Lucrezia Magazine

He withdrew the small square of paper from the glass jar, unfolded it, and still looking at the paper, smiled.

“Which one?” I asked, anxious to know.

His eyelashes flicked upwards, his dark eyes, narrowed, met my widened blue ones. “It’s the wild card,” he said. “I get to make it whatever I want, and you have to go along with it. Whatever my mood is. But,” he said, tossing the paper up onto the nightstand and placing the jar back into the drawer in which we kept it, “I have to go to work first, and so do you. You – and I – won’t know what I get to do to you until tonight.”

All day I thought about it, making my job an incongruent distraction to the fantasies that laced through my mind. He had been acting different lately, more reserved, stronger and more dominant in bed. I was glad, because it was exciting. I had asked him about it one night after he fucked me so hard, bent over the bed, his hands strong on my hips, holding them still or bringing them into his body so he could thrust deeper. I said he was different in bed, more confident, more violent. He just smiled and said that he was glad I noticed. I suspected it’s because I had just graduated with my master’s degree, an MFA to his MBA, and I played with the idea that he felt just a little bested, or at least equaled, now that we were both at the same education level. As if he had to put me in my place, or rather, him in his place, dominating me. I wanted him to feel like that. It excited me. I liked to know that he was just the slightest bit insecure about it, that I was just as strong as he was.

I had no idea what to expect, though. We allowed ourselves each one “wild card” to put in the jar. The only thing we could write on it was our initials, and it meant that whatever fantasies we wanted to act out at that moment, we would have to do. I mean have to – the only rule was that anytime we chose to draw from The Sex Jar, as we sometimes jokingly, tongue-in-cheek, called it, we’d have to do whatever fantasy was drawn before we could have sex again. If it was something we just couldn’t do that night – like have sex in a public bathroom but it was too late to go out, everything closed – then we would have to wait, and couldn’t fuck. We could touch each other, which of course we did, his mouth on my cunt, my mouth on his cock, but that made it so much longer of a wait, unbearable, as I was desperate to have him inside me. We each got an equal number of pieces of paper torn out of a notebook, and put them all in the jar, each piece folded four times so neither one of us would know what we were drawing.

I was a little nervous, I suppose. We had experimented with S&M – “S&M Lite”, as we called it – and they were mostly my pieces: handcuffs, a blindfold, using the rope we kept underneath the bed – but somehow I thought this was going to be a little more on the darker side of that continuum. Maybe that’s why I wanted to make him dinner. He called late in the afternoon to say that he had to stay late. If I didn’t know him better, I would suspect him of infidelity, but I knew his work as an ad executive would keep him busy on deadline. You’d never expect him to be so intense in bed, but he was. I guess, actually, it wouldn’t be a surprise – he was so single-minded about the things he cared about, and wouldn’t give anything else a second glance.

His schedule gave me an hour to make dinner. I baked chicken and showered while it was in the oven, making sure my legs were smooth, my pussy naked except for a triangle of short, soft hair on the mound. I was just setting the table when I heard his footsteps in the hall. He walked into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, coming up from behind me. “You need to put this all away for now. We’ll eat later. Follow me.”

That’s all he said before turning and walking off towards the bedroom. I wouldn’t argue, and quickly put the food in the fridge.

He stood next to the bed, taking off his tie when I walked in. “Take everything off, baby. Everything.”

I was wearing a silk skirt and a flimsy blouse. I began to unbutton the blouse and let it fall to the floor, watching him watch me. I pulled the skirt off and stood in my bra and thong. Unhooking the bra and letting it fall, I asked, smiling slyly “Everything?”

He watched me for a moment, his eyes still narrowed, his look sizing me up, and a sly smile played on his lips. “Okay,” he said. “Keep the thong.”

I pulled back the covers of the bed and laid down; pulling the sheets up to my throat, suddenly shy. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, took off his pants, and already I could see the bulge of his cock in his boxers. His chest and arms caught the light from the hall and a candle he had lit before I came in, illuminating the contours of his muscles, the rise and fall of bicep from shoulder to forearm, the slash of collarbone from shoulder to throat. He walked to me and laid over me, his arms supporting him, bringing out the definition of his form. I brought my lips to his, rising up off the pillow, eager to feel the softness of his lips on mine after seeing such powerful masculine beauty in his body, the thought that he could move any part of my body to where he wanted me to be. I relaxed and fell back into the bed, closing my eyes. He kissed my eyelids, my cheekbones, my hairline, the soft brown hair gently graying at my temples, something I would never color away. I felt his teeth on my earlobe, a sudden shock after so much softness of touch. He paused for a moment, just long enough for me to suck in a breath of air, my heart beating that much faster, my body aware of a sense of danger it wouldn’t immediately communicate to my thoughts except by a rush of adrenaline, the faster beating of the heart.