An old Yazoo tune blared on the jukebox. Miles and Rhonda danced, laughing at the nostalgia filling their ears. When they met, nearly twenty-two years ago, “Upstairs At Eric’s” was the soundtrack of the revolution. The album they’d make love to, dance to, eat and sleep to too.
Miles loved Alison Moyet’s voice, Rhonda was a sucker for Vince Clarke’s synth playing. They fell in love with each other, they walked down the aisle to “Only You” the band’s lone hit stateside.
As the jukebox faded, Rhonda looked at her watch. “Heck on toast,” she said, being one of the few people in the world that actually spoke like she’d been ripped from the pages of Archie comics… she was just that kind of playful innocent, even on the low end of 40. “The babysitter is on overtime.”
“Then let’s duck out of here,” Miles said, his still boyish good looks gleaming away at the love of his life.
They said good-bye to their friends, settled up at the bar and grabbed a cab home. On the way home, Rhonda flirted, harmlessly, with Maleek, the cabbie taking them to the suburbs. Miles smiled, his wife was a flirtatious type, a sweet-hearted, good natured flirt.
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They pulled up in front of their house, gave Maleek $20 for his troubles, even though the ride only cost $6.50, and headed inside.
Jenny sat on the sofa, watching “Facts of Life” on Nick at Night, the twins were asleep upstairs.
“Did you guys have a good time?” she asked when she saw them enter the front door.
“Delightful, thanks so much.”
Miles handed Jenny $20, “This is for your troubles.”
“The boys are a delight Mr. Jackson, no trouble at all.”
“Do you need a lift home?”
“Naw, my dad gave me the car for the night. I think I’m going to see Rocky Horror Picture Show at the midnight movies with some friends.”
“Gives a person a sense of belonging knowing that teenagers still do that.”
“Oh, it’s fun as hell, er heck, Mr. Jackson.”
Jenny left, and Miles and Rhonda locked the door and headed upstairs to their bedroom. A quick check of the kids, sleeping peacefully one door down the hall, and they headed into their cozy sleep chamber.
“Mike was certainly tying one on, wasn’t he?” Miles asked, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Oh yeah, what’s up with that?” Rhonda replied, reaching behind to unzip her skirt.
“No idea, he always says it’s because he’s Irish,” Miles said, taking off his pants and laying them on the chair next to the bed.
“I’m Irish, and I only had two beers,” Rhonda said, sitting on the bed, kicking off her shoes, and rolling her nylons down her succulent legs and off her feet.
“I’m Dutch, does that mean I should wear wooden shoes?” he said, pulling off his socks and shooting a basket with them at the hamper across the room.
“Please don’t,” she said, pulling off her wig of long, dark hair, revealing a chin-length bob that nobody but Miles knew she had.
“Naw, they’re not for me… too uncomfortable,” he said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from the top drawer.
“And unsightly,” she said, pulling on a leather bra.
“And just think of the splinters,” Miles said, while cuffing his wife to the headboard.
“Ouch, splinters,” she said, planting her feet on the bed and lifting her midsection to Miles’ liking.
“I’m part Scottish too, should I wear a kilt?” he asked, tying rope around her ankles.
“Golly, no,” she said in her best Riverdale tone, bending her neck from side to side to limber up for her coming moment.
“Naw, I don’t have the legs for it,” he said, opening up the drawer to the nightstand and pulling a pair of clippers from them.
“I don’t know, they’re pretty darned peachy if you ask me.”
“Nice of you to say, honey” he said, plugging in the black hair-robbers and flicking them on. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
“Delightful…” he said with a giggle.
“I need my punishment.”
“And you shall have it.” The idiot grin plastered to his face said that this was not punishment for either one. Rather, a game they’d come up with after years of a marriage with none of the boredom their pals were saddled with.
“What punishment is just, sir?”
The clippers plunged into Rhonda’s forehead, plowing away at the hidden hair she’d kept from her closest friends and even her family.
“Please, no, not my hair. I’ll behave,” she said, in mock begging. Rhonda was a sweet woman, but a horrible actress. Miles was a worse one.
“You may grow it back when I feel you’ve earned it.” Chuckle, chuckle.
The clippers made short work of her chin-length hair, reducing it to stubble in a matter of minutes. She writhed on the bed, obviously turned on. Miles was obviously aroused as well.
The clippers flicked off as suddenly as they flicked on. Rhonda was left with stubble, uneven stubble on her head. A head she longed to touch and feel, and revel in. She loved being buzzed. And she loved flirting with cabbies on the ride home to ensure her “punishment”.
The two made love with a passion unseen since the publishing of the Kama Sutra. Rhonda threw her stubbled head back against the pillow and moaned softly so she wouldn’t wake the kids.
She slipped from the handcuffs, like she always did, and subdued the “unsuspecting” Miles. Now was her turn to dominate the dominator.
His mock look of fear was more bad B-movie acting. She giggled uncontrollably, while Miles swelled inside her.
His hair fell off quicker than hers. And the stubble on his head gave way to a straight razor as he lay very still, so as not to upset the mistress.
“No, clean up this mess, or I shall punish you again,” she said, after ridding his scalp of any remaining hairs.
“Yes, madam,” he said, reaching for his pants.
“I did not tell you you could dress,” she said.
“I apologize, madam,” he said, collecting the sheets off the bed, picking up any stray hairs that fell on the carpet.
She spanked him, gently, to emphasize her point.
He finished cleaning the room, and asked, “Would my mistress desire a shower?”
“That would please me,” she said, rubbing the fuzz on her head in obvious glee.
“I shall prepare it then,” he said, and wandered over to the bathroom to prepare the water. Rhonda reached over to the CD player and pushed play. Yazoo began to waft through the quiet bedroom. She smiled as she put the handcuffs back in their drawer, and looked in on her naked, loving, husband.
“Punishment,” she said to herself. “If the rest of the world only knew how brilliant it feels.”
Inside the shower, they took turns washing each other’s backs and necks, exchanging nibbles on the neck and scalp.
“It’s our turn with the car pool tomorrow,” Miles said as he shampooed the remnants of his wife’s hair. “Do you want to drive the boys to school, or should I?”
(Thanks Donna) (Comments welcome: [email protected])