Steak & BJ After Decades Of Neglect

Steak & BJ after 20 years of neglect

a faithful wife (but hostile to Holidays) refunds her husband.

### My contribution to the Valentine's Day 2024 Event.

English is not my native language, don't look at my mistakes.###

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Chapter 1. One Wife, One Blowjob.

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February 14th

My wife Violet, on her knees, was licking my balls and cock shaft, naked over my lowered breeches.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room, with my shirt unbuttoned.

Suddenly the doorbell rang.

I thought, "Let them ring, don't open it, they'll go away."

Amid two unruly wisps on the forehead, that had escaped from her gathered hair, my wife gave me a convincing gaze with a wide smile, flaunting confidence, and whispered, "It's okay, everything according to the plan... I ordered steak for dinner for you, honey... wait here just for a minute, while I pay the delivery girl."

I was speechless.

Violet struggled to her feet.

Her breasts bare, her wrists bound behind her back by two Velcro cuffs, Violet wore only a black silk garter belt to which were attached by laces and two black hold-up stockings with wide bands of elastic lace (the laces were only for adornment, but they were beautiful to look at). The lace delightfully framed her pussy.

On her feet, she laced up thin high-heeled sandals.

Too high heels and too tight wrists made it difficult for her to make any movement, but Violet managed to keep her balance.

Walking slowly on her heels she reached the main door of the house. I could hear her but was out of visual range of a possible "delivery girl". And what if they send us a man!?

I could not believe my eyes.

My wife, naked and cuffed, opened to an unknown delivery girl!

OMG, it had always been a fantasy of mine, but today she was making it come true! My cock had become hard as never before.

I could hear everything from the couch.

I knew how she had managed to open the handle: she had leaned her shoulders against the door and then turned the knob with her hands.

I immediately recognized the chirping voice of the "unknown delivery girl." Eh: it seemed too strange to me that my wife, usually so disinclined to display lingerie, had gone to open the door for a total stranger.

In front of her was her best friend's daughter, Trudy, who had known her for years (and confidentially called her "Auntie Violet" even though we were not legally related). Since she had come of age, Trudy had been delivering from her parents' restaurant.

The girl was holding two cartons for delivery. But, I guessed from her voice that she was paralyzed with astonishment and her eyes and mouth were wide open. "Are you in trouble, Auntie Violet? Do you need me to call 911?"

Without any shame, my wife chuckled: "I was your teacher in the neighborhood self-defense classes at the gym, remember? No problem, my husband and I are celebrating Valentine's Day 20 years late, maybe 22. Everything is okay, just two adults playing in the Valentine's evening. You are a nice girl to worry about, but it is not necessary. Remember my motto, which I used to repeat in self-defense class, "Yes, I'm a damsel, I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."

From the couch I heard the girl laughing serenely, repeating in chorus the motto with which my wife always closed her self-defense classes at the gym.

I closed my eyes. How had we gotten to that moment? I closed my eyes and remembered both dates: our first Valentine's Day, and our last.

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Chapter 2 - two flashbacks: our first Valentine's Day, and our last.

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Twenty-two years ago, I met my wife. She was an intelligent, rational, energetic, feminist, and full of ideas girl.

We were both college graduates and worked hard. Her mother had had an accident and the doctors had given her a few months to live, so we decided together that we would get married to give that poor dying woman the wedding she had always dreamed of for her daughter.

I was overjoyed that day, also because we also had another surprise for friends and family: at the cake-cutting, my wife announced that we were expecting a baby. I know that such news is usually received in a distorted way, but we had done it as a gift to our dying grandmother. A baby girl was born, a week before Grandma died-she had a chance to hold her just long enough to take the saddest and most beautiful pictures we ever had.

On our first Valentine's Day, my wife was pregnant and throwing up all the time. I brought her a gift (an Eau de parfum) but she threw up and would not even hear about the restaurant I booked in an ill-timed way.

She also said a phrase that I did not understand, "Valentine's Day, the holiday of fools..." But because he was vomiting, maybe I didn't understand him correctly.

The next year she was pregnant again: we had planned it, because our two jobs allowed it and because we thought it would be good for the children to grow up together.

More perfume, more vomit, more of a phrase about the deluded.

Our third Valentine was not pregnant, but she had two small daughters. I ventured to book a restaurant, summon a babysitter, and prepare everything decently, but she denied herself by reciting a nursery rhyme (which was indelibly printed in my mind, in Bookman Old Style 14 bold font):

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"Valentine's Day is a lie, for each, and every, guy who believes that he is loved; but instead, he will be fooled."

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My wife has never cheated on me, nor deceived me. Simply, Violet never gave importance to any Calendar party. She didn't even celebrate birthdays or name days; every day in December was the same for her; and the only day she felt truly patriotic was National Day because her father had served in the Navy.

I was always overjoyed with my wife, in all things (love, friendship, complicity, sex, lots of sex). The only thing in which we are not in tune is the Holidays.

I have always been very happy with my wife, in all things (love, friendship, complicity, sex, lots of sex). The only thing in which we are not in tune is the Holidays.

I love all holidays. I catch and exterminate Grinches, I become mayor of Dublin in March after I recite the entirety of "I Have A Dream" at my daughters' school play in February, I have been carving pumpkins since September, I make jam for Thanksgiving, I parade in a Caravel dress on Oct. 12, and I listen to Mariah Carey, The Wham, and Michael Bublé starting in November.

I also know all my friends' and relatives' birthdays by heart (even those who wrote January 1, 1900, on social media), and I write something to everyone because I know that a sentence can sometimes be warmer than a scarf.

And, of course, I have continued to buy gifts for her for each of these celebrations. But the absence of reciprocation from her at all other celebrations has never pained me. On my birthday I get a dozen gifts, and I know one is missing, but I don't mind, because friends, siblings, and colleagues make up for the absence.

But Valentine's Day is a holiday for couples in love: and seeing myself rejected every single time, was the thing that made me suffer the most.

I resisted for years. For decades. Once, I bought two perfumes: one for her and one for me. Bad idea. I resisted.

On our 20th wedding anniversary, I looked at my beloved little girls who had become two young women. They raised their goblets to toast the two of us, loving parents and tireless lovers. Seeing two goblets triggered a traumatic memory in me: the crest of the restaurant I had tried to book three times in a row.

My jaw stiffened. The knuckles of my hands turned white. Winston Churchill would have said (or was it Belushi?) "When the going gets tough, the tough get going."

I would not continue. Twenty years of lopsided gift-giving, twenty years of mocking and rhyming against deluded people was too much. My two daughters deserved a better role model than the loser I had been until that day. I swore to myself that I would never again give my wife anything for Valentine's Day. A piece of my heart had become veiled, as if in mourning. Other holidays remained sacred because they were collective events to be experienced together with friends and relatives: but Valentine's Day was over.

We had already spent our last Valentine's Day together, and we hadn't noticed.

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On the evening of February 14, my wife came looking for me all hopeful. I was sitting on the couch watching an old Western movie. With a radiant smile, she said to me, "Honey how was your day? Aren't you hungry? Do you want me to make you something to eat?"

I didn't even look at her. It was just an ordinary weekday, like any weekday, she had been teaching me for twenty long years. In an absent tone, I yawned and said, "It's been a tiring day at work... and tomorrow morning I have to wake up earlier... I think I'll go to sleep because, in this old movie, the action is too slow."

Violet looked alarmed. "But aren't you forgetting something, honey?"

"Oh, yes, of course, you're right. I forgot to turn off the lamp light, can you turn it off dear? Thank you."

She was muffled. I was asleep, but she was not there. I don't know what Violet was thinking, in the following days she was very silent.

Coming home after work on March 14, I found a note on the front door.

Chapter 3 the Corrected Valentine's Day Card.

Another memory, much more recent, was a Valentine's Day card that my wife had erased with two strokes of the pen, writing on it "Steak & BJ March, 14th."

Inside was a handwritten message.

"My love, forgive me. All these years I have denied you your legitimate right to enjoy a proper celebration of Valentine's Day. I have forced you to go to fancy restaurants, to see boring vagina monologues in the theater, to hear feminist rallies, to listen to cheesy operas and musicals. And I never reciprocated a gift to you, never made you have sex that night, in the name of a legendary "romance" of that date.

Today I humbly apologize to you. Today I ask you to start a new Family Tradition, with a feast of reparation. In return for all the boring refinements you have had to swallow over the years, I will swallow your cum, which I will earn with two or three sloppy, long blowjobs. Yes, that's right: the very practice that I always said didn't turn me on. Forgive me.

If you accept this Correct Valentine's Day Card of mine, please be at 7 p.m. on the living room couch. I will be your slave until midnight. I swear I will obey your every wish. You may tie me up, whip me, finger my pussy just for the sake of arousing me but without making me enjoy it. You don't have to make me enjoy, you don't have to reciprocate anything: this New Holiday is only for you, you are the only party. At midnight, if you want, you can release me.

Don't worry about making restaurant reservations or fancy clothes, I'll take care of everything. I know some of your desires, although I have always pretended not to notice them, and tonight I will fulfill them as a gift for you.

Signed, your slave in love, as a last free gesture before I close the shackles, Violet. Tuesday, March 14, 2023.

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Chapter 4 A woman on the counterattack.

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It was the evening of Tuesday, March 14, 2023.

As I thought back on those memories, only a fraction of a second had passed. Sitting on the couch, I could still hear my wife talking to the delivery girl, Trudy.

Trudy had not come in: she had stayed outside the main door. It was raining, and everyone knows it hurts to go in and out all the time because of the temperature change. Also, it could be embarrassing to enter the house of an almost naked, handcuffed lady.

Trudy surely had seen my wife naked before, because Violet was part of a feminist gym where girls were taught self-defense: the showers were installed in an open space, and my wife was completely shameless "when there are no drooling maniacal males around" (one of her favorite phrases).

All the girls at the gym jokingly called her "V for Violet" (as if "V for Vendetta"), because she kept the tuft of dark hair above her pussy shaved as if to make up a capital V. Perhaps only I knew the real reason: a few years after the girls' births, the gynecologist told her that it was necessary to remove a fibroid from the uterus, using a laser. Because of the particular location of the fibroid, she made two small incisions, one in the center and one on the right, and over the next few months, we had to shave the hair to spread ointment against keloid formation. Indeed, the V was nice to look at, and even after the scar was completely healed, the two of us kept the habit of shaving the hair to form a V. The color of the hair changed over the years, from auburn red to strawberry blond, but the dark color of the V always remained constant. To me, in particular, it looked like she had not aged a single day, and she did not have a single white hair.

Also, Trudy was the daughter of Violet's best friend, and she was friends with both of our daughters. I guess "the girls," mothers and daughters, went to the pool, saunas, and massages together, not underestimating sessions at the beautician. It is rarer for males to have opportunities to show themselves naked, beyond sports showers (or at least, this is my experience: others will have a different perception, I don't know).

The significant element is that it was not a shock to Trudy to see Auntie Violet naked. The only reason the girl was amazed was to see her wearing sexy lingerie that no one in the gym imagined her wearing (the raging feminist, self-defense teacher). Oh well, perhaps the most surprising element was the handcuffs on her wrists. If I listened carefully, Trudy's questions were not about the stockings, but about the handcuffs.

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I tried to listen. I thought, "Live in the present: no more of the past."

Trudy had said "Are you in trouble, Aunt Violet? Do you need me to call 911?"

My wife giggled, "I was your teacher in self-defense classes at the gym, remember? It's no problem, my husband and I are celebrating Valentine's Day 20 years late, maybe 22. It's okay. You are a nice girl to worry about, but it is not necessary. Remember my motto, which I used to repeat in self-defense class, "Yes, I'm a damsel, I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."

Trudy joined in the enunciation of the motto: "I can handle this. Have a nice day."

I heard in the girl's voice a note of serenity: she felt relieved.

Trudy chuckled. "Meg from "Hercules": drop some knowledge for us..."

Violet moved a step or two, for I could hear her heels clicking on the hall floor. She had probably turned around to show her handcuffs and reassure Trudy. "You see, they're just plain Velcro handcuffs I wanted to, I could free myself right away. But I'm making a Valentine's Day present..." (I heard the sound of Velcro being ripped off, then closed again).

"But today is March 14!"

"That's right, dear: the National Steak and BJ Day."

"What?"

"Oh, dear, don't pretend to be so Vanilla with me, I'm still your Auntie Violet, I know you well, I know all about your erotic exploits with your boyfriend! To counterbalance Valentine's Day (which often boils down to being just a collection of gifts and attention to women), MEN invented this holiday, and since you know my husband loves all holidays, then I decided that from this year forward we will have a new couple tradition: to celebrate this particular date with him, in the way he likes it best.

It's an effort for me, because you know I hate all holidays including birthdays - except yours, dear - and I hate calendars and anniversaries, like a Grinch, but my husband likes all holidays, as you may have noticed for winter decorations" (sitting on the couch, I hoped my wife wouldn't start one of those boring speeches against the calendar, an invention of the Patriarchy to impose mathematical control over human affairs, while the menstrual cycle corresponds with the phases of the Moon and so on, because Violet could go on for hours. But perhaps, naked in front of the cold rain, my wife would have been shorter than usual. Or maybe, even Trudy didn't feel like being bored once again by her aunt's feminist oratory).

"I know he's manic about Halloween and St. Patrick's Day and all the other holidays... but what's the celebration in this one?" (Trudy's voice was still outside the main door: cold air was coming in. I imagined my wife's nipples erect like two pencils. Why was Violet exposing herself almost naked to all that cold? Just to turn me on. That was the only plausible answer).

"Let's say that Valentine's Day, in its most classic form, involves elegance and sophistication: fancy food suited to elegant female tastes (from a box of chocolates to an entire dinner at a fancy restaurant), cultural occasions to attend in formal dress, and several gifts (to females) and lots of chic conversation, but very little sex.

It is a party designed to satisfy female pretensions-you know, no, females from Venus, men from the planet Mars...

The funny and unique thing is that March 14 is always the same day of the week as compared to February 14: if it was a Saturday or a Tuesday, it repeats the next month identically. This makes it evenly balanced: if in February the couple dedicated a weekday Tuesday, they can (and should) do the same in March.

By contrast, March 14 is named "Steak & Blow-Job" to emphasize that what is at stake is male happiness: which, as everyone knows, settles for primal, instinctive pleasures: a steak, zero conversation, zero fine foods, zero romance, zero orgasms for the woman devoted to giving him a generous blowjob without receiving anything in return-just as my husband never received anything to reciprocate all the gifts he has given me over the years, as well as restaurants, theaters, lectures and other cultural occasions he has had to endure for love of me. "

"That explains your order of two meat dishes."

"Yeah. I had to get ready for the evening, nails, hair removal, and no time to cook."

"But, Auntie Violet, why didn't you pay by card? Or, we could have billed you, you are a person of absolute trustworthiness..."

"Ah, right! You are kind, Trudy dear, but it's part of my role--if you don't mind--now that I think of it! If it bothers you to see me handcuffed, feel free to tell me..."

"No, Aunt Violet, it is heartwarming to see a couple still loving after so many years. Most couples I know either fight or divorce."

"Maybe the secret is just carving out moments for quality sex. I don't know. I've made so many mistakes over the years, but today I feel like I can make up for it.

Let's focus: now I need you to hold my ground.

Now you will tell me how much I spend.

I will answer that I have to go and get the money in the living room, in front of the couch.

And you will please answer that you will wait for me here, okay?

I'll go to the living room and get the money and then come back here through the main door."

I don't know why, but I guess at this point Violet winked at Trudy.

The girl had no reason to doubt her mother's best friend, and she was not even asked to come in (which would have been very suspicious), and she simply replied, "Okay, I'll wait here."

"No, you have to ask me for a sum, dear."

"Ah! I'm not a skilled actress like Emma Thompson, huh (giggled). Let's start rehearsing again."

In a louder voice, to be heard well, Trudy resumed, "Here's your order, Ms. Violet. It's 21.95 in total."

"Oh, just a moment, kind unknown girl, I'll go get the cash in the living room right away!" replied Violet, also in a loud voice. I had already heard it all, but listening to the two women as they planned an act for my benefit made me very excited.

"I'll wait for you outside the main door here, ma'am!"

I heard my wife's heels clicking rapidly on the floor.