Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica Read Online Free Page B

scalloped edges, short sleeved, a thrift-store find passed on from a friend, which I’ve never worn. I hang it in the bathroom and start the shower. Under too-hot water I run my hand over my cunt, feeling the swelling of my labia. I’ve been turned on all day, taking frequent breaks from data entry to masturbate on my bed, thinking about begging for forgiveness under her hand.
    Stockings first, then garter belt, then panties. I slide slippers on over my seamed stockings and boil potatoes, slice tofu, rub a loaf of bread with garlic and olive oil. The timing of dinner is tricky. When it’s half-finished I fix my hair, change into heels, and put on lipstick and powder. She texts me when she gets off the subway. I spend five more minutes on the computer, then shut it down and return to the kitchen. I let myself make a mess, bang pots and pans around, get out the gin and a cheap pink cocktail shaker my sister gave me for my birthday. I’ve never made a martini before, but she’s a confirmed beer drinker and not an expert at drinking them, either.
    I hear her at the door, making more noise than is needed with her keys. I pour the drink with shaking hands and open the door. Seeing her, it’s hard to stay in character, hard not to throw my arms around her and ask about her day supervising the queer legal counseling line.
    “Hi, honey.” She takes the drink, cups my face with her other hand for a kiss. “How’s my beautiful wife?”
    “I, um. Why don’t I take your bag and you can have your drink in the living room while I finish dinner?”
    “It’s not ready?” Her face is taking on a dark expression, clouding over the jovial-husband act. But underneath all that is a wisp of a smile. I have to be careful not to laugh. The whole thing is so scripted, so trite. But these tired lines are a key to our desire, another path to having each other in exactly the way we need.
    I hold on to my nervous expression and look at my feet. “I burned the garlic the first time, and the potatoes took forever. It will be done in a minute. I’ll bring you the paper, okay?” Again, her expression wavers. Not trusting herself to speak, she grunts and hands me her bag and coat, turning toward the living room. I hang her coat in the bedroom and leave her bag at the foot of the bed.
    As we sit down at the table, the silence is electric between us. We’ve both been working all day and we need to eat, but we want to get on with this. I take a few bites, push food around my plate, make a show of nervous conversation, twirl my hair around my fingers.
    She slides her plate away and stands suddenly. “Come with me. You can clean this up later.”
    “Can I make you another drink?”
    “You heard what I said.” Her deliberate, harsh tone fills me with dread and anticipation. I follow her. She sits on the couch, martini glass on the coffee table before her, and pats the seat next to her. “This isn’t the first time.”
    “The first time what?”
    “This isn’t the first time you’ve been late with dinner. In fact, it’s more like the fourth or fifth.”
    “I’m sorry, I’m trying—” I begin, but she interrupts, her hand on my shoulder.
    “Listen to me. I work hard all day so I can take care of you. Aren’t you happy? Don’t I give you everything you want? I don’t ask much from you. All I want is for dinner to be ready when I get home. Is that so hard?”
    “No, but I—”
    “Is it going to happen again?”
    “No, I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”
    “I don’t believe you. We’ve talked about this before, and look what just happened. But I have a way to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
    I put my hand on her shoulder. “Please, sweetheart, I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
    “No, I said I’m going to be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Stand up.” I look her in the eyes and obey, slowly. I am so wet, both because I know what’s about to happen and because it’s so hot