Justine Elyot - Confessions of a Kinky Wife

I think I actually said, ‘Awesome!’

The fifteen-year-old teased me about it all the way back to the children’s home.

‘He wants you, Pip. Better watch out if you don’t want Plod in yer knickers.’

I blanked this line of conversation, but inside I wanted to hear more.

He came and did the talk to a group who started out hostile and ended up charmed and positive. He has the knack of making people want him to like them, so that they strive to please him. It’s a neat trick – I wish I had it.

Anyway, he’d won them over, so just imagine how I felt. He’d seduced me already – the physical side of it was a mere formality. We sat in my office after locking up the building and shared a bottle of wine and talked very earnestly about the social issues affecting my Vulnerable Young People until the switch flipped and every single thing we said seemed to be a form of verbal foreplay.

We kissed against my filing cabinet and ended up at my flat. I don’t think we’ve spent a night apart since, shift patterns permitting.

And now here we are, three years married, and he’s still the funniest, sweetest, kindest, most capable and sexy and sometimes slightly annoying but not that much man in the world.

So why the hell was I contemplating asking him for more?

In the low-voiced, elegant atmosphere of the restaurant, I panicked. I couldn’t go through with it. What if I scared him? Why would I risk my marriage to this man?

The first thing he said on sitting down was ‘I’ve got a little something for you.’ And he rustled a package inside a shopping bag.

‘Can’t we … do the presents at home?’

‘But you’ve brought mine.’ He looked puzzled. I love his puzzled face. Just adorable.

‘I know, I just … it’s a bit … it’s not very private here, is it?’

‘Oh.’ His eyes lit up. ‘ That kind of present, eh?’

Fuck. Now he was expecting something from a sex shop. Oh, God. I wanted to bolt from the restaurant, take the belt back to the shop and exchange it, quickety-quick, for a lacy basque and a set of nipple tassels.

‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I said.

‘It’s my wedding anniversary,’ he said. ‘If I can’t get my hopes up on my wedding anniversary, when can I get them up?’

‘Good point,’ I said, then, suddenly inspired, ‘So, what are your hopes?’

What if I could bring him to confess his own hidden desire for kink? What if he longed to redden my bottom but was just too worried it would appal me?

‘For tonight?’

He was about to lean over the table and murmur into my ear, but the waiter appeared with our champagne cocktails and menus, so the moment was lost.

‘I really want to give you your present,’ he said, sipping and watching me.

‘I don’t mind waiting.’

‘I know you don’t. But I want to give you it now. I’ve been looking forward to it.’

‘Oh …’ I looked around. Everybody seemed pretty involved with their own conversations. ‘Go on, then.’

He beamed and handed over his bag, then retreated into his champagne glass, sipping with measured calm.

I opened the delicate tissue wrapping and had to clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself screaming.

‘Happy anniversary, my darling little Twinkletoes,’ he said, flushing with pleasure at my reaction.

‘Is this genuine?’

‘It’s not a bloody knock-off. What do you take me for?’

‘A genuine Mulberry Alexa? Christ, Dan, these cost a fortune.’

‘Well, I got it from an outlet store,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ I turned the deliciously soft tan leather every which way, putting it up to my face and sniffing, just the way I did with the belt. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever been given.

He was perfect. Why would I want to change him? I felt guilty and cheap for even considering it.

‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s written all over your face.’

He sat back and basked, while I became conscious of the indulgent good wishes of the other diners. Suddenly the parcel at my feet became my nemesis, a terrible mistake. I should have got him something else.

Too late.

‘So, come on then. Hand it over.’

He held out a palm. Lately, he couldn’t do that without me imagining how it would feel cracking down on my bum. Tonight was no different.

I shut my eyes for a second of unspoken prayer, then reached down for the gift.

The shop had been a high-end establishment and they had put the belt in a smart silk-lined box with a gold monogram. When Dan unwrapped it, I think he was expecting something you’d find in a jeweller’s, like cufflinks or a watch.

He looked surprised when he opened the box.

‘Oh,’ he said, pulling it out. It was rolled up like a coiled snake, a deadly spiral in his hand. ‘This is a very de luxe number, isn’t it?’

‘Do you like it? I just thought it would look really good on you.’

Suddenly I was desperate that he didn’t guess my true intention. I wanted to turn back that tide, ignore my stupid repressed fantasies and live with what I had.

‘It looks vintage,’ he said.

God, he had uncoiled it and was letting it slide around his palm, then he pulled it taut between his hands and I nearly doubled over with arousal.

Surely he must see the effect this had on me? Instant wetness, so much so that I worried about leaving a damp patch on the chair.

‘It’s pretty sexy,’ I said.

He gave me a crooked smile. ‘You think?’

Waiter-with-chronic-bad-timing appeared to take our order and the sexual vibe lowered to a simmer, but it was nonetheless there all the way through the three courses, especially since the belt lay on the white tablecloth for all to see.

I imagined that everyone knew what it was really for.

Everyone knew that it had been left there, in my line of sight, to remind me what awaited me after the meal. They were all aware that, once the last mouthful of dessert had been swallowed, I was going to be escorted out through the kitchen to the back yard, bent over a barrel with my dress up and knickers down and strapped long and hard by my elegantly besuited husband.

What for? I tried to make up a reason, but I was fatally distracted by my own lust and the growing excitement in the pit of my stomach. It made for an uncomfortable eating experience, but three courses were a challenge for me anyway, so I picked and pecked at my food.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’

Dan, his appetite as reliably healthy as always, plucked a tuile biscuit from my plate and bit into it.

Some of the other diners had left the restaurant now, and we had a little more latitude for un-eavesdropped conversation.

I stroked the edge of the belt with one finger and said, ‘Do you really like it?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve wanted to get you one just like it for ages.’

He just held his smile, expectant, waiting for me to elaborate.

‘I think it would feel nice,’ I said hesitantly. Oh shit, now it was coming out. Could I take that back?

‘Feel nice?’ he said.

I stared down at the melted ice cream on my plate, too mortified to continue.

‘You’ve gone bright red,’ he said, but his smile slowly widened. ‘OK, I think it’s time to get the bill and get the hell out of here. Things just got interesting.’

The restaurant was a short distance from our flat by the harbour. Dan walked me back with one hand around my elbow, the new belt wrapped around his other set of knuckles. Damn, it looked good there. Man and belt in living harmony. I was wildly optimistic as we headed into the lift and, as was our tradition, snogged all the way up to the third floor.