I stared at the sunny roses sitting in the vase on the kitchen table and wondered what the color could possibly mean.

For the past couple years, my husband Scott had been buying me roses every Friday, and the color of the blooms was code for what was in store for us that night. It had been an ingenious plan on his part. After the first six years of marriage, our sex life had gotten a little stale, still perfectly enjoyable, but we needed something to spice things up. Thanks to this new plan, we'd soared through the fabled "seven year itch" stage of our marriage without a blink. We were closer than ever and were both more satisfied with our relationship than we'd been since we'd first started dating.

By now, I would have thought he'd exhausted the available rose color options, and I knew what they all meant. White flowers meant I was in for a romantic evening. There would be candles, wine and dancing at dinner before coming home and spending as long as we could manage making love. Red, the most common color available, was actually chosen sparingly by Scott. The dark blooms sitting in the center of the table always made my heart start to pound in anticipation. The first time I'd been bound to the bed and spanked, teased and tortured to orgasm, the night had begun with a bouquet of blood red roses in the vase. Purple, pink and even the occasional blue set of blossoms had also graced the center of our table.

But yellow? This was new. This was intriguing. Over dozens of evenings and many fantasies being played out between us, the bright flowers in front of me now had never come into play.

"Scott?" I called out as I wandered through the lower level of the house. But he wasn't answering. Climbing the stairs cautiously, my heart thundering in my chest with excitement and maybe a little fear, I continued yelling for him, but he apparently wasn't home.

I pushed open the bedroom door to find a black dress, a pair of shoes and a card laid out carefully across the bedspread. Walking to the bed, I reached out with trembling fingers and opened the letter with my name, Scarlett, scrawled across the front.

His instructions were succinct but annoyingly vague regarding what I was in store for that evening. The card simply stated that I should shower, put on the dress and shoes and meet him at Posh, a very high class restaurant. I'd wanted him to take me there for months, but reservations were booked weeks in advance, which meant Scott had been planning this evening for a while.

With a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table, I saw I only had an hour and a half to get ready and make it across town to avoid being late. Dropping the card back on the bed, I went to the bathroom to get ready.