He’d made his specialty, wonderfully luscious chocolate
cake. My favourite. It had layer upon layer with
delicious, unhealthy chocolate and my name in white chocolate frosting. I was
in heaven. The bliss too great to control – as were the urge
to taste some.
CRACK! I jumped up with a squeal as the spatula he had
just finished washing up landed on my thigh with the utmost precision. He
didn’t even have to aim to hit that target.
I glowered at him and pouted wounded innocence at him
while he sternly pointed towards the door. I was to leave the kitchen and get
ready for my party.
Damned be my wretched luck! It was my birthday cake! I
should get to taste it if I wanted, when I wanted. In my mind began the
formation of a plan.
I got dressed up in my best like he’d ordered me. I
looked at the tie with extreme loathing and called out my plea not to have to
wear it, towards the kitchen. The reply promptly made me love wearing ties.
I then strolled into the kitchen making a show of myself
and receiving the expected compliments and flattery as well as stealing one or
two tasty kisses from my beloved’s sugary lips – he’d tasted the frosting! That
bastard!
Innocent as a lamb I asked if he needed any help and
offered to put the candles – all 28 of them – on the cake. He informed me that
I would turn 31 and that the candles were in the cupboard. Pulling faces at his
back I rummaged through the cupboard until I found them and began placing them
neatly on the cake, lighting them one after another.
But my work brought me nothing but ill-treatment!
Could I help that my finger now and again touched the
thick, mouth-watering abundance of creamy chocolate? Was it my fault I didn’t
have a tissue to wipe the delicious, rich chocolate off my finger, but had to
lick it off? And how was I to blame for the look of ecstasy *his* tempting
cuisine put on my face?
No, it was so utterly unfair, his outraged “Fredrick!”
and his violent manhandling of my person to that cruel position across his
sturdy, sexy legs – not to mention the injustice of the spatula coming down in
vicious cracks.
I protested and declared my innocence, sobbing out my
profuse apology, all to the rhythm of his spanking me.
And then my nose caught a whiff of smoke. In an attempt
to rise a petition that this smell be carefully looked into I stuttered some
incoherent sentences that didn’t reach the higher command.
So I began twisting around to find the source of the
smoke and then to my horror I saw:
“The cake’s on fire!! REIF!!! THE CAKE’S ON FIRE!!!!”
Being the swift and bright thinker he is, the love of my
life, he had soon put the fire out, along with great-auntie Corrine’s laced
tablecloth.
There was nothing left to do but to dash to the bakery
and buy a much appreciated – by the guests at any rate – cake.
And thus, birthday party saved and the only fire to
worry about being the one in my bum, we settled down, after the last of the guests
had gone, to cuddle and scrape the soot off the wonderfully luscious chocolate
cake.
Birthdays don’t get any better than this.
The End