A Birthday to Remember!bysearic©
We had been married for two years, and my birthday was approaching. The year previous we had spent three days in New Orleans, and Marita had reigned as my Mistress Queen as we celebrated my birthday on the special outing. It was a special birthday, indeed!
Given her love for me and immense creativity, I knew this year would be special, but I couldn't imagine how she would top herself. (Perish the pun!) My offerings for her birthdays were sincere and, I knew, appreciated, but I could not match her creativity. For that quality alone, she deserved to be the Domme!
Neither of us had referenced the rapidly approaching date, and it had hard for me not to. I successfully had fought the need for reassurance, but my birthday was next weekend, and here it was the weekend before, and she had said nothing.
Sunday evening after supper she pulled me down next to her on the couch. "Got any plans for next weekend, big boy?" Her eyes were dancing.
"Sure don't, big girl," I smiled back at her.
"Hmmmmmmmmm," she said with the smile of the Chesshire. "Seems to me there's something special about next Sunday, but . . . I just can't place it."
"You mean the seventeenth?" I asked, deadpan.
She paused a beat. "Oh!" (dramatically) "I know--it's your birrrrrrrrrrrthday!"
"Why, by golly, it is!" We quickly both began laughing.
"You are such a good boy not to drop hints, sweetie!' she said after our shared laughter.
"It was hard, 'Rita," I said with a shy smile.
"I know it was, good boy." She always knew how to let me know she loved and understood me. "Anyway, your present is a surprise!" She winked. "All you need to do is make no plans for the whole weekend. Just surrender your schedule to me."
"Heck, that could be the present!" I laughed.
I mentioned the ever-more-closely-approaching Friday a few times lightly, and Marita responded in kind. My curiosity, happy uncertainly, and intoxicating anxiety grew steadily, and by Friday, I was all atwitter!
I almost hit the Marla's car as I pulled into the driveway after work, realzing she, too, was home and early, too. Jumping out, I ran into the house. She was waiting in the kitchen, a huge grin on her face.
"Ah, just at the right time, sissy!" she said happily. "Not a word--go get into something casual, grab your suitcase--it's all packed--and put it in my car. "Hop to it!"
Eagerly and with quick obedience, I threw on a pair of jeans, a warm pullover--it can get chilly even in Florida in December!--and loafers. Grabbing the luggage, I headed for my wife's Mustang, trusty, even if a few years old, and put the stuff in the open trunk. Marita already was behind the wheel, and I got in next to her.
Bending over the gearshift, she pressed her lips against mine, and her tongue probed as if it were as Dominant as she. Breaking off, she held my eyes; said, "Iove you"; started the car, and we were on our way. I had no idea where. Ah, how I loved this woman!
We held hands until 'Rita pulled into the parking lot of Beach Here, an old local hotel renamed and refurbished a few years ago and extensively marketed as a lovely place to stay on the relatively uncrowded Panhandle beach. We had once had drinks in their cocktail lounge, and the complex seemed a very nice, well-run, moderately pricey place. It appeared to prosper, and we agreed that it was nice to see a local, non-chain business make good.
I started to speak as 'Rita parked the car and turned off the engine, but she lightly slapped me and gestured to the trunk.. Taking my suitcase out, I followed her into the lobby. It was exciting both to be led by her and also to watch the movement of her still-exciting-after-all-these-years body.
December in this local not yet being "the season," the lobby was deserted (and the parking lot had been low on cars. However, I had noticed a few out-of-state license plates.) "We're a little early," my wife noted over her shoulder and led me to the front desk, behind which a single male clerk was ensconced.
Gesturing with her head towards me, she told the young and somewhat pimple-faced clerk, "He's here for the PS Weekend and has a room reservation." It sounded like she had said "PS" as she gave my name. Turning to me, she ordered, "Get resistered" and strode to a plush chair, seating herself, crossing her legs, and picking up a newspaper.
The nerdish clerk took my American Express, and soon I had the key card for Room 716. "Need help with the luggage?" he asked, to which I responded in the negative. "OK, enjoy your stay at Beach Here. Lessee . . . " he consulted a sheet. "It says the PS Weekend registration starts at 6:00 in the Dunes Room.
I followed his pointing finger to a hallway with a sign next to it reading, "Meeting Rooms." In the center of the Lobby on the announcement display was a single notation:
WELCOME PS WEEKENDERS
Picking up my suitcase I walked over to where Marita sat, glancing through the paper. Looking up, she asked, "Are you registered, little sissy." No one except the clerk was around to hear, and he had disappeared at least temporarily into a back room.
"Yes, Mistress," I went down on one knee.
"Good boy," she smiled a thin, regal smile, rose, and walked towards the elevators with me dutifully following.
The doors opened immediately, and after I had punched "7" and the elevator had begun to ascend, I spoke, "Mistress, may I ask . . ."
"No, sissy," she interrupted. "I'll explain when we're in the room." And so she did.
(TO BE CONTINUED)