The Contract, Part I
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Contract, Part 1
By Nattie
Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!
It was a Sunday different from all other Sundays.
I sat in our white wooden breakfast nook, enjoyed my once a week treat of Lucky Charms, and let the sun streaming through the windows warm my skin. It was a typical lazy Sunday morning in my house, and I knew my husband would come down in a few minutes looking scruffy and—even after these seven years of marriage—looking cutely edible.
I smiled as he descended the stairs with all his grunts and groans that I had thought cute the first few months of marriage, then annoying for the next year or so, and finally such an ingrained part of our morning ritual that I usually thought nothing of them at all.
He came to the table with his rich, dark brown hair sticking up all over the place and grinned. I should have taken note then—Chris does not, in general, grin before his morning cup of coffee.
“I did some reading last night.”
He had a proud look about him, as if he expected congratulations or something. Considering he was an avid reader and read every night, I needed more information before doing my wifely duty of stroking his ego.
“Oh?”
He ran a hand through his hair to flatten it, but of course it just popped out in new directions. Then he sat across from me, which was my second clue that something was amiss. Normally I got a grunt, barely a passing glance, and he never, ever, sat across from me until he had his steaming coffee mug embraced between two hands as if holding a sacred object. Then he would blow on it exactly three times to cool it (which, as you’ll see later, doesn’t actually work), raise it in both hands, and sniff it with his eyes half-closed in what looks like sexual ecstasy. Finally, he would take a sip that would—without fail—burn his tongue.
My dearest husband burns his tongue every single morning, so usually the first words I hear from him are “Ow!” followed by an inhale through pursed lips that sounds like wind through a tunnel, and finally a “Mmmmmmmmmm—” drawn out just long enough to annoy me “—Mm!”
Then, and only then, would he look at me. And to his credit, he would smile with one side of his mouth and say “Good morning, sweetie. Good coffee.”
But here he was, sitting across from me wide-eyed and eager, the coffee pot ignored and untouched on the kitchen counter.
“I was perusing the internet, and found some sites on contracts.”
Since my husband is an attorney, I nodded appreciatively as if interested. “That’s great, honey.”
“D/s contracts.”
That got my attention. It had taken two years to train my happily vanilla husband to spank, and reluctantly spank, at that.
“D/s,” I repeated, laying my spoon down and resigning my Lucky Charms to a fate of neglect. “But, we’re DD.” I glanced over at the coffee pot to make sure that I had, indeed, made coffee that morning.
“Semantics, shmantics, Jen darling.”
Now, I don’t know if any of you readers out there have been up close and personal with a lawyer, but they are way too picky with words. My husband would never say ‘semantics, shmantics.” Never.
But, apparently, he just did.
Evidently, I was gaping at him in a bit of a shock, because he pulled from (Where? I don’t know. Behind his back? Under his shirt? Behind my ear?) a stack of seven or so papers.
“These are some samples of D/s contracts.”
Not to sound redundant, but I repeated, “But, we’re DD.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point.” He started spreading out the papers with the same enthusiasm he had spread out pictures of various homes when he had announced to me our readiness to look for a house. “Look, we could do a contract.”
“Um,” I said, staring forlornly at my now soggy cereal. Lucky Charms must be eaten fast, or else the marshmallows dissolve and the rest becomes quickly soggy and a bit gross, to boot. “Why would we want to?”
Stupid question. Chris loves contracts passionately. I think he became a lawyer just so he could write contracts. He even managed to persuade me to not only have and sign a pre-nuptial, but managed to make it rather romantic and sweet.
“Well, you’re the one who brought up this head of household stuff, but you had to take charge and practically train me to spank.”
I gnawed at my lip. I try, as much as I can, to make Chris feel like everything is his idea and that he’s in charge. Not for any DD reason, it just kind of makes me laugh inside when he struts around the house as proud as can be over his “great idea” which was actually something I wanted and planted in his head. It makes him happy, so it makes me happy to dupe him a little. Gives me a little power rush, you know? Men are pretty adorable creatures—even the most manly man has an irresistible and slightly gullible little boy inside.
“I made some coffee this morning.” After all these years, I didn’t think I needed to mention it.
As if I had said nothing, he shuffled the papers excitedly, which I had yet to glance at. “See, we could make a commitment to each other and our relationship—our special relationship—with a contract, just like D/s!”
I glanced down. “But, I don’t want to call you Master.” Not for real, anyway. Sometimes I do the Bewitched thing and say ‘Yes, Master’ when he’s being particularly bossy, but that always ends with him sticking his tongue out at me while we have a good chuckle.
“That’s okay, we could come up with our own expression of commitment. We’ll use the D/s format to renew our marriage vows, in a way, and to make a commitment to our lifestyle.”
I frowned at his boyish excitement. Not that it wasn’t all romantic and stuff, but I’m not really one for change. “Don’t rock the boat,” my mother used to say, and my father would chime in with “no need to go fixin’ what ain’t broke in the first place, I always say.”
“Don’t you want some coffee?” It came out a bit shrill for a casual question.
“No thanks, honey.”
I didn’t know what to think of that, so I picked up my bowl and carried it to the sink, throwing the poor soggy cereal into the jaws of the garbage disposal and rinsing them down the drain. I even wiped out the sink, despite the fact that I’m usually not the type of person who is overly concerned with a shiny, sparkling sink.
I finally turned to him and asked, with a bit of trepidation, “So. What’s wrong?”
Chris was starting to look a little disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm, like a little boy who was about to get his bubble burst. I felt a twang of guilt, so I sat down and worked up an interested smile.
“Wrong?” he asked.
“I mean, if you want to change our relationship, what’s wrong with how it is now?”
Chris was gathering up the papers, looking even more dejected. “Nothing, I just wanted to add … a new dimension, a little excitement. It’s no big deal.”
As anyone in a long-term relationship knows, ‘no big deal’ is usually the ‘one little thing’ brought up for years in the and-you-couldn’t-even-do-this-one-little-thing-for-me argument. He stood to finally get his cup of coffee, and I grabbed his hand. We have a pretty good relationship, and we do go out of our way to try and give each other happiness.
“Okay,” I said, with a smile that I hoped conveyed enthusiasm.
His eyes lit up, and he flashed his cute little boy grin. “Okay?” he asked.
I sighed. “Yes.”
So that’s how it started, that Sunday different from all other Sundays. The television was not turned on the whole day, not even during the football game I’d overheard him arguing about with his buddies over the phone the few nights before.
Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!
Labels: free stories
2 Comments:
"Nightly duty of stroking his ego"
Great phrase! Great start! When's the next part?
"...different from all other Sundays"
~~A fine place to start.
(there is a bit of humor here, but also, that vulnerability you've written of also.)
I'll be reading onward, later tonight.
Looking forward!
~x~Will
