Schwanky

bybrentcanuck©

That was what I wanted: schwanky. I thought it would be so cool to treat her to dinner at some classy restaurant where the table clothes reached the floor, the waiters were extremely discreet, and they serve oysters. I figured that this combination, with a liberal helping of fine wine could lead to some wonderful shenanigans under the table as we worked our way through the main course. That was my plan. I even congratulated myself thinking that it may even play into an erotic fantasy -- one hand scooping an oyster from it's shell and raising it to her lips, while my hand would work it's way under her skirt, through her panties and then on to her other lips. It was a fantasy that had her cuming before the entrée arrived. It also had room for her dropping her napkin and me taking a few minutes to fetch it from under the table. And there may have also been room for her to reach under the napkin on my lap and set up camp -- starting with the tent that would be pitched.

But who would have thought that every other horny bastard would have the same idea on February 14th! Like, gawd, who would have thought (rhetorical, I know)? Obviously not me because my fingers were practically blistered from all the walking they did in the yellow pages. I was working my way through schwanky and on to diners, and then on to pizza places when I finally thought fuck this -- I need a plan "B".

I figured that I still could pull something off (as in caper, that is; the pulling of blouses, panties, etc. would come later if the caper was successful) back at my place with oysters and fine wine. There was one problem though. I had just moved into a new place and it was decorated in early university: bricks, boards, books; but a cool stereo. It seems that was all I could afford after being punted from my principal residence by my soon to be ex-wife. You would think I could have afforded more; after all, we did split the assets. When it came time to dividing the gold mine, she got the gold and I got the shaft.

I'm not bitter, but I did try an Al Pacino line on her lawyer when he presented me with the divorce settlement. I asked him for a cigarette. He asked me why. I said (here it comes): I like to smoke after I've been fucked. Funny, he didn't see the humor in that.

Schwanky, dang, I almost forgot. I wanted schwanky. I figured that I could even make a dinner on a card table while sitting in folding camping chairs schwanky as long as I had the oysters and the right wine, and Google; Google to help me find a recipe for Oysters Rockefeller or something like that. I figured if I got her a little drunk she might not notice the old movie posters on the walls. I also figured that if I played the right tunes the atmosphere would just about be right (unfortunately I was only able to retain custody of my collection of Ozzie, ELP, and early Alice Cooper, and, sadly there might not be anything too romantic about: Muscle of Love).

Anyway, I figured if I knocked out a couple of the light bulbs, poured her a big glass of wine, and fed her oysters, that she may grant me the privilege of kneeling between her knees, lifting her skirt, pressing my face against her panties, and then whispering how much I wanted to eat her pussy. I'm not sure if that all counts as romantic, but once again, I figured because it was Valentine's Day anything that involved oysters and cunnilingus couldn't be all that bad.

How could I have guessed it would all go, well, not as planned?

I had the wine uncorked and on the counter. I had the oysters baking in the oven. I even found a compilation CD of some sappy 70's songs, which if turned low, just above audible, offered a bass rhythm that was suggestive of something more erotic.

The doorbell rang.

I clanged some pots around to create the illusion of frenetic activity in the kitchen, downed the rest of my beer, tossed the adult magazine (with the really interesting articles and interviews into the trash), checked my zipper, and opened the door.

Wow! She was amazing, stunning, and totally edible. I'm not a good describer of women's clothes (I wouldn't know designer from off the rack, if there is a difference, because, as I said I wouldn't know the difference) but I was totally wowed by the little nothing that she had on. It was red, shiny, slinky, short, with little thin straps holding it up. It clung to her body and left little to the imagination. Well, that's not true. I was imagining a lot when I first saw her; but mainly imagining her out of that sexy little nothing.

I stammered, "Come on in."

She was holding a package in one hand. With the other hand she caressed my cheek.

My gawd, she smelled delicious!

"Hi lover," she said with a wink.

"How the fuck did you get past hubby wearing that?" I exclaimed.

She frowned. "Please don't mention him," she said disapprovingly. "This is the only night of the year that he makes an extra special effort to be out of town."

She swaggered into the living room (wait, guys swagger, girls in dresses like that don't swagger. I don't know what it is called, but it's somewhere between sachet and a stripper's strut. Man, I need to get better words to describe this).

"Lucky me," I said reaching for the wine; plan B already in motion. "Drink?"

"How do you like?" she asked as she twirled. I could see the skirt rise over her thighs and I caught a quick glimpse of her bum. Hmmm, I thought, no panties or maybe a sexy little thong. I could feel my trousers getting tighter.

"I like," I said. "I like a lot!" Never be it said that I couldn't deliver a sappy compliment when one was required.

"That's good," she said. " It's my Valentine's dress."

"Mmmm, red, sweet, and just as hot as those little cinnamon hearts." Gawd, am I slick or what?

"I brought you something," she said.

"Indeed," I chuckled, my trousers getting tighter and tighter.

"No you pervert, I meant I brought you a Valentine's present."

I stood there with a stupid, lecherous grin painted on my face.

"Here," she said, slightly exasperated, holding out the box.

"I like presents," I said. "But, here, let's have a drink first." Plan B needed a kick-start.

She reached for my wrist and pulled me close. Instantly I could feel the heat from her body. Again, her smell was delicious. "Not yet lover," she said in a playful tone, "I want you to open this first."

Despite being deprived of an adequate blood supply to my big head I decided that maybe plan B should wait. I took the box in my hand. It was about ten inches square. It was quite light. It was wrapped in plain white paper with a small red bow in the corner. I lifted it to my head and gave it a shake. She giggled.

"You'll never guess what it is."

She was right, I had no fucking clue, but I was definitely getting more curious when I saw her licking her lips and rubbing her hands together.

I peeled the paper off. It was a plain brown box. Hmm, I wondered, companies who make plain brown boxes do so in order to make the package not look like something, but by doing so the package looks like something that it's not supposed to look like, well, at least to me. Maybe most people don't get plain brown boxes in the mail.

"Go on," she said, a little impatiently. "Don't just stare at it, open it."

I complied.

As I torn at the flap the contents tumbled on to the floor. It was a leather belt with a huge dildo attached to it.

I looked down at it, and then looked up at her.

"Is that a strap-on?" I asked, sounding as puzzled as I am sure I looked.

"Yes," she giggled, clapping her hands together.

I picked it up. Holding the belt up to my waist with the dildo sticking straight out from my crotch I said, "How am I supposed to use this?"

She laughed and then said "YOU don't!"

Epiphany.

"Oh," I said as my butt cheeks clenched. "Oh my."

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