Lesson Learned

Lesson Learned

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My girlfriend picked Fort Lauderdale for our yearly vacation without giving me the reason why. Maybe it was just memories of college and spring break, I’d thought. We were both only three years out from graduation, after all. Then, too, Celia had a couple of girlfriends in South Florida. Anyway, once the decision was made we had our bags packed in no time and were soon digging all the sunshine. It was quite a change from Seattle, where we live. Instead of what felt like constant drizzle and gloomy hipsters, the streets were full of young people in swimwear, partying their brains out. We checked into our hotel and immediately joined them.

After a relaxing afternoon strolling around the beachside walk and checking out the various eateries and bars, we decided we were ready for an early supper. I was OK in my shirt and shorts, but Celia wanted to change out of her swimsuit into something a bit more appropriate, so we arranged to meet at a seafood place we’d seen.

Before we parted, she leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Be good,” she said. I heard the smile in her voice, but also a steely note of command.

Celia is quite lovely, tall and willowy with long blonde hair. She looks a bit like a nymph from an old painting, but her personality is a bit more … complex. As soon as we began dating, we explored different forms of kinky sex. Originally it was my idea, but Celia took to it immediately, and it became evident very quickly that she was the dominant in our relationship.

I knew her telling me to “be good” was the start of one her games.

I sauntered into the restaurant and checked out the bar. A group of 20-something girls were clustered at one end, laughing and chatting. I sat down near them and ordered a beer.

After a few minutes, my phone chirped in my pocket. Celia had sent me a text: “Remember to be good.”

A moment or two later, another came through: “You know what will happen if you’re bad.”

A snapshot followed immediately, showing — let’s not beat around the bush — a guy’s naked ass. I recognized it as my own, just as I recognized the healthy reddish blush in the cheeks as having originated from Celia’s punishing hand. The photo was from a session we’d enjoyed at home, when I had indeed been “bad.” Just to be clear, being “bad” in Celia’s mind, meant me being caught flirting.

Remembering the session brought a matching flush of red to my face and created a definite stiffness in my shorts. I hurriedly texted Celia back, assuring her I would “be good.”

I waited for her reply, sipping my beer in a state of delicious anticipation. No reply came, which I knew probably meant she was on her way to join me. After a few more minutes, one of the girls at the bar dropped her phone, and I quickly bent down to retrieve it for her. Though I — and certainly the girl — didn’t realize it, the timing was perfect. Well, perfect for getting me into trouble. Because just as I was handing the phone back to her with a smile, I heard someone behind me say in a tone of voice that could have frozen boiling water: “What’s this?”

It was, of course, Celia, resplendent in a brightly colored dress and flat sandals. She wasn’t clothed like a dominant goddess, but the way she stood — hands on hips, lips pursed and blue eyes glaring — radiated power.

“Just helping the lady with her phone, honey,” I said.

“Really?” Celia said coolly, glancing at the girls at the bar. The one who’d dropped her phone met my wife’s eyes and gave her a long, speculative look before flashing me a quick grin and turning back to her friends.

Celia turned her eyes on me and said, “I think if this is the way you’re going to behave, I’d better get you home.”

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