Chapter 1: Bound and Paddled at the Panty Shower
The rope was the first thing Robert noticed. Not the pastel streamers drooping from the ceiling fan, not the ten pairs of underwear hanging from a clothesline like some kind of macabre garland, not even the paddle sitting on the coffee table with its mother-of-pearl inlay catching the light. No, it was the rope—scratchy, industrial-grade hemp that Mary had somehow procured from God knows where—digging into his wrists as he shifted his weight against the back of the armchair.
"I think I'm losing circulation," he said, trying to keep his voice light.
"You're fine," Mary replied, not looking up from the champagne bottle she was working open with her thumbs. "You've got at least another twenty minutes before we need to worry about anything falling off."
The room erupted in laughter. Twenty-three women, give or take, arranged across the mismatched floral couches and folding chairs that Ava had dragged in from the garage. Robert recognized maybe half of them. There was Karen from Mary's book club, who once told him he looked like a bald George Clooney and had been his favorite person in the room until approximately thirty seconds ago. There was Deb, who lived three houses down and whose husband had wisely declined this particular invitation. And there were the sorority sisters—Mary's old crowd from her university days, women in their forties who had apparently never outgrown the taste for ritual humiliation.
And then there were their daughters, Ava's friends, twenty-somethings with bright eyes and phones held at the ready, watching him like he was an animal in a zoo.
Robert's pants were around his ankles. This was a fact he was trying very hard not to think about, but the carpet was doing something unpleasant to his bare feet, and every time he moved, the armchair creaked in a way that suggested it might collapse underneath him. His boxers—thank God he'd worn the gray ones with the elastic waistband that wasn't too stretched out—were the only thing preserving what remained of his dignity.
"I still don't understand how this happened," he said.
Mary finally popped the champagne, and the cork shot across the room, nearly taking out a decorative vase shaped like a duck. "You agreed to it, sweetheart."
"I agreed to help with the shower. I agreed to pick up the cake. I did not agree to—" He gestured with his bound hands, which caused the armchair to wobble dangerously. "—this."
"You said, and I quote—" Ava appeared at his left elbow, her phone already raised, a wicked grin spreading across her face. She was wearing a sash that said Maid of Honor in glittering gold letters and had somehow managed to get glitter on her cheekbone. "—'Whatever you need, honey, I'm your guy.'"
"I was talking about the cake!"
"You were talking about willingness to participate," Mary said, settling onto the couch with the champagne. She crossed her legs and raised an eyebrow at him. The paddle was within easy reach. "And this is participation, Robert. Active participation."
The women roared. Someone in the back—it might have been Karen—shouted, "Be a good sport!"
Robert closed his eyes and tried to remember how he'd gotten here. It had started innocently enough. Tiffany, Mary's daughter from her first marriage and the bride-to-be, had announced her engagement in October. There had been the venue tours, the dress fittings, the arguments about whether to serve chicken or fish at the reception. Robert had nodded along through all of it, offering opinions when asked and keeping his mouth shut when not. He'd thought he was doing well.
Then Mary had come to him two weeks ago with that particular glint in her eye—the one that usually preceded either a very good night or a very expensive purchase—and said, "I had the most wonderful idea for the bridal shower."
He should have known. He should have known from the moment she said "wonderful."
"I need you to be honest," Mary had said, her hand on his knee, her smile too bright. "How well do you know women's underwear?"
And now here he was. Pantsless. Bound. Staring at ten pairs of panties suspended from a clothesline like some kind of perverse art installation.
The game, as Ava had explained it to him with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for pressing the launch button on a missile, was simple. The women would take turns. Each one had contributed a pair of underwear to the collection. Robert's job was to guess which pair belonged to whom. Wrong answer meant a paddle swat. Right answer meant... well, he hadn't actually gotten a right answer yet, so he wasn't sure.
"Okay," Ava called out, clapping her hands together. "Let's get started. First victim—I mean, first contestant. Mom?"
Mary set down her champagne and rose, sauntering toward the clothesline. She was wearing a black dress that hugged her curves in all the right ways, and her auburn hair was down, curled at the ends. Forty-two years old and she moved through the room like she owned it, which, technically, she did.
She surveyed the panties with exaggerated consideration, tapping her finger against her chin.
"Robert, darling," she said, her voice pitched for the audience. "Which of these do you think is mine?"
The room went quiet. Ten pairs of underwear, ranging from lacy to plain, from red to beige to something with polka dots that Robert really hoped wasn't going to be the answer.
He squinted at the line. There was a black lacy number, which seemed obvious. But Mary wasn't obvious. She was tricksy. She loved nothing more than setting traps and watching him stumble into them.
"The red ones," he said finally, nodding toward a pair of scarlet boy shorts.
Mary's smile didn't waver. "Wrong."
"What? But you always—"
"I never said that." She picked up the paddle from the coffee table. It was a wicked-looking thing, flat and wide, with that pearl inlay that glinted in the light. "You assumed."
"I—"
The first swat caught him on the left thigh. It wasn't hard, not really, but the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, and the women shrieked with delight. Robert yelped, more out of surprise than pain, and the armchair tipped forward an inch before he managed to steady it with his bound hands.
"You're supposed to be aiming for the butt," he protested.
"I'm supposed to be having fun," Mary corrected. "And I am."
She swatted him again, this time on the other thigh, and Robert made a noise that he would later describe as a grunt but that everyone else heard as a squeal. The sorority sisters were practically falling off their chairs. One of them—he thought it might be Deb—was wiping tears from her eyes.
"Okay, okay," Ava said, stepping between them with her phone still raised. "That's enough foreplay. Let's move on to the next one."
"Foreplay," Robert muttered. "This is a hostage situation."
"Shhh." Ava patted his cheek. "You're doing great. Really. Very masc."
She turned to the room, spreading her arms wide like a game show host. "Who's next? Kelly?"
A woman with sharp features and a sleek ponytail rose from the couch. Kelly. Robert vaguely remembered her from a barbecue three summers ago. She'd brought a seven-layer dip that had been genuinely excellent, and she'd spent most of the afternoon talking to Mary about her divorce. Now she was approaching the clothesline with a predatory gleam in her eye.
"I've got a good one," Kelly said. She pointed at a pair of pale blue bikinis. "Those are mine."
Robert studied them. Pale blue. Simple. Almost boring. But Kelly had that sharp look about her, the kind of woman who wore practical underwear during the day and saved the fancy stuff for special occasions.
"Okay," he said slowly. "I'm going to say... those are yours."
Kelly's expression flickered. It was a micro-expression, barely there, but Robert caught it. He'd been married to Mary for twelve years. He knew what suppressed disappointment looked like.
"That's correct," Kelly said, and the room groaned in collective disappointment.
"Ha!" Robert crowed. "I got one! I—"
"Don't get cocky," Mary said from the couch. "You still have nine more."
"And you just got lucky," Ava added, already circling. "Kelly's off her game tonight. That was a warmup."
"A warmup?" Robert repeated. "What do you mean, a warmup?"
Ava's grin widened. "I mean, stepdad, that the real fun hasn't even started yet. We saved the best ones for last."
She gestured toward the remaining panties on the line. There was a hot pink thong that made Robert deeply uncomfortable. There was something black and complicated with straps that he couldn't quite parse. And there was a pair—he swallowed hard—that appeared to be made of some kind of sheer material that seemed practically invisible under the lights.
"Oh no," he said.
"Oh yes," Ava replied, snapping another photo.
The room was already buzzing with anticipation, the women whispering to each other, passing knowing glances, and Robert felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. His legs were starting to cramp. His hands were definitely losing circulation now. And somewhere in the distance, he could hear someone's phone ringing—"Here Comes the Bride," of all things—which meant Tiffany must be calling or texting or sending someone from the driveway to check on them.
"Can I at least have some water?" he asked.
Mary considered this. "After the next round."
"And maybe pull my pants up a little?"
"Absolutely not."
"Worth a shot."
Ava stepped forward, phone still raised, her glittering sash catching the light as she turned to address the room. "All right, ladies. Who wants to humiliate my stepfather next?"
Three hands shot up at once. Kelly was already angling for another turn. The woman with the hot pink thong—a petite brunette with a mischievous smile—was practically bouncing in her seat.
Robert took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself.
This was going to be a long night.