Penitence Pie

This is a picture of the pie I made for Husband while he was at work. A peace offering, I guess you could call it. Or the beginning of my penance.

I named it Penitence Pie.

I emailed him pictures of it, both before and after it went into the oven. Under the second picture I wrote, it smells yummy.

Finally, he wrote me back. He wrote: IT IS MINE.
I took his message as a good sign. At least he was talking to me.

When he got home, he kissed me on the nose. I didn't know what to make of that. It was obvious he was still mad at me; it was equally obvious he was going to keep me nervous of what was to come.

He went into the kitchen and admired the pie. "It looks delicious," he said.
I smiled, lulled into complacency. "You should taste it," I said.
He smiled back, and his was a dreadful, malicious grin.
"You have first bite," he said. "After all, you baked it."
"No no," I answered. "I made it for you."
"I insist." His voice was cold. "Sit down. Have a slice."
I cut a slice, laid it down on a plate, and took it to the table. He watched as I cut into the slice with my fork and brought it to my lips.
"Did I tell you you could eat yet?" He asked.

I dropped the fork down on my plate. "No. No Sir."
"Put the fork back to your mouth. But don't eat it yet. Just...wait."

I held the fork with the bite of pie to my lips, careful not to press it to my mouth. I waited.
I waited a long time.
All the while, he watched me. Studied me, like an art lover admiring a particularly interesting piece at the Louvre.
Neither of us moved.

He said, "Go ahead. Take your bite."
Slowly, I pushed the fork into my mouth and slid it back out, letting the bite of pie sit on my tongue. I had to swallow it almost whole; my jaws would not chew. The pie sat in my throat, a lump in my esophagus.
"How does it taste?" He asked me softly.
"It's good," I said. My voice shook.
He paused. "There's some still on your fork," he said. "Lick it clean."

I lay the fork against my tongue and slid it out of mouth slowly, letting my lips go soft against the pull of the fork.
"You're not done," he said. "Make sure it's clean--all the way down."

I started deep-throating the fork, jabbing it against the back of my throat, feeling the metal stab my tonsils as I pumped it back and forth across my tongue. Husband leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching my every move. His face never altered from its detached, almost bored, expression.

"That's good enough," he said. He stood up, away from the counter, and began to go upstairs.
"Don't you want a slice?" I called after him.
"No," he said without turning around. "I'm in no mood for pie."

There are many ways to punish a sub. I may have to wait for the pain, but my humiliation has just begun.