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Wife embarks on submissive journey.

" Our glasses clink and we continue chatting about life and current events as dinner moves along. Exquisite food, fantastic conversation and the portent of the nights adventure ahead have laughing easily and feeling just right.

Soon the dinner plates are about to be whisked away and the waiter is there and he chides us to partake in the orange wedge and to chew and eat the parsley. Why ever would we eat the parsley we ask him, you wrinkling your nose at the idea of eating the garnish. He tells us that our secreted sexual juices will taste better from the parsley. "It cleanses the sexual palette," he intones. You nearly choke on the sip of wine as he says this, And with a twinkle in our eyes and a wink from me to you we raise our sprigs of parsley and as we simultaneously place them in each others mouth the waiter says "Bon apatite!" And then with a flurry of plates removes and others reset there is strong black Cuban coffee, heavy white cream that has a mild scent of hazelnuts and a sliver of cheese cake on a small black plate.

"Do you think parsley changes the taste of... well, your cum?" you ask. "I'll ask you later," I whisper conspiratorially. My left hand is on your knee, and I raise it slightly to the top of your gartered stocking, where the flesh of you thigh lays naked and exposed. The pinky of my hand traces the line where the stocking stop and I feel you tremble, ever so slightly. I notice you reach up and tentatively touch the edge of your new collar encircling your neck. The look on your face, sort of a silly grin, makes me swell with pride.

The lights on the dance floor come alive, and a male singer in a white dinner jacket and red bow tie is introducing himself as the owner of the world famous Copa Cabana of Hartford, Connecticut. The band starts right on cue and he begins singing that song: "At the Copa, Copa Cabana, music and passion were always in fashion at the Co-pa, they fell I love." Our cheesecake diminished to a pile of crumbs, the coffee slowly cooling in the cups the wait staff is back whisking away the remnants of a very memorable dinner experience.

The Steward is there taking drink orders, I propose raspberry martinis and she is off in a flash. The owner of the club is on his third song now, Moon River is apparently wider than a mile, if he is to be believed. Our martinis arrive, raspberries in a line a on a skewer in the pink colored gin. His song is ending and he introduces another man who tells us that they will have a little floor show, followed by dancing for the couples. He chides us to remember to follow along with the band leaders orders and demands that we sing along to the songs if we know the words.

All the lights are out, suddenly and a trumpet's blast, sounding Spanish, like the call to battle of an army long past, splits the hushed din of the patrons of the club. You snuggle in a little closer and I raise my arm and wrap it around your shoulder. You are pressed against my chest and I can feel you breathing softly against me.

A pinpoint spotlight comes down from the center of the dance floor, a couple are out there posed and poised to start dancing.

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