“Rachel, we’re going to be late.”

He spoke as evenly as he could, but Rachel could still sense the tension in his voice even with her eyes glued to the screen. Bertie could be such a stickler for punctuality. He stood in front of the door to their apartment, swaying slightly in his shoes.

“I’m going to be another minute,” she responded, her focus still confined to the laptop in front of her. Unlike her boyfriend, Rachel was not in the habit of hiding her irritation.

“We were supposed to be at this party ten minutes ago. Your party.”

“It’s a mixer for musicians and sound designers, hon. They’re never on time for anything, anyway.” She slid her headphones back into place. If Bertie could suffer in silence for just a little longer, she’d be done.

The problem was that Bertie always tried too hard to make a good first impression. Even though they both came from an arts background – Rachel as a painter and DJ, Bertie as a writer – her younger boyfriend had never really spent much time with other people in his field. The kind of parties he was used to were hosted by university faculty and small-town wealth, where he had only to show up in a tie, make boring small talk with dusty old fucks, and talk about his next manuscript in the hopes that one of them would have a friend or family member in publishing. None of these people were real artists, they probably hadn’t even set foot in their own studios for years. She hated those old fakes, so when a chance came along to spend time with her own crowd, she wasn’t about to let go of it.

But that also didn’t mean she had to jump on it right away.

“What are you even doing there?”

She lowered the volume again, her frustration plain on her face. “I’m watching a video. It’s almost done.” She brushed away a lock of blue-and-purple hair that had tumbled out from behind her headphones.

Bertie shrugged his shoulders and picked up a book from their coffee table.

She rolled her eyes and refocused her attention on the computer. The video still had about four minutes to go, but if Bertie was patient, the time should fly by. Hell, she thought, if she could drive herself, she would and save on the hassle. The mixer itself wasn’t even the point, it was a stealth homecoming party for Zaiydah Massoud, a local singer who’d just finished recording in LA.

Rachel had never met Zaiydah – she hadn’t even heard her sing – but she no doubt had some industry contacts that Rachel would be glad to make. Besides, almost all of the recording artists that Rachel knew were dudes, it would be a nice change of pace to talk shop with another woman. But that wasn’t something she would be able to do at the start of the night. Why didn’t Bertie get that?

Moving on from her thoughts, she realized her video had already ended, and she’d missed it. Leaning slightly forward so Bertie wouldn’t be able to see, she restarted the playback.

*** 

Bertie looked up from the dashboard. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“That’s the address.”

Rachel hadn’t known what to expect when she’d received the invite, but she’d have never guessed this. The various parties she’d been to before were at somebody’s house, or at a Legion Hall if there were a lot of people – not usually at what appeared to be a run-down biker bar at the end of a one-way street. She studied the bar for a moment before the car turned and it vanished from sight.

“Hey!” she protested, “Where are you going?”

“It’s got four parking spaces for cars, and they’re all taken. I’m going to try to find us a place on one of the side streets.”

After almost ten minutes of searching, Bertie still hadn’t found a spot to stop the car. Rachel looked at the clock beside the steering wheel – 11:04. They’d just completed another loop of the surrounding streets and were making their way back toward the bar.

She fumed. “This is taking forever. Just drop me off in front of the bar and I’ll see you when you find a spot, okay?”

Bertie pulled to a stop in stony silence. She felt a little bad for ordering him around like that, but there was no sense in two of them spinning their wheels – literally, in this case – when only one was needed. She’d find a table for both of them inside and start on her first drink while she waited.

A large, burly man with a shaved head held up a hand as she walked up.

“I need to see your ID,” he barked.

Rachel sighed. Thirty years old and she was still being carded every time she left the house. She really didn’t need this right now. She reached for her purse and grabbed – nothing.

She’d left it in the car.

“Look, my name’s Rachel. I’m on the list.”

“I don’t have any list, miss. I check IDs on anyone who looks twenty-five or younger.”

“I’m thirty!” It came out as more of a whine than she intended.

The bouncer grinned, “Take it as a compliment, miss. You don’t look it.”

Rachel growled and stomped off to the curb with all the rage a frustrated five-foot woman in sneakers could muster. She crossed her arms and waited for Bertie to make his way back with her purse.

***

The night did not improve from there. Once Bertie arrived, the matter with the bouncer was solved immediately (Though she noted with some disgust that he wasn’t carded, and he was almost four years younger than her), but another problem soon presented itself. The bar was packed, with little room to move. At first, Zaiydah was nowhere to be found, and Rachel’s heart dropped. Had she made it all this way for nothing?

Then a voice picked up over the crowd, the announcer asking in a loud, perhaps slightly drunk voice if this audience would like to hear Zaiydah sing. Rachel stretched to see what was going on, but couldn’t raise her head above the crowd. She elbowed Bertie in the ribs and told him to describe what he was seeing as the singer launched into her first song, a cover of a Pussycat Dolls tune.

Ignoring the cheers around her as much as possible, Rachel stood listening to the words rolling from Zaiydah’s lips – and grimaced.

“She’s terrible!”

Much to her further irritation, Bertie didn’t hear her, and she repeated, “She’s terrible! She’s spent so much time in the studio that she doesn’t remember how to pull it off live!”

Bertie shrugged. She knew he didn’t have much of an ear for music – or in a room this loud, much of an ear for anything. He nodded at her assessment, then winced from the feedback as Zaiydah stepped too close to one of her speakers. She smiled apologetically and went on with her set.

“How does she even have a career?” Rachel continued.

“She’s pretty, that helps,” Bertie mused, “And isn’t her father a record producer or something in India?”

“That’s great. Conventional beauty and nepotism win the day over talent again, and the rest of us are stuck trying to pay the bills.” She threw up her hands and added, “Fuck this. I’m getting a drink.”

 ***

The first drink disappeared quickly and turned into two. Bertie was quiet the rest of the evening – she didn’t know if he was trying to give her space, or just deafened from the loud music. At this point, she didn’t care, the night had turned into a total write-off. Zaiydah was nothing like she had hoped to hear, and her performance and the crowd of kiss-asses made any hope of networking with other artists in the crowd impossible. Rachel ended up spending the next two hours posted by the bar before finally giving up and shouting to Bertie that she was ready to go home.

Her stomach roiled throughout the trip home, and by the time they got back to the apartment, she was greatly regretting the last drink. She tossed her coat over a chair and made her way to the bathroom.

Bertie hung his own up in their closet.

“Rachel, we need to talk,” he started.

“Not now!”

“Yes, now. You’ve been dismissive and rude to me all night. I’ve played along because these are your friends, and I realize you were disappointed in how the evening went, but that’s no excuse for your behaviour.”

From where he was standing, she imagined Bertie would think she wasn’t listening – but leaning over the toilet, she heard every word and let them sink in. She’d been frustrated and she’d taken it out on him because she knew he’d take it. He was angry and had every right to be. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him rolling up his sleeve.

“Rachel, come here.”

She never got the chance to respond. The chaos in her guts boiled over, and she spewed loudly into the toilet. She stood shaking for a good moment, then retched again. She felt a hand land softly on her shoulder, and saw Bertie looking at her with caring eyes.

He brushed an indigo strand from her eye.

"Are you alright, honey?” he asked.

Rachel nodded, tears forming in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I know how I’ve been and it’s not fair. I will make it right, I promise.”

He shushed her and wiped her mouth with a damp towel. She fell asleep in his arms and he carried her snoring to bed.

***

The next day, Rachel was glad to awaken without the weight of a hangover, even if the price she’d paid for that cure tasted just as awful. Rising on unsteady feet, she looked at the clock and was astounded upon seeing that it was already two in the afternoon. Bertie was long gone – he wouldn’t be back until later that night, and by that time she’d be spinning at a club downtown. She let out a disappointed whimper – she’d been going to make him lunch.

She ended up doing laundry instead. It occurred to her, while putting away her shirts and underwear, that this was probably a half-assed apology. The pair usually split their chores, and Bertie had only ended up doing it more often because he woke up earlier when there was better access to the machines. He’d been very forgiving the night before and deserved better. She was running over various make-up gifts in her mind when she found exactly what she was looking for in one of her drawers.

***

Rachel had called in the following night, asking her boss for a personal day. He’d been confused at first – DJs weren’t in a line of work that entitled them to miss a lot of work – but when she’d explained the situation, he’d let out an “aah” and told her that he’d cover her shift and that she should take the time to work on her relationship. She hadn’t given him any details as to what sort of work she had in mind, and that was probably for the best.

She’d found it buried deep in one of her drawers and had only noticed it because it was the only frilly garment she owned. The black mesh-and-whalebone teddy had been bought years ago for an ex-boyfriend who would dump her the day before Valentine’s Day, and it had sat unused in its drawer ever since. She was delighted to discover it still fit perfectly. In fact, the corset did a better job of accenting her hips now than it would have when she bought it, and Bertie couldn’t keep his hands off her hips at the best of times. She admired herself in the mirror, and liked what she saw. She’d fuck herself, if she could. The thought made her giggle.

Ten minutes before Bertie was due to arrive home, she switched off all of the lights in the apartment and locked the door. He wasn’t expecting her home, and she didn’t want to spoil the surprise. When he arrived, she hid behind the wall in the kitchen, and he walked unsuspecting into the shower. She watched as he undressed and closed the door. As the water started to flow, she set her plan into motion, clearing the kitchen table. Candles. Strawberries. And herself, the centerpiece. Poor Bertie didn’t know what he was about to step into. Poor, lucky, Bertie.

She heard the water shut off and smiled. He would take another moment to shave before the door would open again. As she waited, she imagined the look on his face when he stepped out of the bathroom door and her fingers began to wander. Just as her juices were beginning to flow, the door opened and there was Bertie, his furry chest bared and a towel tied around his midsection. His jaw dropped at the sight of her, as did the toothbrush he’d had in his mouth. She couldn’t help but laugh as he spat the rest of his toothpaste into the sink.

“What’s this?” he finally asked.

She struck her most coquettish pose. “I wanted to show you how sorry I was about the other night. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he whispered in her ear, sending shivers down her back. His hands grasped her by the waist and moved down. Her eyes closed, she felt the grip of nylon leave her hips as he lowered to his knees, taking her panties down with him.

He brushed her mound with the tips of his fingers. “I thought you already apologized for the other night.”

“I still felt bad about it,” she replied, “And I thought you’d appreciate something a little more… substantial.”

His hands found her hips, kneading the flesh above her pelvic bone.

“I do appreciate it.”

“Well, that’s a- oh!”

He licked her, softly and rhythmically. She moaned and leaned back against the table as his practiced tongue stroked the edge of her clit. A flush of red heat flowed straight up to her ears, and she prayed she wouldn’t lose her balance – oh no, she was going to-

He stopped. He looked up at her with a grin, licking his lips. Then… he helped himself to a strawberry.

“I think you’re enjoying this so-called apology, dear.”

She blinked in surprise. “Keep going,” she insisted, her breath hoarse.

“Still so demanding. I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson at all.”

His hand still wrapped around the curve of her hips, it took no effort from him to turn Rachel around and bend her over. A haze of arousal still clouded her thoughts, and she lifted her bottom invitingly. The loud smack as his hand came down snapped her back to reality.

“Hey!” she squeaked, “What was that for?”

In lieu of an answer, he delivered another set of five sharp cracks across her cheeks. Her hands flew back in an attempt to cover her bottom, but between her small hands and ample behind, she did little but annoy Bertie.

“Hands at the sides of the table,” he barked and without thinking she complied. Instead, she turned her head to him, her lower lip protruding in her best pout.

“Don’t you like your present?” she asked, and wiggled her bottom.

“Oh, I quite like it,” he smirked, and drew a finger down into her wet slit. “But the other day you were quite rude to me. I didn’t do anything about it then, but you weren’t feeling well.” He punctuated the last two words with a two more crisp slaps. “But you seem to be feeling better today, so I think we can deal with this first.”

The sting was beginning to set it, and Rachel danced from one foot to the other, her rear no doubt jiggling in a way that Bertie was greatly enjoying. She groaned – still turned on, still needing release. She kicked from the force of a particularly strong slap and brushed a pile of cloth on the floor. She realized that Bertie’s towel had slipped off during the spanking, and she dared another look over her shoulder. Her boyfriend stood naked behind her.

“Fuck me,” she pleaded, but her voice was lost over the racket he was making on her bottom.

“Fuck me!” she shouted, and the slaps suddenly stopped. As an afterthought, she whimpered, “Please.”

He did nothing at first, no doubt admiring the rosy glow he’d brought into being. She felt his fingers brush her cleft, working their way into the dewy inside. He rubbed gently, building up tempo as she rocked against the table. She shook her head. He got the message.

He laid over her and kissed her, their tongues winding around each other. She spread her legs and he was inside her, bucking against her thighs. The table groaned and pushed forward, spilling the bowl of fruit. Neither one of them noticed, lost in the moment.

Bertie planted a trail of kisses down her back. She could feel his thrusts slowing, and knew he must be close to bursting. She pushed out her bottom, enveloping his shaft, and squeezed. He winced, trying to keep himself back from the brink.

“How do you like your naughty girl?” she purred.

It was too much for Bertie. He gasped, nearly collapsing as he came. His hands dug into her hips as his last, wild thrusts brought her, too, to the climax she’d hoped for. Releasing the table, they slid the floor in a pile of arms and legs.

Bertie let out a loud post-coital wheeze. She gave him an odd look, not certain by the sound if he was sighing or choking. He understood, and by way of answer gave her one last hearty slap on the bum. He leaned into her and whispered in her ear, “I love my naughty girl.”

He reached over for the half-spilled bowl of strawberries and popped one in his mouth.

“Hungry?”