Naked Donna

My panties quit before I made it to the kitchen.
 
I tied the apron in the mirror, saw my breasts overflow the halter top, twirled to look at myself from the side, the back. Nothing underneath, I decided, as I pushed the now damp panties to the floor, readjusted the bow behind me, and emerged from the bedroom as if nothing was amiss.
 

Just another evening in the Pink household — nothing to see here.
 
Two steps into the living room all normalcy changed.
 
D, no longer watching the game he’d been glued to, zeroed in on my breasts spilling from the inadequate top, my cinched waist, my naked thighs. I stopped to let him stare. With one finger, he motioned for me to turn. Picturing what I’d seen in the mirror — the hint of ribs giving rise to hip bones, my naked back, the blue bow that framed my pinkish bottom — I modeled the 50s style apron. With a curtsy, I faced him.
 

“Turn again. Slower,” he commanded. In my most exaggerated catwalk turn, I pivoted incrementally, my heart on fast forward as I looked at him over my shoulder. “Nice apron. What’s for dinner?”
 
Really? He expected me to cook in this?
 
“Meatloaf, dear,” I answered sweetly, incarnating the Donna Reed from my childhood.
 
“What’s our appetizer?” He asked, taking hold of my hand as I passed.
 
Ah, here we go.
 

“Me,” I purred. “Would you like it now, or after the meatloaf is in the oven?”
 
With a yank on my arm, I had my answer. He deftly steered me over his knees and clucked his tongue in appreciation, his hands immediately on my bottom, caressing before he began my spanking.
 
“Mmmm…this feels more like dessert,” I noted as he landed a particularly hard smack. “We should….ahh….probably…ow….save room for multiple courses.”
 
In true 50s style, we had a full course meal. There was the appetizer on the couch, whine in the kitchen, tenderloin on the table, and finally meatloaf on our plates.
 
For dessert? Some sweet cane sugar.

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