The Apron

It’s my turn to make dinner, I get to dream up something to make, get everything around and get it done while you take a bath, complete, of course, with a glass of wine. Or two.

Yes, I know. “gee, I have to figure out and make dinner” isn’t exactly a new requirement, and yes, you do it nightly, it’s just that I truly, absolutely, suck at it.

But I watch as you slowly sink into the tub. I watch as the relaxation begins and washes over you. I watch as you settle in, grinning to yourself, almost so slightly I can’t see it, but I know you. I know that look. And, I know it’s your happy place.

You settle in, I give you your glass of wine, your kindle, your phone. I watch as you sip, already seeing the stresses of the day slipping away slowly.

You look up at me and make this circular gesture with your hand, ending in an upward sort of swoosh. I know what this means. I strip for you, waiting to be let out of the bath area to get dinner started.

You make me wait though. Ignoring me, just a few minutes. I try to wait patiently, but I truly suck at it. I’m impatient and nervous that I won’t get dinner done in time, won’t figure out all of the bits and pieces for you. Nervous that you’ll figure out that I’m having trouble concentrating, because, well, there you are.

You finally wave me off, and I walk silently out, closing the door.

I decide it’ll be chopped salad with fresh bacon, and a nice steak and asparagus dinner. I get busy on the bacon and quickly, oh so quickly, recognize my miscalculation. I grab an apron to protect against further spatters and snicker at my missing it in the first place.

As I’m finishing up all of the steps to dinner, and after you have summoned me once already for a refill, I am so lost in trying to get it done, that I don’t notice you’ve joined me in the kitchen. You’re sitting, watching. I finally notice and you have this smile… “Nice butt in that apron you have there….and it’s very retro to use a workshop apron…” you say.

You walk over to me, running your hands over my exposed back-side. After several passes, you continue, but ask what’s for dinner. I let you know, and before I can finish, you smack me, hard.

“Ow!” I spit out, “don’t you like the ideas for dinner?”

“No, I love it. It sounds really great. Smells amazing too,” you say. “It’s just my way of saying thank you.” You smack me again. And again. These aren’t as playful as I’d expected. These are… strong smacks. Then you reach over and grab the wooden spoon from the holder. I smirk, considering moving out of range.

“I wouldn’t,” you tell me.

You start in with the spoon and I have to grab the counter to keep from moving away. I hear and feel each strike. I hear you playfully counting softly under your breath. After a bit, you grab another implement, this time a spatula.

“You look at me, smile, then spin me around, grabbing my cock that has betrayed me, holding me solidly in your hand while you reach up and kiss me hard. You hold the kiss, knowing it drives me crazy, then pull slowly away.

“Better finish up that steak, wouldn’t want it to get over-done, that would be horrible!”