Sink Full of Dishes

Emily-Ann silently admonished herself, "Forgetting one plate, maybe, but an entire sink-full of dishes? That's not believable. I may as well have answered the door naked and begged him for it. He doesn't want that. I'm supposed to be subtle; make him wonder, make him spend the whole evening searching for a clue as we discuss our day like normal married people. We both like it that way. The anticipation is thrilling.

'Not like this. He'd barely taken off his coat when I showed him what I'd done. Now my bottom is on fire and we haven't even sat down to eat yet.

'Why am I so desperate these days? I just can't concentrate. I want to immerse myself in this; keep myself fit and eager to please. All day I fantasize about what we'll do next; what position he'll tie me in, what new vibrating toy he'll bring home or what oral technique I want to try on him. I even wear these silly socks so my toes will stay clean enough for him to suck on. I masturbate until the I hear the garage door open. Sometimes I've been edging for an hour by then. It's crazy. Especially because he always plays it so cool. Even when my skin is flushed and my nipples are taut beneath my blouse he'll bide his sweet time anyway, acting the part like some super-fastidious husband from the 1950's who checks for dust on the mantelpiece and scrutinizes his wine glass for fingerprints, while I play the innocent dotting housewife. Of course I'm usually less convincing because I know the clues I've left.

'He really upped the ante last Spring when he hung that leather riding crop by the kitchen window; such a devious little trick. He knows I'm stalked by it, even when he's not here. The mere sight of it gets me wet. All day long I pine for him to give me the attention I crave; his discipline and direction. He delivers them so well. He makes me earn it but then always relieves my pent-up tension. My climaxes are like an opiate. They've changed my whole identity. Sometimes it's almost midnight by the time I've had my fill and can't take another. Then he finally lets himself go. I treasure the moment of his release. Usually I can't fall asleep afterwards because I'm so excited.

'But tonight I rushed my role. I wasn't subtle at all. I wore that flimsy miniskirt; the one held together by little push-snaps. And I didn't wear any panties at all! As soon as he opened the front door I beckoned him to the kitchen, ostensibly for a welcome-home cocktail but of course I'd left the sink full of yesterday's dishes. They were right there in front of him; so gallingly obvious! And with the riding crop so handy, too...

'He tore my skirt away and threw it across the room. His expression flared at the sight of my naked mound, so puffy and wet. He spun me around and bent me over until I grabbed my ankles. A flurry of open-handed smacks served as my warm-up. Then he switched to the riding crop, just as I'd hoped. I cooed and flicked my hair. He knows just the intensity I need. Even the sound drives me crazy. It makes me pucker and whine. And the way he varies the tempo each pop is a surprise. I become this flinching, whimpering, teetering hot mess. I lose count, the backs of my thighs glow pink and my skin shivers. It almost makes me pee. Still, I waggle my ass back and forth, knowing how he likes that. The whole display gets him hard as a truncheon.

'If he had unzipped right then and fucked me it would have been perfect. I was hoping he would, so I held my pose after he hung the crop back on its hook. Tingly heat was throbbing through my privates and my eyes were watering. I wanted it so badly I almost begged! But he had me stand up instead and instructed me not to touch my ass, and now, as an additional punishment, I have to wash all these stupid dishes before dinner. He knows the waiting drives me crazier.

'But I don't want to wait tonight. My ass is so pink I can't sit on a chair now anyway. I know he's behind me, sipping his cocktail and no doubt admiring his handiwork while I sweat it out over the sink. I feel so wanton. I wish he would rub lotion onto me like he usually does. That might get me through dinner at least. But what I really crave right now is his... God I'm so wet he could slip it in with just one push. Even a finger would be heaven. I'd come in a heartbeat, I swear!

'Screw it. Maybe I should just drop this plate? What would he do then? Add a few more pops to my poor ass? I don't think I can take any more. I'm already stoned on the sting of it. Maybe he'd use his hand instead? Or maybe he'd wrestle me to the floor and pin my arms back; take me prone from behind? And what if he puts that big rubber ball-gag in my mouth too? He knows I like that. Or maybe he has some new surprise; a new bullet-vibe to slip inside me while he prepares my backdoor for a thorough reaming. Jesus... if he does that I think I'll faint!

'This plate is so slippery with soap. It wasn't expensive. Surely he'll understand what I want, right? Right? Oh God.

'Here goes..."

CRASH!