Confessions of a Kinky Wife - Page 23

‘I suppose so,’ I said ungraciously. ‘It’ll mean going into town after work though.’

‘Never mind, eh?’ said Dan, in a tone that I was starting to recognise as dangerous. ‘If you’d rather, I’ll get them to throw it through the area car window while I’m out chasing down a twocker. Would that be easier for you?’

I didn’t say anything but flung the card at the hall table, not botheri

ng to retrieve it when it missed and fluttered down to the floor.

‘I’m considering issuing a warning,’ said Dan. ‘You need to calm down. It’s a minor inconvenience, not an outrage.’

What was a bloody outrage was the way he thought he had the right to lecture me.

Oh. But I’d given him that right, hadn’t I? I wanted him to work with me on minimising precisely this kind of overreaction. But in the heat of my irritation I couldn’t find that headspace and instead I sulked and flounced around the kitchen, banging pots and pans when I emptied the dishwasher.

This seemed to do the trick and, by the time he came in to help me prepare dinner, I was all smiles and ‘how was your day?’ again.

So I got away with that one.

Or so I thought.

Today was hot – the hottest day of the summer so far – and lunch at the lido was looking very, very good. I grabbed a sunbed, slapped on the lotion and settled down, waiting for the café waiter to come out with my order of a crab salad and a glass of sparkling orange juice. This was the bloody life, no two ways about it. Splashing from the pool, warmth on my skin, pure chill-out away from the city stress …

Oh, shit. I sat upright. I was supposed to go and pick up Dan’s parcel.

Ugh. I was supposed to pound the burning concrete all the way up to the sorting office, sweating like fury, and then lug the thing – which could be any inconvenient size or shape – back. And eat lunch. All in one hour.

It was too much to ask. He’d have to wait. Why couldn’t he have it redelivered, some time when his shift pattern allowed? He was unreasonable. It was not my job to run around after him. Etcetera. Ah, here was my crab salad. Yum.

Well, maybe I could pick it up after work. Except the office, I dimly recalled, closed at four. There definitely wasn’t time now. I had to get back a bit early to set up the mock job interviews I was running.

I tried to forget about it, tell myself it would be OK, I could do it tomorrow, but the crab salad didn’t go down quite as well as I’d hoped because I was suddenly very nervous, in a gastric kind of way.

Deep down, I knew that I hadn’t ‘forgotten’ to pick it up. I’d deliberately chosen to go to the lido instead. The question was, should I tell Dan that? Or should I pretend it had completely slipped my mind?

This dilemma kept demanding that I wrestle with it between mock interviews, all afternoon. It was tough pretending to be the boss when I suspected I might be spending the evening with my knickers around my ankles and my bottom on fire.

I made my final decision in the ladies’ toilets at the end of the session. I wanted Dan to know the extent of my defiance. I wanted him to punish me.

I was going to tell him.

I was almost too anxious and excited to keep still on the bus home. It was so hot that I could imagine the window frames and fittings melting around us and I shifted my damp thighs uncomfortably on the fuzzy upholstery, wondering how much more uncomfortable they might feel tomorrow morning. This thought was disturbingly arousing and I hoped my fellow passengers, wedged up against me on both sides, couldn’t smell anything untoward.

I found myself wondering if anyone else on this bus was in for a spanking tonight. What about the bored-looking young woman in the office suit, texting away? Was she trying to plead with her partner to be lenient with her? Or the middle-aged hipster with the sideburns and the sweary T-shirt – was somebody going to put him over their knee for being provocative in public? Or perhaps they were doing the spanking. The woman with the half-dozen shopping bags at her feet looked as if she might wield a mean strap.

By the time we reached my stop, I’d involved practically everyone on the bus in my secret world of fetish. I felt a bit guilty about it, to be honest, but it was so much on my mind I couldn’t think of anything else.

Dan wouldn’t be home till eight, so I made sure I had his favourite meal on the go and a glass of wine poured, soft music pouring from the speakers, and so on. Not that he really likes soft music. So that was probably not the best idea. The visible stockings, promising interesting underwear at the top of the suspenders, were sure to stand me in good stead, though. Distraction was always a good technique.

He might even have forgotten about the parcel.

But no, if he had, I was still going to bring it up. Otherwise I would feel that I had wasted all this effort, somehow.

‘Hey, hey, hey, what’s all this?’ he wondered, walking into the living room and sniffing the air. ‘Mexican steak?’

‘Your favourite,’ I purred, standing in the kitchen doorway in the most siren-like pose I could muster.

I wanted to laugh at the instant suspicion that clouded his eyes.

‘Have I forgotten something? An anniversary or birthday?’

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