I was a little worried that night. He had been really mushy and sentimental all week, saying words like love and commitment and even babies. I blew off the conversation every time.
No lie, though—my submissive was begging for my babies. I told him my uterus was off-limits. And, as the gatekeeper, Bizzy agreed.
He had said over the phone that tonight would be special. To block off the next day, and take off from work. I should have known what he had planned.
In the bathroom hung a white wedding gown, complete with a veil. It was beautiful—halter top, mermaid fit, glitter and glam to a minimum. Classy. The shoes that went with it were tiny, dainty little kitten-heel pumps. He put a lot of care into it, and even though the idea of a honeymoon scene squicked me, I gave in and put it on grudgingly.
He walked out of my bedroom in a tux. His super-cut body looked really nice in a tailored suit, as opposed to his usual attire of wifebeater and jeans.
“Mrs. Sorenson,” he said with reverence as I walked out of the bathroom completely mortified over the scene.
I nodded at him, and tried to avoid his eyes. His glare was so intense and so full of longing. I was embarrassed for him.
He scooped me up over the threshold of my bedroom, and into our “honeymoon suite.” He had placed little hotel-room items everywhere. Even a room service menu.
“I know you don’t like champagne, darling, so how about a little red wine?” he asked roguishly, handing me a glass.
I took it and gulped it down in three swigs. It was more than obvious that I was nervous. He looked at me warily, but refilled anyway.
“So, I know wine is relaxing enough as it is, but how would my new bride like a massage on her honeymoon night?” he asked, rubbing some almond-scented oil between his palms.
Brent was a master of massage. I was a sucker for his back rub, so I just smiled politely and lay down on my stomach.
He undid the halter, unzipped the white gown to the waist, and slipped the sides off my body. I felt his hot breath on my neck, and he got to work on my shoulders.
I groaned, and let my worries drop to the floor as Brent massaged my back softly. Every few minutes or so, I’d take another long sip of my wine, and let myself be pampered. This wasn’t as bad as I had thought . . . at first.
Once Brent had finished on my back, I wanted more. I wanted legs, I wanted arms, and Bizzy wanted a “deep-tissue” massage. So I flipped over preemptively.
And caught him off guard.
With a ring box in his hand.
“Uhh,” he stuttered. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
I frowned and said, “Of course I’ve seen it, silly, we’re married.” I tried desperately to keep him in the scene, and to prevent him from doing what I thought he was going to do.
“Cerise,” he said, “I want this to be real.”
I pulled the halter back up. “This is real,” I said, grabbing his hands. “That massage was real, and from my estimation, you weren’t done with it yet.” I put his hands on my thighs, and indicated what I wanted.
“No,” he said, quietly.
I gritted my teeth. “Excuse me?” I asked.
He pulled the ring from the box, and got down on his knee. “Please, will you marry me?” he asked.
“No, Brent.” I looked at him squarely. “The scene is over. Get dressed. We’ve danced around this subject enough, and you know not to question your Domme.”