The Diary and the Strap
A beleagured wife, with only a diary to turn to in times of stress, is dismayed to find it missing. Her husband is unemployed and inattentive, her co-workers are catty and self-serving, and traffic is a bitch. But when Jasmine comes early to find rose petals leading to the bedroom, the final straw breaks...
Elements: BDSM, African-American, Toys
When I woke up hours later, my man was fully clothed, reading a book of poetry by Langston Hughes. He had showered, was freshly powdered, and he smiled at me.
"Hey, sleepy head." He kissed me.
"I missed you. You fell asleep on me." He had dreamy bedroom eyes.
"Was I dreaming?"
"No, baby. You weren't." He rubbed the back of my neck. I loved his touch.
"So, this is really happening?"
"Yes. I gotta go to work in about five hours, I should be sleep. But I bathed you while you slept. I clothed you."
I sat up, looking at myself. My hair was in a tight bun. He did my hair? My toenails and fingernails were cut nicely and done up with clear polish. Wow. I was stunned. And he'd put my pajamas on me. I smelled like the apple lotion I loved.
"Thanks, baby. I must have been knocked out. I didn't feel a thing."
"I know. I carried you to the tub and I bathed you. I then toweled you off. You looked so angelic. You must have had a hard day at the office. I then carried you to the bed, dried you off, did your pedicure and manicure, put on your pajamas when the nail polish dried, and I just watched you sleep. Then I felt myself getting horny so I cleaned up the room you turned into Hurricane Jasmine. I hung up the clothes, dusted and polished the shelves, swept up the rose petals. I put them in a small bag on the dresser, next to a white orchid. For your memories. I then folded your panties and pulled out some Langston Hughes."
"But you hate poetry."
"I love it now. I read some of Damian Campbell's shit on MySpace. The man is bad. And they talk about Zane and Afro Erotic. This niggah is dope."
"Yes, he's fire." I felt myself getting aroused.
I stared deep into his eyes.
"I love you, baby, I will never hit you again. I promise. I will be a better man, a better husband."
"I believe you, baby."
"I also made an appointment for us to see a marriage counselor, if that's all right with you." He looked a little standoffish, anticipating my answer. I was just glad he didn't think our problems diminished like a light switch. He was taking responsibility for his actions. Who was I to shit on that?
"Yes, baby, just tell me the time and the place."
"Thank you, baby, for putting up with my shit and not leaving me. Most girls would have been gone."
"Most girls, yea, but I'm a woman who loves her husband. For better or for worse, richer or for poorer, until death do us part. I took vows."
"And so did I." He handed me an envelope. "This is yours."