The auto-timed percolator burped politely as he entered the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights. Setting up the coffee machine to perform its morning task was the last thing Katherine did each night before retiring; she always programmed it to perk early so that it would be ready for him in the morning. He was especially happy to have it today. Last night he'd had a show opening in Soho, and though his shows always padded his accounts quite nicely, they were still exhausting. He retrieved his paper from the back step, pausing to inhale the brightness of the mint that grew
beside the step. He found his favorite cup on the hook and poured his coffee, leaning on the counter, scanning the headlines in the dim yellow glow of the streetlight outside.

He read the date several times before it hit him.

His woman was a creature of routine, so much so that Joe, an artist whose relationship with clocks was wary and slightly disdainful, occasionally kidded her about it. She invariably did exactly the same thing at exactly the same time every day. Lately, it had become a matter of some contention. He begged for spontaneity in all things, especially sex; he was secretly worried that their intimate life would grow stale. She told him his brand of spontaneity verged on irresponsibility, and was horrified by his utter disregard for calendars and timepieces.

They'd reached an impasse, neither sure what to do next.

He looked at the newspaper again, decided to check the date against an old planner he kept in his studio. It was a nice one, in a handsome hand-tooled leather binder, and it had been forced upon him by Greta, his exasperated agent, after he'd missed several appointments a couple of years ago. Except for the birthdays and anniversaries Greta had marked considerately, its pages were unsullied and ignored.

Yes, oh yes, it was indeed Katherine's birthday. And not just any birthday: this was a milestone birthday, one that every woman seemed to greet with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Joe didn't understand the terrible magic of that number very well, but he knew better than to question it. He put his hand over his eyes and groaned.

Why hadn't she said anything? Why hadn't she prepared him, at least dropped a hint or two?

As he walked back into the kitchen, he saw two irrefutable reminders of his own hypocrisy: that cup of coffee, and that damnable newspaper, branded today with its fatal date. It was Joe's habit to loudly proclaim to all who would listen that he absolutely rejected routine. Yet if that newspaper
wasn't waiting for him by the stoop every morning, he would call the circulation desk to complain bitterly, and fret until the replacement paper had been delivered into his anxious hands. And once or twice his favorite cup had been misplaced, and he'd turned the house upside down before at last
finding it exactly where he'd left it the day before. How spontaneous was that?
Apparently, he had more routine in his life than Katherine gave him credit for. With a satisfied smirk on his lips, he sipped his coffee. Then he remembered the incident with the coffeemaker, and that brought his ego to its knees. Katherine recently had begun to take short business trips out of
town, which forced Joe to fend for himself. After a messy battle with the machine on the first occasion of her absence, he found himself at the 7-11, filling a Styrofoam mug with hours-old burned brew, feeling very disgruntled because the rhythm of his day had been disturbed.

Chastened, he thought about Katherine. She always seemed to have a plan for everything. but some of those careful plans had resulted in significant accomplishments. His debts had been paid off years ago, he had money invested wisely and well, and they owned a great old house in Putnam Valley and a bungalow in coastal North Carolina. They could have had more, but they didn't need more. How many working artists could say the same? Through her meticulous research and due diligence, his wife had helped him find an agent who loved his work and believed in his vision, and a number of galleries around the country that welcomed his shows with delight and respect. Early
on, she had seen the big picture of the rich, comfortable life they could share, and she had worked damn hard to get here. It sure as hell hadn't been an accident. Joe knew his paintings were good, but he owed most of his success to the simple fact that he'd been in the right place at the right
time, so many times. And that was all because of Katherine.

Then there were the little events that only his wife, with her extraordinary attention to detail, could have arranged. He remembered the evening of his triumphant first show. Katherine and he had begun dating casually about a year and a half before, and then it had gotten serious within six months, and he thought that his first successful show would be the initial step towards making her his wife. It had been, indeed, a phenomenal debut; all but two of his paintings had sold for prices that he found a little surreal; Greta had insisted that collectors'd snap them up, and she'd been absolutely right. What an incredible night! For some reason, Katherine had left a bit early, whispering something about an emergency into Greta's ear. It had never occurred to him that she had anything up her sleeve.

After the gallery had emptied, Greta sent Joe outside, ostensibly to hail a cab. A reception in his honor was planned at Le Cirque, which would soon become his very favorite restaurant, and they were running late. Almost immediately, a limousine had arrived at the curb. Not a hired coach with a cab light on the roof. a private car, enormously sleek and elegant, with a driver whose suit probably cost more than any three of the paintings Joe had sold that night. "How nice!" he exclaimed to the driver. "Did Greta send you?"

"No, sir." That, and a discreet wink, was the driver's only response; he slowly pulled open the rear door of the car to reveal its shadowy interior, and the long, stockinged leg of its sole occupant.

Joe couldn't move for a moment. The leg ended in the sexiest foot he'd ever seen: a foot clad in a black patent stiletto slingback with four-inch heels and open toes. Joe loved a woman in stilettos, and though Katherine wore pretty shoes, they all had the sensible heels of a busy executive. These were the most outrageous shoes he'd ever seen. Beneath the gray flannel of his own suit, bought especially for this occasion, Joe's cock raised its head from a long nap and howled with delight.

"But who?" He plunged his hands deeply into his pockets, trying to hide his rapidly growing erection.

A sultry purr, rendered in a deep and unfamiliar British accent, came from the car. "That you, Joseph? Mmmm… you're letting all the cold air in. Why don't you join me?" He climbed into the limo and the driver closed the door behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the car began to move, gliding smoothly through traffic.

Jesus, he couldn't see anything. The windows were absolutely black, and there weren't any interior lights. Even the window separating the passenger compartment from the driver was impenetrable. He gingerly found his way around the seated figure of the woman, and lowered himself into the upholstered bench. Christ, it smelled good in here! Rich leather, good champagne and old money. and something else, some fragrance that was filled with dirty promises and sweet sin. Jesus! Was he imagining things? Could he actually smell this woman's sex?

"Katherine sent me. She told me I could do anything I wanted with you. She and I... well, we're very close." The woman laughed throatily. His erection jerked at the lewd implications of that word, and the laughter with which it was delivered. Did Katherine have a girl on the side?

He heard rustling, and without warning, something huge and furry was thrust into his lap. "Put this on the seat next to you, please. I wouldn't want to get anything on it," the voice whispered. "It's mink, after all." He moved the coat and was pushed back into it. She was in his lap, straddling him, and nude except for those stockings, those heels! He held her steady, knowing instinctively in the pitch-blackness that her arm would be there, her breast there, the soft globe of her ass right there, fitting perfectly into his hand. Her lips covered his, warm and tasting vaguely of
berries. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, and his cock responded with an eager lurch; he knew she felt it against her naked slit because she thrust against him, arching her pelvis into the throbbing bulge.

Suddenly his hands and lap were empty, and he'd barely had time to blink. Now five brazenly confident fingers were traveling up his thigh, caressing the front of his trousers. Now a glass of something cold was pressed into his hand. "Drink this," a voice commanded. "Sit back and enjoy the ride."

And now he took a tentative sip and closed his eyes with delight, certain he'd died and gone to heaven. His proof? Dom Perignon, and a world-class blowjob. The woman's teeth tugged at his zipper; the woman's mouth closed over his aching cock. He pushed into her throat and tried to remember to breathe.

Ten incredible minutes later, as she wiggled into a smashing but discreet little black dress, Katherine hit a switch and smiled at him serenely in the dim light of the car. She pulled the pins from her hair, which had been arranged, most appropriately, into a French twist. Though Joe didn't know the name for it, he realized that it was a style that Katherine never wore. No wonder he hadn't recognized her! She dabbed at the corners of her lovely mouth with Joe's pocket square, and reapplied her lipstick, a fetching shade of Fellatio Red. Joe was left gasping against the decadent mink, his balls drained, his heart pounding. His head was filled with questions: Whose limo? Whose driver? Whose mink? But his tongue couldn't form the words. He still tasted her perfume; his flaccid cock was still shuddering and damp against his fly from its galloping ride down her silky throat.

"Tuck in, darling," she advised, with an extraordinary smile. "We're almost there." She giggled with mischief. "Bet you didn't know I minored in drama."

Finally, Joe was able to find enough of his mind to ask the only question that mattered. "Katherine, you're remarkable. Why did you do this?"

Her smile deepened, and she looked at him with such tenderness that he thought he might cry. "Because I've watched you work so hard, and I am so proud of you, not just tonight but every moment I am with you. Because the big question is on the tip of your tongue, and I wanted to try to pull it out of you; because I am sure that we belong together, and I don't want to wait anymore; I want to be your wife, and spend the rest of my life with you. Because I love you so much, and wanted to do something wonderful, just for you." Then, with a sheepish giggle that crushed any objectivity he might have held in reserve, she added, "And what the hell, Joe, it's always been
my fantasy to ride around New York dressed only in a limo."

That night, as Katherine looked for (and found) dozens of opportunities to flash him with her beautiful cunt, still naked under that wicked little dress, Joe became the toast of the city's art scene. He accepted the accolades humbly and with sincerity, though his mind was in a feverish daze: he couldn't see anything but Katherine, Katherine, those soft, trim thighs, clad in sheer silk; those delicate feet with crimson nails, and those ridiculous, devastating shoes. That night, riding around New York dressed only in a limo, Joe lost his heart forever to the woman who knew how to love him best.





Now, thinking about it a dozen years later, Joe marveled anew at his good fortune. Katherine was such an amazing wife; he was so lucky to have her. She was constantly planning erotic little surprises for his pleasure: an elevator, conveniently 'out of service' between the 39th and 40th floors of a midtown Manhattan office building, in which one of Joe's fondest adolescent fantasies came true; a spur-of-the moment picnic on a rainy beach that ended with a wet, sandy, delirious fuck right at the shorebreak; overnight trips to little inns all over New England that began with incredible sex and ended with love renewed. With shame, Joe realized that he had never really thought about how much planning had gone into those perfect experiences. How could he have taken her for granted? How had they gotten off track? What could he do to make her understand how much she meant to him? She truly deserved better than a last-minute card and a hastily purchased gift. He wished he could get her the very thing she'd always wanted. Now that he thought about it, he realized that he really had no idea what that was.
Or did he? What truly impressed his Kate? What made her happy? She didn't care about big parties, or being the center of attention; that sort of thing would have made her terribly uncomfortable. She had all the jewelry she needed; Joe made it a point to keep her adorned with baubles that he selected himself. So what the hell was it?

He went back into the bedroom and looked at her as she slept, marveling as always at her uncanny ability to sleep in the same position all night. Katherine lay on her back, her exquisite form fully nude but covered neatly by a soft cotton sheet against the summer night. Her hands were relaxed and open at her sides, her head propped up on two goose-down pillows. She was out cold, the soundest sleeper Joe had ever seen, dreams unencumbered by the fears and worries of the terminally scatterbrained. She looked like a goddess, Joe thought, one of the beautiful images of Artemis he'd seen in photos of a frieze found at the Parthenon. Kate was the loveliest woman in
the world, and Joe still found it hard to believe that she'd given her heart to a sloppy, disorganized paintslinger. It was something he'd never really understood about mythology. Why had Artemis fallen in love with Endymion? Why would a goddess settle for a mere mortal?

Oh. That was all he needed. He had it.

Standing in the doorway, Joe reached for Katherine's alarm clock in its place on her dresser. It was set to go off in an hour and ten minutes. Joe pushed the button on the clock and turned off the alarm. He gazed at his woman for a few long moments in the darkness, and the smile on his face grew wider and wider. He turned abruptly on his heel and started for the kitchen, feeling his pulse quicken with anticipation. There was a lot to do.

He gently pulled the kitchen door shut behind him, though he knew she wouldn't awaken. First, he picked up the telephone. "Greta? It's Joe. Never mind what time it is. I know, I know. I'm sorry. but oh, Greta, I need your help. I promise I'll make it up to you, and you know I always do. Remember that zillionaire at the show last night who liked the blue study so much and was so pissed when I told him it wasn't for sale at any price? No, not that zillionaire; the other one. The one who told me that if I ever decided to sell the painting, to call him immediately." Joe grinned again; he couldn't help it. Katherine would be so happy. "Yeah, the one who said I could borrow his Gulfstream, anytime."

When he was certain that Greta knew exactly what he wanted, he thanked her, hung up, and then dialed again. Le Cirque was still his favorite restaurant, and Kate's, too; it always felt like home there. He waited for the restaurant's private answering machine to pick up his call, and then he left a long, detailed message for Pascal, his friend in the kitchen. Joe had donated a major painting to a fundraiser auction for Pascal's pet charity a year or two ago, and he knew that the brilliant chef would be happy to help him out now, especially when he heard what Joe had planned. Pascal adored Katherine. After he'd left the message, he returned the receiver to its cradle, chuckling like a kid.

He went into his studio and found several new brushes in varying sizes; the largest was four inches wide. He returned to the kitchen and got flour, sugar, fine bittersweet chocolate, homemade preserves, and bourbon vanilla from the pantry; milk, heavy cream, and eggs from the fridge. The Kitchen-Aid stood ready for action on the counter. Then Joe retrieved a large bowl of fresh raspberries from the vegetable crisper. Plump and tart-sweet, they would add a glorious splash of color to the mix.





Exactly forty-seven minutes later, Joe shed his clothes, dusty and damp with flour and other ingredients, and stood over his masterpiece, smiling happily. He'd lit a dozen candles all around the room, and used them to illuminate the creative process. The room filled with the soft fragrance of the batter, icing, chantilly, and raspberries that adorned every inch of his beautiful Katherine. The berries were dark rubies in the candleglow. A pool of rich cream had formed in her pretty little navel, and now threatened to overflow; the sheets under her body were already soaked through. He'd thrown a couple of light canvas tarps down on the floor, but it was hardwood and he wasn't too concerned. He briefly considered that they'd probably have to buy a new mattress after this little party, but it was a small price to pay for the pleasure they'd share while ruining it.
Anyhow, they wouldn't need a mattress for a few days. Katherine would get to work a bit late this morning, her mouth still tasting like chocolate and raspberries, her cunt still throbbing after Joe's careful retrieval of that hidden berry. She'd finish the workday to find a limo waiting at the curb.
Joe would be in it, with a few overnight bags and Kate's own mink - not one she'd borrowed from a rich aunt, but the mink he'd given her when he'd sold his first six-figure painting, though he knew she'd never wear it – and those fucking shoes. (Once every other year or so, she'd put them on just to tease him; he hoped he could find them in her closet.) After a leisurely ride in that dark limo - Joe felt his cock twitch just thinking about it - they'd arrive at the airport, at a private runway. And there the Gulfstream would be waiting.

Joe bent down and nibbled a berry from her collarbone, briefly rubbing his mouth against the batter on her left breast, and then against the icing on her right breast. He licked his lips thoughtfully, critically, and decided he'd concocted a perfect combination of flavour: the subtle tang of fruit, the pale creaminess of batter, the richness of icing, all enhanced by the palette on which they'd been spread. Greedy for more, his mouth watering, his cock stiff and heavy against his belly, he lowered his body to her side.

For the hundredth time, he marveled at her ability to sleep through almost anything. Amazing, she'd even slept through this! Delicately, Joe put his lips over her nipple - the one covered in creamy batter - and began to suckle, gently pulling the taste of her into his mouth, hungrily swallowing the batter as quickly as he could scoop it up with his tongue. Her tit was a soft little cupcake, melting under his mouth, topped with pink jujube nipple. He pushed his stiffening cock into her warm hip, thrusting against sweet cream and soft flesh.

As he studied his woman's perfect profile, Joe realized suddenly that he had NO idea where he'd take her, once they got to the islands. What place was most worthy of her presence? He thought about it as he watched her sleep. Where would poor Endymion take the regal Artemis if he wanted to please her most? Joe decided to ask the zillionaire a little later, when he called to make arrangements to supervise the hanging and lighting of the blue study. Surely one Greek island was better than all the rest, and that was where he wanted to take his wife. It would be a wonderful weekend, spent alone together, basking in the sun and in each other, surrounded by tall trees
bursting with ripe figs and the indulgent, amused whispers of the natives.

And best of all: every aspect of it, every moment, would be engineered by Joe. For that, he knew, was what Katherine desired most. She wanted an experience, an unforgettable, extraordinary experience filled with passion, romance, and many hours of tender lovemaking (mixed in roughly
equal parts with frenzied, animalistic rutting and a healthy bit of good old-fashioned sodomy). Most of all, she wanted to leave the scheming to somebody else.

Joe had a lot to do to make this little trip happen, but he could hardly wait. His wife, who had schemed for his pleasure so many times, was finally going to be able to relax and let Joe handle the arrangements. To hell with riding around New York dressed only in a limo. He wondered how she'd feel about flying to Greece clad only in a Gulfstream!

First things first. He ran the tip of his finger through the ultimate dessert between her lovely thighs, and put it in his mouth, sampling the chocolate glaze, laced liberally with raspberry preserves he'd put up last summer. It was so sinfully delicious that he could not help but laugh a bit, there in the darkness. Oh, Lord, that was good. But nothing would be as sweet as the treasure he'd hidden in her velvety little cave, for it was there that he'd inserted the biggest, ripest berry, coated in pure chocolate and saved for just this purpose. Shortly, he would take great pleasure in
retrieving it with his tongue.

Just a bit more cupcake, he decided, feeling pleased with himself for his own self-restraint. *More of the crème that has collected in the hollow of her throat. More of everything, he thought, but I'll save the best for last.

After a moment or two spent in deep contemplation of his newest work of art, Joe retrieved the lighter from the bedside table where he'd left it. Then he pressed his lips close to his wife's ear. "Wake up, my darling Katherine," he whispered softly, "O my beautiful woman, wake up." He kissed her gently, and gazed at her with profound love and desire as her eyes slowly opened.

"Happy birthday, darling Kate. Don't be startled; I have a surprise for you." He scooped up a bit of puree and brought it to her lovely mouth, then watched with fascination as her little pink tongue licked his finger clean.

Finally, Joe placed a tiny pink candle into her perfect navel and lit it carefully. With all the tenderness in the world, he whispered, "Katherine, my love… I've made you a cake."