seemed ravenous. She put her hands on my shoulders and urged me to take my ardor lower, and then her fingers in my hair guided my mouth to her core.

“I love you, David,” she whispered, and then, “Please me, darling, or I’ll spank your naughty bottom!”

I bent to my task, but secretly, I looked forward to the spanking that would inevitably come.

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