Are there any rules to what we do?
Not really, except what we make as we go along.
Like, when you get one red rose at work, saying meet me at home for dinner. You wonder why i would send you a rose for something so simple as that.
I meet you at the front door, wearing my black suit that says "connected."
You wonder what the special occasion is, but i say, "there isn't one, except for a wonderful night out."
You shiver a bit in anticipation (or maybe the rain is really to blame).
You get changed into something slinky, making sure I see you taking OFF your panties before putting on your dress.
Hah! You think you are going to run tonight, do you?
As we go out the door, you smile knowingly, and stop, when all you see in my eyes is blankness.
I'm doing poker face well, for once.
We get in the car, and drive to to the Old City Hall. The valet takes the car, and I tip him then. This night is one in which I am throwing money around, spending lavishly on the woman I love, and making sure we get good treatment everywhere we go. We walk around the corner to one of the corner bars, and as we enter, the bartender is already pouring two drinks: Tanqueray and tonic for you, a dirty martini for me.
You wonder at this, but realize I must have set this one up before hand. Little do you really know, my pet.
We sip our drinks, and have a second one. Both feeling just the slightest glow, I decline a third, as we have dinner reservations . . .
We walk back to Old City Hall, and go into Maison Robert.
"Right this way, if you please . . ."
Reservations are wonderful, and I love the places that NEED them. This is the first time I have brought you to one of those places, and I know you want there to be more of them.
We are seated, and the wine steward brings out our favorite red, Ravenswood Zinfandel.
Now you are really impressed, first, that this place had it, and second, because you know I only bring that out for good parties or nice picnics in your living room . . .
As you sip yours, I reach into my pocket and bring out a small shaker box I have made.
"Look inside, but discreetly," I say.
You open it up, and inside is a small packet of lube, and the vibrating plug we saw at the toy store a few days ago. The one you talked about getting for either one of us. A piece of paper says "you know where this goes. The powder room is just around the corner from the host's desk. Hurry back!"
to be continued . . .