And They Say Women Take Hours to Get Ready!

All resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Shit! Shit! Shit! He told me not to touch it and now look what’s happened. There’s no way I can repair this. I know what I’ve got coming. I was warned and there’s no way I’ll be able to talk him out of it. Might as well resign myself to the inevitable and take comfort from the thought that we’ll eventually kiss and make up. There’ll definitely be tears before bedtime but maybe I can engineer it so that the fun starts once we’re actually tucked up in bed.

I’ve got plenty of time before he gets home. I’ll leave this mess for now and clear up later. I’d rather spend time getting myself cleaned up. I want to get under the shower so I’m a scrubbed, smooth, sweet smelling, silken haired vision of loveliness that’ll charm his heart and stay his hand.

I need time to decide on what to wear too. Obviously the clothing will be coming off but that’s no reason not to look my best at the outset. And underwear is crucial. My new briefs fit me like a second skin and show off the curve of my backside to perfection. On the other hand, the elastic is so tight it’ll lead to an undignified scramble if he decides to pull them down once I’m bent over his lap. I might be better off in the boxers which are more roomy but less sexy. Oh God, am I aiming for sexy or subdued, provocative or penitent? I know; when I’ve had my shower I’ll lay out an assortment of underpants on the bed and try them all on until I find a pair I’m happy with.

I shower with loads of gel, working up a lather to thoroughly clean all my creases, cracks and crevices. Once I’ve washed my hair I move to the sink to start shaving. I want a smooth chin for the kissing and cuddling I’m hoping for later on. And I’m also doing a little judicious trimming down below. Not shaving, you understand. I won’t take a razor to my privates but I do want to clip my exuberant growth to get a neater appearance. If I’m going to be on show in the unforgiving light of day I want to look my best. It’s a bit of a fiddly job. I’m using the shaving mirror because one side magnifies the image. And nail scissors provide the precision finish I’m aiming for although the process is leaving a scattering of coarse dark curls on the bathroom floor. But that’s the least of my worries at this point.

I’ve just caught sight of my arse in the shaving mirror. With a bit of twisting and turning I’ve managed to confirm my worst suspicion. Would you believe it! At my age! You’d think I’d have outgrown acne by now. Well, I have outgrown it but not, it seems, down there. Does Clearasil work on the bum? It’ll have to be bloody fast acting if I’m to present a creamy, zit free skin to my enraged partner.

How do I know he’s enraged? I’ve just heard the key in the door a full hour before I was expecting him and instead of his usual cheery greeting there’s an ominous silence from downstairs. He’s had enough time to discover the evidence of my disobedience and the resultant mess which I’d intended to have cleared away before his return.

I’m standing naked and damp haired in the bathroom with my pubic hair half trimmed and my arse coated in medicated cream. The call I’ve been half expecting echoes through the house. “Christopher, come down here at once.”