The Edible Slut

Back when I was still opening up to my husband about parts of my sexuality I had not revealed to him, I was really worried that he might be repelled or frightened by some of the things I fantasized about us doing together. What if he felt that spanking me was abusive, and he couldn’t see himself doing it? One of the things I did was to write a few erotic stories from HIS point of view, and take that point of view seriously (but still get to someplace hawt). Warning: this is longer than my short essay posts. G’wan and fetch yourself a soda from the ice chest & settle in for a good yarn.

The Edible Slut

Why was she such a brat?

It was so hard to pick a restaurant where she would consent to eat. And that was a problem, as he regarded excellent food and wine as one of life’s chief pleasures. Restaurants frustrated her, irritated her. She seemed to have little interest in the food itself. If a place was too busy, the tables too close, the service too attentive or not attentive enough, if the dining room was hot or the ladies room was cold…it could be the best food in the world and she’d hate it.

And there was an inverse relationship between the size of the menu and the size of her appreciation for a place. The larger the menu, the less she liked it. Her favorite restaurant, the one where he proposed marriage to her, could have put their menu on a 3 by 5 card. It was closed now, years ago.

Sometimes she wouldn’t even order. “What do I want? I want the dish where I don’t have to make any decisions,” she’d say. “That’s what tastes good to me.”

She could be such a brat.

The menu was four pages long. He watched her flip through it peevishly, put it down, pick it up, scan the room, shift in her seat. He sighed. This is an excellent restaurant. Why was she so ungrateful? So rigid?

“Will you order for me?” she asked.

“Not today,” he replied, not looking up from his menu.

The waiter approached. Again. Even he thought the service bordered on hovering. Instead of ignoring the server and looking only at him, as she often did, she did something novel: she looked right up at him and smiled brightly.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s the best thing on the menu?”

The waiter stammered. She could really be stunning when she turned it on, the kind of woman who made men tongue-tied. And she was giving this waiter the full wattage. Skinny, art student maybe.

“Uh, well, I really like the duck, but, uh, probably the most popular thing is the calvados-glazed pork.”

“Well, I’ll have what you’re having. You look like you have excellent taste.”

He couldn’t believe it. She was actually batting her eyelashes at him.

“Would you like some wine with that?”

“Yes, we would — ” he said. Because that, he did order. He always chose the wine. But he didn’t have the waiter’s attention. It was as if he wasn’t even at the table. He was still looking at her.

“I want you to pick for me,” she said, leaving a full beat. “I’m sure I’ll love anything you bring me.”She drew back in the chair, almost visibly dimming.

The waiter’s shoulders descended, and he exhaled. She took her napkin from her lap and put it beside her plate, excusing herself from the table.

“Is that your wife?” the waiter asked, watching her walk off to the ladies’ room.

It was a question he got a lot. He sighed. “Yes. That’s my wife.”

“So, um. Can I take your order?”

“I’ll have the pork.”

☰

She continued to flirt with the waiter throughout dinner, and he continued to fail to give her the satisfaction of letting her see him get mad. At the end of dinner, the waiter handed the check to her, not to him.

Jesus.

Not that it mattered, really — they had a joint checking account. Her card, his card — it’s all the same money. But the spirit of the thing. It chafed. She took out a fountain pen, a gift he’d given her when they were dating so many years ago and signed the slip. There was writing, a scribble, on the customer’s copy.

“What’s that?” he asked. She picked it up, looked at it.

“It’s his phone number,” she said.

☰

Resentments build up in a marriage, like silt at the bottom of a dam.

☰

It wasn’t always this way, of course; when things were fresh and new, when everything flowed freely, before the resentments had a chance to build, and to block the channels. The channels that desire and sex and emotion flowed through.

The sex had been electric. Like time stopped. They’d keep trying to sleep and then end up with their hands all over each other again, dragging themselves to work in the morning like erotic zombies. Night of the Living Fuckbunnies.

There was a time when he used to love how sensitive she was, how the lightest possible touch, or a look, could change her completely. Now he only seemed to see the downside; her prickliness, her inability to settle down. But in the beginning, he loved her for her range; how she could seem to sense him even when he was still hovering over her skin, how she could accept sensation that other women would find excruciating, sensation that she experienced not as pain, but as intensity.

Intensity she craved.

Why hadn’t he married a normal woman? Sometimes a man was exhausted. When it snowed, when you wanted to do something practical, it was better, sometimes, wasn’t it, to drive a station wagon, than a Lamborghini?

Sometimes he just wanted to be comfortable. Was that so bad?

☰

They bickered in the car on the way home. Their fight escalated as they prepared for bed. Not loud — for they were never loud. She stripped off her clothes, putting the suit jacket in the dry cleaning sack; then the blouse, the skirt.

Oh.

She had prepared.

He hadn’t realized she thought tonight was a special occasion. Now that he thought about it, it had been a long time since he had even offered to take her out someplace nice.

Her back was to him. And looking at her, there was no mistaking what she thought the night had been about: filmy, delicate panties, matching bra. Silky thigh-high stockings. Standing there in nothing but those and her pumps, she hung up the dry cleaning behind the closet door, and he could see her shoulders slump. How disappointed she must be. She took her shoes off and tucked them under the bed. It was a chilly night, and she took a blanket from the chest and stood at the foot of the bed, floating it out and over the surface.

What had she said? After, he couldn’t remember. What had she said that made him so angry? Whatever it was, it made him forget that he felt sorry for her. It made him forget what kind of man he was.

☰

Because he really wasn’t the kind of man who would do this.

Except that he did.

How did he close the space between them? He didn’t remember how he got across the room, but he was instantly on top of her. Hand between her shoulderblades, pushing her flat onto the bed.

His hand made an audible crack as it connected with her ass, loud in the dim bedroom.

Did he really sink his hand into her hair, turn her head to face him, and shout, “Stop being such a brat!”

☰

He leapt back from her. I just got divorced, he thought. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

She said nothing. Raised up on her elbow, she just looked at him. Her face was…calm. Not shocked. Not angry. It was a familiar look. A look he remembered.

It was the look she gave him the first time she let him take all her clothes off and fuck her.

☰

If he was expecting a repeat of the sex they had the first time he saw that look, he was wrong.

The first time, they were too hurried. They tried to slow down but it was hopeless, and it ended only a few moments later with them in a tangled heap on the bed, still wearing more than half their clothes. They looked at each other dazed, shocked at the speed and near violence of their coupling. He broke the silence first: “Was I too hard?”

She gave him that peculiar, level, unshockable gaze that he learned to realize was what she looked like when she wasn’t acting a part for any one: her real face. “It’s not possible for you to fuck me too hard,” she said.

He didn’t think she meant it literally.

He had a lot to learn and he learned it quickly. He didn’t feel he had a choice. He felt magnetically attracted to her, he couldn’t stay away from her. But the moment he’d touch her all bets were off. He never knew where it was going. As a kid he’d gone to Disneyland and went on a roller coaster called The Magic Mountain. The whole roller coaster was inside a building. Which meant that they could turn the lights off. You couldn’t look ahead at the track and brace yourself for what was coming next. A big drop that would send the coaster into blistering speed? A twist that made your jaw rattle?

He did it once, and then wanted to do it all over again immediately.

The thing was, in between the two times he threw up in a trash barrel, and had to talk his older sister into not telling their mom about it — because then he’d never get to ride the ride again.

Sex with her — hell, life with her — was like The Magic Mountain. It was exhilarating. He craved it.

And the ups and downs made him sick — sick with worry, with anger, sick of himself when he’d see how he reacted to her.

☰

But it wasn’t like that at all. She’d peeled off her bra and panties and welcomed him into the bed, gently disrobing him, shutting out the light.

Was she seriously cuddling him? Who are you, and what have you done with my wife? As they rocked back and forth together, gently, slowly, never rushing, never speeding up or slowing down, he had the eerie feeling that she could see inside his head: it was exactly the sex he had imagined having with the sweet, innocent soccer mom he’d see at their son’s games, the one he’d help pack the sports gear into her minivan.

Soft, hot, wet; he rolled her from her side onto her back, kissing her neck, letting his hands drift down her body. Thrusting in and out, slow, controlled. Kissing her collarbone he could feel a sharp, shaky, inhalation, and then a moment afterward, he could feel it on his cock, pulsing, squeezing.

She kissed him on the lips when she came, murmuring his name.

☰

He looked at himself in the mirror the next morning. His hair stood up off his head in a dozen different directions. Nine hours of dreamless sleep. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

At the office, Dan said, “You look happy. What’s that all about?”

Was he really happy so rarely that people would think it was weird?

☰

His wife thought so. One time — how rarely he saw her cry — Do you think I like being this way? Do you think I can help being the way I am? Don’t you think I wish I was like you? Like everybody else?

“What do you mean?” he’d asked.

Like people who have more control. Like people who have fewer choices, she’d said.

He never really understood it.

☰

By the afternoon the euphoria hadn’t really worn off. Before lunch he’d solved two major problems that had plagued the team for months. I guess that’s what life is like when you get your needs met, he thought. It’s better. You can think more clearly.

☰

It gets dark early in Boston in the winter. By the time the sun was setting he had started to think about her. Wasn’t turnabout fair play? His needs were met.

What about hers?

Had he ever really known what they were? What she needed? He wasn’t sure. In the car. Traffic on Memorial Drive.

Maybe he should ask.

☰

Seven thirty. The kids were already in bed. So was she, wearing nothing but her glasses, reading.

By the time he had finished presenting all the options — which he had typed up in emacs and printed out, all 22 of them, she was quite literally hiding under the blanket.

“What are you doing?” he laughed.

“Go away,” she said.

“I just want to do something nice for you. It can be anything you want. Anything.”

Her voice was muffled through the sheets. “I render my opinion and tell people what to do every single day from the minute I get up until I go to bed. Please stop making me work. I am in bed. Reading. I am not working.”

“All you have to do is decide and you can have whatever you want.”

“I want to not decide.”

He left and got a beer. Sat in front of the television. Women are baffling. My wife is as baffling as any hundred women.

☰

They had relented and gotten digital cable after the cable company said they’d be turning off their service if they didn’t let a service person come and change the old analog box for a newer digital model. He’d decided to get a new TV, too. After the game was over, he’d browsed through the three hundred channels. Did Cinemax really still show awful soft-core porn after midnight? Yup. Made him remember being a kid and trying to watch it through the wavy lines, since his parents didn’t subscribe.

He watched it. It was dumb, but it gave him an idea anyway.

It was just like being at work and solving that problem. A minute ago he didn’t know the answer. Now he did. Now he knew what to do. He got his keys and his wallet and went to the all-night supermarket.

//////

He sat on a kitchen chair next to their bed, peeling three ripe red plums with a paring knife. The peels and the stones went into a paper grocery sack at his feet, and the fruit went into a little flowered china bowl on the nightstand, from a set that his grandmother had owned. Morning light streamed in through the bedroom windows.

His wife was not a morning person and slept like the dead. She’d slept through a fire alarm in a hotel in Miami, through a car accident in front of their house. She had these strange liminal states, where he’d wake her up, ask her something, she’d answer like she was awake and have absolutely no memory of it the next day. You could pick up her arm, limp, drop it, she’d still be asleep.

Not that he’d ever devoted a lot of time to thinking about it — why would he? — but it turned out to be entirely possible to tie her to the bed and have her sleep right through the whole process.

Finished peeling, he went out and threw the bag in the trash. The kids were with their grandparents. He poured himself some coffee, returned to his chair in the bedroom with the Sunday Times.

☰

Maybe it was the coffee that woke her up. It was alternately hilarious and terrifying, watching it dawn on her that he’d tied her spread-eagle to the bed. He sipped at his coffee to mask his nervousness.

“Honey,” she said, “why am I tied to the bed?”

“Well, I wanted to give you something you wanted. But you said you didn’t want to decide.”
He put down his coffee. “So I’m going to give you what I want instead.”

☰

It was more than that, of course. The porn film was stupid, but the tied up woman in it reminded him of what she’d said, all those years ago.

Don’t you think I want to be like you? Like people with more control. Like people with less choices.

Well, that can be arranged, he thought. These guys did it and they look pretty stupid, how hard could it be? Besides, I bet I can look it up on the Internet. Mr. Internet knows everything, even if it’s wrong.

☰

The arrangement involved four strong but soft ties and a blindfold. More control? Your wish is my command, my dear. Fewer choices? Then I’ll choose for you.

After the blindfold was on he leaned down and talked softly in her ear. “I want to do this, but I don’t want to end up feeling like a freak or an abuser afterwards,” he said. “So I’m only going to ask you to do one thing. When I put your hand in mine and squeeze it once, I want to know that you’re okay. If you’re okay, I want you to squeeze my hand twice. Other than that, you won’t have to decide a single thing.”

He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, twice.

☰

He’d started with the fruit. Took the smallest piece, brushed it against her lips. She’d licked them, tasted the sweetness. He’d fed it to her. He’d taken another piece, drawn it across her lips, down, across her collarbone, down.

How many plums does it take to fill up a wife? Depends on the wife, really.

His fingers were sticky when he squeezed her hand. But she squeezed back twice, so he went back to his work, emptying the china bowl as she sighed and groaned. Once it was empty, he gazed upon his handiwork.

It made him hungry.

☰

oh oh oh oh God oh God oh oh please please oh oh oh OH! OH GOD!

☰

The great thing about the blindfold was that she couldn’t see that he’d already come on the sheets. It was embarrassing how many times she’d made him come in his pants, before he’d got anywhere near her, before he’d got a single item of her clothing off. Sometimes a woman can know too much about a man, he thought.

It didn’t matter. He was hard again already. He knelt before her sticky, wet cunt, placed himself at her opening, pushed inside slowly. She gasped. Oh, yes, she murmured, yes, please.

He felt her ripple around his cock, the aftershocks of her orgasm. They were like embers, she told him once. They can be fanned back to flame. Grabbing the metal rails of the headboard above her, fucking her, looking down on her parted lips, her full, upturned breasts. He reached down, took one of her nipples between his thumb and index finger. Squeezed.

She came.

You cannot fuck me too hard, she’d said. The first thing she’d said to him in the first moment they weren’t just friends anymore.

But really, had he ever tried?

He didn’t squeeze her hand before he decided to find out. He just did it. Grunting, fucking, animal lust as she arched towards him, lifting her back off the bed and straining against the bonds.

And coming, and coming, and coming.

He wasn’t loud during sex and he wasn’t a talker, but in the end she did what she always did. To everybody. To him. Take them to new places. When he got back, he was still shouting, nearly hoarse.

take it, take it, take my cock, I’m going to fuck you any way I want and you’re going to take it, take my cock, take it

She was shivering, trembling. He withdrew, untied her, pulled up the blanket quickly. Under the covers she curled into him, shaking, wet with sweat, even her hair was wet.

As her breathing slowed, he felt a familiar pit in his stomach. I don’t know if I want to be on this ride, he thought. She opened her eyes, looked up at him. It was such an appealing expression…she was….grateful? She loves me, he thinks. She slips her hand into his, squeezes it once. He squeezes back twice. Yes, I’m okay. I’m fine. I really am, he thinks.

---

Thank you for reading If you liked this, you might like The Letters Series, real-life stories about sex.