Dessert

I put the baby to bed. I read her a story about a cat and a mouse, then close her bedroom door and go downstairs. In the dining room, the table has been set with exquisite care; a meticulous scenario for by the book romance: a creamy linen table cloth, our best china and polished cutlery, tea lights placed in little groups around the walls to create pools of shadow, silk damask curtains screen the tedium of a February evening.

My husband is in the kitchen. He keeps one eye on a dish of cannelloni browning in the oven, whilst pouring two glasses of wine from a bottle of red, and decanting shiny black olives into a miniscule, but trendy, finger bowl. My husband is a good looking man. He is lean and long, with broad shoulders and pale skin. He looks up at me and smiles. Its a knowing smile, like warm chocolate sauce.

I am wet with anticipation. Earlier at work, he told me he’d made plans; tonight we would eat out at home, tonight he would lay me out on the dining table and eat me for desert. Later, after everyone had gone he fucked me hard on the desk. We came hard, panting and shouting (well I was shrieking), and I wondered if dinner would be saved for a later occasion, but then on the way home we stopped at the supermarket…

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