Anna wanted a very domestic evening.
You take care of your writing, she told me. I will cook while you work. We’ll have dinner, and afterwards you can work, or we will watch a movie, or whatever. Just an easy night at home.
A night at home with someone you care about. The very thing she most wants from life.
I can do a command performance of domestic bliss. That satisfies a craving of my own, to just be happy like that.
She arrived with bags of groceries, and set up camp in my kitchen. Here, she said, offering a bottle of cabernet. Open the wine.
She spread out her ingredients. I was asked to provide a non-reactive dish, a colander, a chopping block and a sharp knife. I was given a mix CD to play, loaded with smart romantic choices.
Those tasks accomplished, I was sent back to my computer, glass of wine in hand. Just write, she told me.
Dinner was pitch perfect. Baked chicken breasts on eggplant, blanketed in sundried tomatoes and capers, drenched in balsamic vinegar and served with polenta.
I was in a quiet mood. We talked casually. It was easy. Just friends relaxing, eating.
I had selected a movie. My Peter Sarsgaard crush has led me to The Center of the World, a flick about a computer geek who hires a freckled sex worker for a weekend in Vegas. Dorks, freckles, commercial sex . . . my cup of tea.
In the film, we learn that “cunt” is the eponymous center of the world. For about two hours, the film obsesses a bit about cunt.
The movie’s eroticism was submerged under an avalanche of adolescent notions about sex—what it might mean if one were actually so fortunate to encounter an actual woman who might actually desire sex.
In my bed was an actual woman who actually desired sex.
We were nude and kissing. The movie had roused a playfulness in Anna. She smiled and got up from the bed, heading to my drawer of sex toys.
“Hmmm,” she said, holding up a pair of stockings. “What have we here?”
“Put them on,” I said. “Slowly.”
Anna’s a dancer. She knows the effect of pacing movement. She lifted a leg while standing, and slowly rolled a stocking to her thigh. She snapped it in place.
She lifted the other leg, and inched the hose up, her eyes locked on me. Snap.
Her limbs were sheathed in sheer black, transforming her lovely legs into pure form. She returned to the bed. Resting on her elbows, she lifted her legs into scissor kicks. She raised her eyebrows.
I should have just enjoyed the show, but I had to lick her, to feel those hose on my cheeks, as I tasted the center of the world.
She came for me.
I returned to the drawer for a butt plug.
A while back, at her request, we retired anal sex from our repertoire. We also retired kink. Maybe both were back for an encore.
I put a condom on the plug and lubed it, my eyes on hers. I took a stockinged foot into my mouth. I slid the plug into her.
When she tensed, I bit into her toes.
Her ass was full. I put on a condom and filled the center of the world, holding her sheer calves to my chest.
She moaned when I flipped her, feeling that solid plug in her ass. I fucked her hard, spanking her without regard to mercy.
She grabbed a pillow and held it to her face, screaming her orgasms into it.
Her ass was still red the next morning when we resumed.
She breakfasted on my cock.
I had her well fucked and ready to head off to work at the appointed hour.
She cuddled close. “Maybe I can go in late,” she murmured.
This violates the code of school night sleepovers. When it is time to go, you should go. No fair pulling a weekend attitude.
But what could I say? She was in her bliss. I held her close and we passed the time. I was sweet, and did not let on that I was thinking about work.
She eventually decided it was as late as she could reasonably stay. She showered and dressed as I made phone calls.
We indulged a lengthy kiss at the door.
Later I got an email:
Do you still have that rope?