“I want to give you a gift,” he told me one night as we lay in bed.
We were exhausted, listening to the baby squeak from his crib, hoping he would fall back asleep. Our clothes were covered in formula and spit up, the familiar gulf of duvet and pillows between us. Even if we had been able to fight through the fatigue, we still had to contend with another issue and I had no will left to fight it: the slow death rattle of our sex life.
This was why I was caught off guard when he followed up with: “I want you to pick a sexual fantasy. Nothing is off the table… and I want you to make it happen.”
My heart rate went up when he added, “With another person.”
I looked over at him, sprawled out on his side of the bed, his hands casually resting on his soft tummy. “Really…” I deadpanned playfully and gave him a little smile. “That’s interesting.”
This gesture was not to be mistaken for flirtation as that wasn’t on the menu anymore. Flirtation, physical affection, sex… had all but vanished from our dynamic, and we both knew it wasn’t because of our newborn. We were co-parents who loved each other but couldn’t nurture the spark.
“Yes,” he reaffirmed. “This is the gift I want to give you. I know it is a little unexpected, but it shouldn’t be. I remember you telling me about your, ahem, interests, before we even began dating.”
“I want you to pick a fantasy, a sexual one, one that I am not a part of,” he went on. “Any one your dirty mind can conjure. And I want you to do it.”
I turned away from him and faced the window. It was raining softly, and I zoned out to enjoy one of my favorite sounds. As droplets hit the glass, I tried to feel at peace and to remember that life was beautiful. In so many ways, it was, but I deeply regretted that he and I had gotten to this point. The momentary sadness was quickly replaced by excitement and gratitude. I am, of course, a girl who adores presents, and this one I had never dared let myself have.
I reached across the bed and put my hand on his chest. He was wearing my favorite Rolling Stones shirt, made soft by thousands of runs through the laundry.
“Okay,” I said quietly, turning back over to face him. “I accept your gift,” I whispered, barely able to make eye contact. “Thank you.”
His gaze was confident and more playful than what I expected, telling me he was quite certain that this was going to work out well.
We decided on a few rules around what could happen:
Rules #1: He could ask me any questions he wanted
Rule #2: Blanket honesty in my responses was not necessary
Rule #3: I must come home to him
I felt this was a generous starting point and it required little convincing for me to agree. Opening up our relationship was contrary to everything I had ever learned about love and marriage. Then again... Maybe it was time to put those conventional expectations away.
They weren’t working for us, anyway.
It’s late on a Thursday night. I am in my car waiting for someone to show up. Someone who is not my husband. What's worse, I am waiting for him to come into my car, abuse me, make me cum, and leave. All without us saying a word to each other.
The moon’s light diffuses on the cracked pavement, highlighting dusty piles of fallen leaves. I glance up momentarily, thinking I may have heard something, then continue fidgeting with renewed fervor. I thrum the steering wheel. Soft and slick, the wheel produces a dull thump when I tap it. Tap, tap, tap, tap-tap. I wait patiently in this deserted parking lot, the picturesque family neighborhood a charming contrast to my intentions.
Alone in the car, I sit nervously with anticipation. My gift is due any minute. A nondescript car rolls by the open gate, decelerating slightly but not enough to be him. Not blue, wrong make. I re-focus on my hands, wrapped around the wheel’s supple faux-leather, the stitches punctuating my fingertips. A streak of moonlight glints off my fingernails, painted deep red, a shade I prefer called American Beauty. Originally, I chose the colour because of the film. When I had first seen it in theatres at 18 years old, I strongly sympathized with Jane, the overlooked, insecure daughter. Now, 18 years later, I acutely feel the pain of Lester, Jane’s lusty father in a mid-life crisis. It's an odd turnaround that is not lost on me as I wait in this empty lot.
My engagement ring catches my eye as a ray of street light reflects its facets and reminds me of the day I received it. The balance of romance and contract. What a perfect hand, I think to myself. Such a perfect fucking hand. I place both hands, primly, on my lap. Looking down at these foreign extremities, I consider their representation of all I had been conditioned to want. Until now.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car slowly approaching and it’s engine cut. I become acutely aware of my quick and shallow breathing, yet my hands remain stable on my lap.
A quick mental review of my instructions: Passenger door unlocked. Pants pulled down to mid-thigh. No talking.
The street lamp is my friend, giving me a sense of his physicality. I feel relief when I see his tall, broad frame and smooth, confident gait. In spite of my palpable nerves, I never consider leaving.
The sound of my shutting door jolts me back to now. There he is, finally, as described, in real life. I found him on Craigslist under an ad entitled “Daddy’s Beautiful Babygirl”
This is a long shot, but I am a handsome and charming daddy type in the east end looking for a girl who loves attention, to be pampered, but also enjoys discipline. If you are an adventurous, open-minded female, please reply. Looking forward to meeting you, little one.
Jay, the poster of the ad, and I had been corresponding with for weeks and the build-up was substantial. His writing style belied a gentle yet firm disposition. Now in my car, I take him in for the first time. Cuter than I dared to dream. He wears a black, fur-trimmed puffy jacket, dark blue jeans and classic Adidas. His face is angular and handsome with big, pillowy lips, a strong jaw and long lashes that made him seem soft (of course, I knew better). I look him in the eye, determined not to disobey his instructions by even breathing too loud. We continue to take in each others’ faces silently, the intimacy of our meeting underscored by its anonymity.
Then, with impeccable smoothness, he reaches across my body and extends his arm, grazing my chest, and pushes a button. My seat slowly begins to recline until it reaches halfway. I revel in this ritual, loving the sense of being lowered gently like a loose egg into the simmering poaching pot. He smiles warmly at me again, hovers over me, strokes my cheek and unceremoniously slaps me hard across the face. My left cheek stings with the physical pain and imposed humility of this act. I gasp, but before I can fully exhale, he does it again, harder this time, testing my limits with pitiful restraint. I swallow and blink, beginning to stutter. The moment is broken, and he shushes me by moving the pad of his thumb across my lips.
“Good girl” he says with a physician’s encouragement, as if he were removing a stubborn splinter. The magic words. Such a good girl.
I calm down and look up at him again in adoration. He then proceeds to slap me a third, fourth and fifth time. Each slap is harder than the last, each one waking me up on a deeper level until I finally feel centered. With each slap, I become wetter and wetter, my legs spreading further and further apart. I look up at him with a mixture of self-loathing and gratitude.
“More, babygirl?” he asks softly in a deep, kind voice, and I nod cautiously.
“Yes, Daddy” I answer in a low, breathy voice, the first time I have ever uttered those words. They resonate, and I wonder when I will ever say them again.
He lowers my seat some more, unzipping my jacket along the way so that I am exposed. I suddenly remember the state of my pants and wonder what he has in mind for that particular instruction. He tells me to pull them down further, and I do. Prior experiences with fingers had, up until this point, been fairly banal so I don’t think twice when I observe his hand reach between my legs.
Mistake on my part.
All of the sudden, he begins exploring me like a pervy little scientist and I realize that I have never really been touched before.
“Such a good girl, little one” he continues. “You made Daddy so happy, letting me slap your pretty little face like that. You almost broke... but you didn’t, and I am proud of you for accepting some pain and humiliation. Now I am going to make you cum like you never have before” he says, referencing our chain of emails where I detailed the pitiful and regrettable state of my orgasmic history.
He leans over and I feel his slightly scruffy chin on my neck. It is a delicious sensation, so strange to have a new man exploring my neck, such a sensitive spot. For the first time in a long time, I let myself enjoy a pleasant sensation. I fall deep into his touch, imprinting these feelings in my brain should I never get to experience them again. He kisses and nibbles and licks my neck, ears and lips until I am so deep in sensation that I nearly melt into my seat. I forget where I am. I want more but every time I move, he shoves me back into position.
“Do I have to tie these hands?” he asks me, a sparkle in his eye, and he grabs both tiny wrists in one of his palms.
“No Daddy, I promise I’ll be good”, I reply.
Then, he begins playing with my clit, circling and tapping, dipping his fingers in and out, drawing out my wetness, finger fucking me and slapping my clit. It’s a heady mix of pleasure and pain, and I never know which one will come next. He maintains his attention to my neck, throat, earlobes, and mouth while teasing me, spanking my clit and thrusting repeatedly. I can’t tell you how long this goes on for, only that at some point I know that I am traveling to my peak. I gasp and bear down, feeling a warm gush of wetness run down my inner thighs, drenching my leggings and covering his hand.
“Good girl,” he says reassuringly and stops touching me once he can tell I’m coming down. He wipes his wet hand across my face, making sure to smear cum across my forehead, cheeks, lips, and neck. As a final gesture of his dominance, he runs his wet hand through my hair. He then kisses me on the lips, opens his door and leaves.
“Until next time,” he says, locking his gaze with mine. With that, he ambles back to his car parked outside the lot on the quiet tree-lined street and disappears.
Sitting in a pool of my own fluids, hands quivering, I pull up my pants and start my car’s engine. The heat is blasting and it feels good, like a desperately needed hug. Slowly, I begin to breathe again. Slowly, I begin to get my bearings. The overhead mirror reveals an emerging blush tone that I suspect my husband will be proud of. I’m not so sure how he will feel about the massive orgasm, but I suppose what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. My hands still shaking, I turn on the radio in hopes of reconnecting with reality. A fast-food chain commercial comes on, imploring me to taste their newest hint at the decline of civilization. Surveying the lot unnecessarily for strangers, I exhale fully and deeply, my chest now elastic, lungs of sponge instead of rubber.
“Well...that was new,” I say to myself, and drive off into the night.