Expiation

It was Your idea. Has anyone been so dedicated and in love with You that they went 62 days ...? You started this. It's a beautiful thing. Come to Miami to celebrate us! You know You want to! Just say yes! You and the husband have plenty of holiday bonding time coming up. But this 62 days is special. We should be together for it!

Instead of continuing the high and selfless road to approval, in a moment of need I broke down and wrote these words to She. As she struggled and wrestled to work out whether to stay home with her husband for his unexpected long weekend as he'd requested or visit me in Miami She read these words. I knew I was in trouble when she informed me by email she was disappointed. She knows I long to please her. It hurts me like nothing else to disappoint.

She made me suffer for a day before she told me she'd decided to split the weekend and come to Miami for the first part and spend the second part at home. But ominously she delivered instructions.

"You are to bring five copies of the email you sent me and present them to me in the room when you see me."

Her arrival in Miami was Day 66 on the money. The airport has become an old friend. I know where to park, where to wait, what stores there are and where to buy a Starbucks. Her plane arrived on time.

We hugged then she handed over her luggage. I zipped her back downtown in the same little Audi TT I'd rented in October to our room where I had gotten all her special requests. I know she likes extra pillows, an extra blanket, a fan and wine glasses. At her request, in the midst of a crazy busy day, I had even booked her a massage in the room. Such a good little subbie I am.

But after we returned from the local wine shop with her choice for the evening she asked for the emails. She ordered me to strip naked and kneel in front of her.

"Do you know what kind of emotional turmoil your stupid email caused me?", she asked sweetly, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry", I pathetically blurted.

"My guts were wrenched out. Do I spend the weekend with my husband who I love and who tells me we need to connect? Or do I fly to Miami to be with my lackey who I adore?"

As she mused she reached for a large tupperware container.

"Do you like prunes?" she almost giggled.

"Actually, I really like them."

"Well, you are in luck then", she chuckled, "Because that's your dinner. I'm having lamb and risotto. You are having prunes ... lots of prunes. In fact, how about an amuse bouche?"

She fed me prune after prune. When we got to twenty, room service arrived and she began to eat her delectible meal. Every now and again she'd point to the tupperware container and urge me to have another.

Then she poured me a big glass of prune juice. I drank. And another. I knocked it back with florish. She had finished her succulent dinner and I ate twelve more prunes.

The door bell rang. She told me to get into a robe and answer it. When I swung the door open it revealed her amazingly hot masseuse, dressed in tight jeans, a tank top, and six inch heels. The woman toted the table that She would lie on naked to get oiled up and rubbed. Ms. Hot Hands was early. I asked the gorgeous woman to wait a moment and went back to She.

"Okay", she declared, "I'm going to take a quick shower. Let her set up in the bedroom and tell her I'll be right there. Excuse yourself and tell her you're going out and will be back. Close the door. But I want you in the wardrobe, right here. She opened the door and quickly had me try it. I fit.

"While you are in there you are to rip your five emails into bite sized little balls and put them in this wine glass."

She set them on the floor of the wardrobe and put her hands on her hips.

"You'd better finish each and every one of those wretched things."

"Yes Ma'am." I stammered. The thought of being right next door to these two hot women all lotioned and potioned up was too much to bear.

"And if you have to use the bathroom, you have to come past us."

So for the next hour and half I was holed up on the floor of our room's large wardrobe, ripping my emails into little spitball sized offerings while Ms. Hot Hands was kneading She flesh. Eventually, the masseuse left.

Finally, after completely ignoring me for a time, the door opened. I had transformed five pages into little nuggets which filled a large wine glass.

"Good boy!", she exclaimed, "You must be parched poor thing. Here, have a nice tall glass of prune juice."

I gulped it down. I felt my stomach gurgle ...

To be continued ...