Her Cooking Club

“OK, I’m off, lasagna in the oven, temperature’s set, just push the cook button and the timer will beep after thirty five minutes. K?” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek as a carpet salesman from Helena bought an E.

He smiled back and nodded, asking vaguely, “Thanks hon, what’s the club cooking tonight?”

“Mandarin tofu.” It was the same thing she’d said last week. Her lies were getting shallower, more blatant, and part of her hoped he’d catch her, demand to know what she really did every Friday night at her “cooking club.”

Instead, he just kept the same absent smile and turned back to the television. “Sounds good, but that lasagna is really filling. Don’t worry about bringing me any leftovers.”

She looked at the back of his head and licked her lips, imagining what he’d look like on his knees gasping in pain, whip marks across his back. She’d been on edge all day, tremors shaking across her body whenever she thought about tonight. Her filthy fantasies she couldn’t make herself talk about when she looked in his eyes had been tugging at the corners of her mind all day.

An old friend from college had started it. She’d seen the steel handcuffs on the floor one night their sophomore year, and had known her friend was kinky for a long time. Discussions had piled up over a decade, innuendos had accumulated, and then there’d been the offer.

“Why don’t you come over sometime? He’s always had a fantasy about more than one woman being around when we play, and it’d be a good way for you to find out if you like it.”

She’d begged off, saying she was married, and a million other reasons besides.

Then she’d rationalized the reasons away, until the offer came again. “A couple of other girls I know are coming over Friday. If you’d like to show up, just watch… Well, I think it’d be good for you.”

She never should have told her friend how boring the sex was.

“Might make life interesting again.”

God, it was boring.

So she left that Friday, wondering if she was cheating. She was just watching, no different from when he ogled women on the cable shows. She wouldn’t touch anything, or even do anything herself. Just watch and see what it was like. Get it out of her system, come home and have great vanilla sex and be satisfied.

They’d decided the rules while she drank a beer nervously taken from the tray he brought around. It all seemed so mundane, the women were in blue jeans and t-shirts or loose blouses, the kind of comfortable clothes you’d put on for a weekend of yard work, not the leather pants and corsets she’d imagined. He was in polished dress shoes, nice slacks, and a button up shirt with a tie. The outline of chains distorted the lines of the shirt when he leaned over to offer her the tray, and she wasn’t sure if he smiled or grimaced when her hand accidentally brushed across the metal links as she took the bottle.

She’d kept silent while her friend went over his limits, trying to shrink back into the couch and disappear. They decided he’d keep his underwear on, at least he wouldn’t be naked. And then her friend had looked at him with an arched eyebrow and smiled.

Her breath had caught when he stripped off his shirt and the nipple clamps had appeared. He turned around to remove his pants, and her friend had laughed at his modesty while she stifled a groan. There were marks across his back, the back of his thighs, some tight red and still swollen and some faded stripes in parallel down his body. His blush crept back to his ears and matched some of those lines. She made her hands stay at her sides, forced them not to reach out towards his hot, tortured skin.

They’d gone over the rest of his limits, made sure everyone knew what yellow and red meant. She’d kept silent while they decided they’d take turns, each person getting to tie, to hit, to whip, to tease, to hurt, to torture for a night. They’d write their name on slips of paper, put them in a hat, and choose who would go first randomly. That name would stay out until everyone had a turn. No one said it, but they all knew one of them would have to wait four weeks before they had a chance, their lust building, watching what the others did, memorizing his reactions and lying in bed thinking about refining his pain while they got themselves off.

“Make him pick.” She’d spoken before she thought. Three pairs of eyes had turned to her, and then slowly a fourth, his. She licked her lips, and went on before her fear stopped her. “Make him pick the name out of the hat. Who will… you know, do it to him.”

She noticed the outline of his cock twitch behind the black boxer briefs when he heard her words. The room had filled with laughter, not mocking or hurtful, but joyous, lusty laughter that she eventually joined.

The change had started for her then, slowly. Her fantasies had always felt filthy and wrong before, something she should hide and be ashamed of. She started feeling better, but the lies she told her husband had still hurt later. When she lay beneath him, wanting to do nothing more than grab his hair and drag his lips away, hold his head while she slapped him into silence and wrapped leather around his throat. Dragging him to the floor, pinning him there with a crude leash, his face smashed tight against the rough carpet and his ass stuck high in the air while she picked up the belt.

She’d resented herself before, for her dirty fantasies. Now she started to resent him, for his complacency, for thinking everything was fine.

She pulled into the driveway of her “cooking club.” It had been four weeks since that first night, and her name was the only one left. She licked her lips and dropped the car keys into her purse. She took out her cell phone, and turned the ringer off with trembling fingers.

She walked up the steps she’d been thinking about all day. She’d still make him pick. Still make him reach his hand in, still make him choose her to make him beg for mercy.

Then she’d… Well, she had a lot of ideas. She wanted to try them all, but some might have to wait.

And some of those ideas did have to wait, but there were others that didn’t. Her friends had cheered and laughed and handed her whips and paddles and clamps, pinching his flesh tight for her while she screwed serrated teeth down into his skin, making it bulge and strain around sharp metal edges. Their had been laughter and moans of pain and lust and jokes and friends and punishments.

And the same steps looked a world different going down back to her car.

The television was still on when she got home, some musician talking about his latest album. She blinked, and walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him beneath one ear.

“Hey, how’d it go?” He looked at her with one eye and kept the other on the television.

“Good. You coming to bed soon?”

“After O’Brian.” He smiled and turned back to the television.

She nodded and went to their bedroom. Sliding her pants down and over her ankles, she lay back on the bed, slipped one hand into her panties and the other under her shirt.

She breathed hard, stifled her moans, and rubbed her clit. She teased herself and pressed down in time to the memory of the sound of leather hitting flesh, reveling in the remembered sound of that erotic beat. Her ring kept snagging on her panties, dragging at the edges and disrupting her rhythm. Groaning in frustration, she pulled it off and laid it on the bed beside her. She started again and came quickly this time, shuddering, laying on the bed gasping while the sounds of a bass guitar came through the bedroom door.

She sat up on the bed then, breathing hard and slumped forward and looking at the empty shape of her jeans on the floor. Her wedding ring was still laying beside her, and she picked it up and looked it over carefully. She rolled it between her fingers and looked it over, inside and out.

She sat there, feeling hollow and empty. Waited for him to come in until she couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled her pants on. With a gold ring clenched in her fist, she went back to the living room and sat down beside him.

“We need to talk.”

Copyright 2008 by Jerry Jones.  Unauthorized use is prohibited.