The Remote

Ten years married tonight, and Laura has never once been late with dinner. But tonight the table is set with candles and she's standing beside your chair instead of sitting at hers, twisting her napkin in her hands like a girl waiting for a test result. She's wearing the green dress. The one you told her once, years ago, made her eyes look like a forest in the rain. She remembered. She always remembers. "Happy anniversary," she says softly, and then she presses something small and smooth into your palm.

It's a remote. Barely bigger than a matchbox, matte black, with a single button and a small dial on the side.

Laura's cheeks go pink the moment your fingers close around it. She glances at the table, at the door, anywhere but your face.

"I bought it last week," she says. "It's... it's already in me. Has been since before you got home."

You look at her — really look at her — and see it now. The way she's standing with her thighs pressed together. The flush creeping down her throat. The way she shifts her weight every few seconds like she can't quite get comfortable.

"You've been wearing it this whole time?" "Since six," she whispers. "I almost turned it on myself just to take the edge off. But I promised. Tonight it's yours."

You sit down slowly, the remote heavy in your hand. The dinner she made is sitting there getting cold — seared steak, her asparagus, the good wine. "You made all this."

"I wanted tonight to be perfect." She finally sits across from you, folds her hands, looks at you through her lashes. "And I wanted to do something brave. I've been thinking about it for months."

"Tell me what you've been thinking," you say, and pour the wine.

She takes a sip first. Liquid courage. "That I want you to decide things. All evening. What I eat, when I eat it, whether I get to..." She stops, swallows. "Whether I get to come. I've never given that to anyone. I want to give it to you."

You turn the dial to the lowest setting and press the button. Laura gasps and grabs the edge of the table. Her wine sloshes. Her eyes go wide and glassy and she laughs — a shaky, disbelieving little laugh, like she surprised herself.

"Oh. Oh, that's — okay. Okay." She's already breathing harder. "That's the lowest one?" "That's the lowest one."

"God." She squeezes her thighs together. "I'm in so much trouble."

You make her eat. That's the game now — you feed her dinner one bite at a time, and every few bites you press the button, sometimes two seconds, sometimes ten, watching her try to chew and swallow while her face falls apart.

"Tell me how it feels," you say on the third press. "Like — like you're touching me from across the table," she manages. "Like everyone at this restaurant can see what you're doing to me, even though it's just us." Her fork trembles in her hand. "Please don't stop being in charge. Please."

By the time the plates are empty she's a wreck in the best way — hair mussed from running her hands through it, chest flushed above the neckline of the green dress, squirming in her chair with her eyes on you like you hold the only oxygen in the room.

"Stand up," you say. "Come here." She's around the table in three steps. She stands between your knees, hands clasped behind her back like she invented the pose, looking down at you with pure devotion. "Take off the dress."

She reaches back for the zipper. It slides down slowly, and she lets the dress fall off her shoulders, over her hips, to the floor. No bra. Just tiny lace panties and the flush covering her from collarbone to navel.

"Ten years," she says, stepping out of it, "and you still make me feel like the first time you looked at me."

You reach up and trace the lace at her hip. "These too."

Naked now, she stands there while you look your fill — her breasts heavy and rising fast, her nipples already hard, her thighs slick and shining. Ten years and she still blushes under your eyes.

"Touch yourself," you tell her. "But don't come." Her hand slides down her stomach and between her legs, and she hisses when her fingers find herself, already soaking, the thin wire of the toy disappearing inside her. You press the button at the same time.

"Oh fuck—" Her knees actually buckle. She catches herself on your shoulder, fingers still working, hips rolling. "I can't — I can't hold it if you do both, I can't—" "You can. And you will."

She holds it. Barely. Trembling against your shoulder, whispering please and your name and please again, getting louder until she's whimpering into your neck, right at the cliff's edge and holding on because you told her to.

You unzip your jeans and free your cock, thick and aching, right in front of her. "On your knees." She drops instantly. Both knees on the hardwood, no hesitation, and takes you in her mouth with a desperate, grateful sound, like your cock is the reward she's been earning all night.

Her mouth is hot and messy and loving — she knows exactly how you like it after ten years, tongue swirling the head, taking you deep until her eyes water, moaning around you because she genuinely loves this, loves your cock, loves you using her mouth while the toy keeps humming between her thighs.

You fist your hand in her hair and guide the pace. She whimpers yes and takes it faster, her hips grinding against nothing, chasing the pressure she isn't allowed to have yet. "Look at me," you say, and she lifts those hazel eyes to yours, mouth stuffed full of you, and that's nearly the end of you right there.

You pull her up before you lose it, bend her over the table — over the anniversary dinner she made, candles still burning — and slide her soaked panties aside. When you push into her, cock sliding deep next to the still-buzzing toy, she screams your name and scrabbles for the tablecloth. "Come," you tell her, one hand in her hair. "Now."

She comes apart instantly, pussy clamping down on you so hard you see stars, wailing through it while you fuck her through the waves and then chase your own, until you're spilling deep inside her with a growl and she's pushing back to take every drop, shivering, whispering thank you thank you thank you.

Afterward you carry her to the couch, both of you wrecked and laughing, and she curls into your chest with the remote still in your hand. She reaches down and gently takes it — and hands it right back. "Keep it," she murmurs against your skin, thoroughly pleased with herself. "Best anniversary present I ever gave myself."

Ten years of marriage and she can still hand you something that changes the whole evening. That's Laura — shy right up until she isn't, quiet right up until she trusts you completely, and then braver than anyone you've ever known. She's dozing against your chest now, thoroughly satisfied, a smile on her lips. The remote is in your pocket. The dial goes much higher than one. And there's a whole weekend ahead.