We exchange them. I stifle a scandalized gasp when I see that Dylan’s vow for me is mostly explicit descriptions of what he plans to do to me and my body parts, and how the enforcement of the behavior he wishes me to exhibit for him will generate a conscious attitude and routine conduct and deportment that will enable me to be and do whatever the hell I want in life.
For your own perfection, and my unending pleasure, I vow to make your cunt ache every day and night. You will accept the hurt I will give you as evidence of my honest devotion to you as your husband, of my love of all that you are, and of my vow to our shared future.
We simultaneously reach for our fountain pens. He signs my vow to him with an elegant flourish, never breaking eye contact, and I do the same. Or I try to, because when I get to the last swish of the last letter of my name, the vibrator jerks fiercely inside of me. My knees lock up, my body jolts, and the priceless pen clatters to the floor, splattering ink on the stone.
“Uhm, ungh, sorry,” I manage, half-moaning, forgetting my very first lesson yet again. The vibrator pumps into me, poking my tense vaginal muscles. I start sweating with the effort to keep it from slipping out of me.
While our audience murmurs appreciatively — I swear I can hear my mom gasp in romantic delight — Dylan goes down to a knee in front of me and picks the pen up, like a perfect gentleman. He smiles up at me and offers the sleek writing utensil that now has a visible scuff on its polished mantle. As I take the pen from him, he mouths ‘You’re perfect, Lizzie’ to me.
Or maybe it’s ‘You’re so fucked, Lizzie’.
I ache and clench and drip.
***The End***
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