You want me to spank you, don’t you? Too bad, because instead I’m going to punish you with disappointed sighs.
Now hold this remote in your hand. That’s right, nice and tight. But don’t click it to watch the new episode of “Real Housewives of Salt Lake City”—not until I grant permission.
Remember how you wanted me to check if the stove was off before bed, baby? Well, guess what? I didn’t.
I know how badly you want to be blindfolded. But instead I’ve hidden your sleeping mask and will refuse to tell you where it is while I deliberately and oh-so-slowly part the blackout curtains at bedtime.
Now you’re going to sit in that chair and watch me load the dishwasher my way. And you’re not going to say a single word.
Guess what? The neighbors we barely know who have the weird-smelling dog invited us over to play Settlers of Catan. I R.S.V.P.’d yes, because I’m in control now.
If you’re a very good girl, I’ll turn the white-noise machine back on.
No, I don’t have any handcuffs. But I do have this constricting Old Navy cardigan that fits weird around the armpits.
Fine, it’s more a CPAP machine than a ball gag, but stick it in your mouth so that you can’t talk while I oh-so-slowly explain the rules of Catan.
I’m going to tie you to the bed and make you lie there in these fifty-thread-count sheets from Walmart.
Remove all of your clothes. Now put on these pre-pregnancy jeans.
Stand there naked while I look for suspicious moles on your body that I won’t tell you about.
Lap up this milk from a saucer using only your tongue and, if you do it well, you can have this Lactaid pill.
Call me “Daddy,” but make sure your voice is really deep so I don’t accidentally think it’s our son asking for another bedtime story from the next room.
Kneel before me—I want to hear your knees crack, slut.
I’m going to bring you right to the edge, and then turn on the refrigerator’s ice-maker function.
Think about your bag of SkinnyPop getting stale while I twist these chip clips on your nipples. Hurts so good, doesn’t it?
I’m going to tease you with soft kisses down your neck, but you won’t be able to make any sounds of pleasure, because you’ll be on the phone with my mother, talking about her bunion surgery.
Get on all fours without making a single comment about how we should really replace the carpet this year.
The safe word is “sciatica.” ♦
