“Not your nighttime dreams—what do you daydream about?”
“I don’t know. I guess I think about my kids and hope they’ll be happy adults.”
“I’m talking about fantasies, Jessica.”
That stopped me cold.
“I fantasize about winning the lottery. LOL.”
“Physically. What are your physical fantasies?”
I thought for a minute. Slimmer thighs didn’t seem to be the kind of answer he was looking for.
I took the bait. “I think about feeling so good I lose control. Like an out-of-body experience. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Ah,” Daniel texted. “You want to hand over control?”
Hmmm. Did I want to?
“I guess maybe. But I’m not exactly passive or anything like that.”
“Women who want to submit are usually confident, high achievers, very much in charge of their lives. They just want someone to take over during sex.”
Submit? I had thought about it more than once.
I had an image in my mind of a woman kneeling naked before a man, kissing his feet. Nope, that wasn’t my thing. But a woman kneeling and giving an exquisite blow job? That could work. I realized I had no idea where the line between conventional sex and erotic submissiveness was drawn. Maybe it was time to find out.
“I don’t know,” I texted Daniel.
“Maybe give it some thought, then. See how you feel.”
I gave it some thought. I didn’t know yet what he was talking about, but whatever it was, I was intrigued. Daniel seemed very confident, and I liked that about him. He was, indeed, a bold man.
71
“I made brownies. My hair smells like chocolate and sugar,” I texted Daniel.
Moments later, “My favorite things: your pretty hair and dessert.”
Smiling, I sniffed my hair. “If only I could bottle this.”
“I’m getting hard just thinking about you.”
“Really?”
“Really. Do you want me to send you a picture?”
“Yes?”
“Only if you want me to.”
“I do want it,” I texted.
And Daniel sent it, and it was amazing.
“Is this sexting?” I asked.
“It is, deer. Now it’s your turn,” Daniel texted. “Start with your tits. Make sure your nipples are hard.”
Tits? I hadn’t heard that word in a long time. But it was better than calling them boobs. Take pictures of them? It was thrilling and daunting at the same time.
“Wouldn’t you rather wait and see them in person?”
“I want to see what color your nipples are.”
“Pink, I guess?”
“Show me.”
Well, it was my turn, after what he’d sent me. To hell with locker-room modesty. It was about time for things to change, dramatically.
I was the only one home, but I went into the bathroom and locked the door anyway. Breathing faster, I pulled up my shirt and bra and saw I didn’t even need to pinch my nipples to make them stand up. It was a new kind of selfie, I thought, my body instead of my face. My breasts looked good, as it turned out, actually quite perky and firm.
“Nice,” Daniel texted after I sent it. “Now I want you to spread your legs and take a picture for me. A close-up.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I want. But don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
I felt my face flush. “It’s Tuesday night,” I texted back. “Do you think this is the right time for this?”
“It’s always the right time, sweetie.”
I realized I did want to show Daniel. Tingling all over, I went into my bathroom and closed the door.
Goddamn, it was bright with all the lights on. It was like a stage. I knew I would need soft lighting, to say the least. I peeled off my spider leggings, tangling my panties in the process.
I struggled to find the right angle, trying not to think about a visit to the gyno and putting my feet in the stirrups.
Penny, who had followed me into the bathroom, tipped her head to the side as if asking what the hell I was doing. I had no answer for her, or for myself. I shooed her out of the bathroom.
For the first six tries, I took pics of the bathroom floor tiles. Then all I caught with the cell camera was my thighs, which made me shudder until I convinced myself photos always make you look bigger than life. Finally, I had a clear close-up inside my thighs, all pink and swollen and ready for Daniel.
I didn’t even hesitate before sending the photo.
“You look wet and lovely,” he texted back. “Your wings are open like you’re ready.”
I smiled, reading the message over and over again.
72
“I have some simple tasks for you,” Daniel said Thursday night after I’d settled down in bed to talk.
“I’m not going to wear a skimpy maid get-up and wash your floors by hand.”
“Damn. Really? You won’t?”
“Nope.”
“Well, cross that one off the list. No, seriously, I want you to start stretching.”
“Stretching?”
“Yes. I want you to limber up.”
“What for?”
“So I can put you in various positions.”
Positions? Like what, reverse cowgirl? Or something even more physically demanding? I tried to picture it in my mind and came up empty.
“I want you to be nice and flexible,” he said, his voice calm, light, and teasing.
“We’ll be doing all these positions when we see each other this weekend?”
“Not all of them,” he laughed. “We’ll start out slow.”
“OK. I’m not sure I’ll ever be what you’d call flexible, but I can try.”
I couldn’t sleep, so I thought back to ninth-grade gymnastics when the gym teacher told us to “limber up.” I stood up and put my hands down to the floor, barely grazing it with my fingertips. Bent at the waist a few times. Rolled my arms in circles. Then I got serious, doing runner’s squats until moisture beaded up around my ears, deep lunges, lying side lifts, standing and lifting my calves off the floor. I threw in some stomach crunches and a couple push-ups for good measure.
I hoped it counted as going to the gym.
Then I went into the kitchen for water and some Cheetos, telling myself the healthy no-cal water balanced out the salty Cheetos. I didn’t care. I was on my way to becoming limber, and maybe regaining
