Like many long-married couples, Playtime had taken a back seat to outside forces.
To be honest, Sam’s and Harper’s sex life had never been awful, but their drive had never been quite on the same plane. Lately, they had reached the point of making love once every couple of months, and Sam would have liked to fuck every couple of hours. The infrequency didn’t seem to bother Harper, but Sam had become frustrated and anxious. Sure, he had his fantasies to occupy him every morning in the shower, but he was feeling unwanted and very much unsexy.
Over the years, Sam had tried very hard to keep the fire burning in as many ways as he could think of – romantic dates, gifts of lingerie and introducing toys, always remembering the anniversary of their first date all those years ago, offering to be her sex slave whenever she would like, risqué board games – anything that he thought might pique her interest, he tried it. Some of it worked, other ideas were tried but not repeated (S&M, role play), and some she just refused to entertain (a threesome with either gender). He was pretty sure she still loved him, and he certainly still loved her – he just needed a lot more heat than she apparently had to give. They had always enjoyed each other’s company, and she did occasionally come up with a sexy idea, like the night she suggested a gin rummy game for sexual favors, but it had been a while.
It was during one particular drought that a new idea popped into Sam’s brain. He thought about it for a few days to work out the details and anticipate any objections she might offer when he presented his plan.
Friday night arrived, and, as was their custom, they were seated for dinner in their Country Club dining room. They would frequent other restaurants as well, but Sam suggested the Club for tonight on purpose, feeling Harper would be most relaxed in familiar surroundings and hence as receptive to his idea as she would ever get. The meal and conversation were pleasant, and with the table cleared, the server asked if we would like anything else.
Harper shook her head in refusal but stopped quickly as Sam spoke.
“Mrs. Baker will have one more Bourbon Manhattan.”
As the waiter retreated, Harper stared quizzically at Sam, trying to read the thoughts hidden inside the intense look on his face.
“What’s going on?” Harper pressed, suddenly panicked that something may be wrong with him, or that he had bad news.
“Would you rather I ask you for a favor,” Sam began, “Or should I just tell you what is going to happen?”
Harper continued to attempt a decipher of her husband’s demeanor, but she was beginning to understand that this was about sex. She knew Sam like no one else and figured that he had his full Capricorn intensity working overtime in this one. With mock-intensity of her own, she stared into Sam’s soul, a mischievous smirk curling her attractive lips.
“I think you had just better list your demands, my dear Sam,” she smiled, “and I’ll do my best.”
Knowing that she was playing with him now, Sam decided to just blurt it out all at once.
“It's been a while, and I need you. I need to get excited, and I need you excited, so tonight we are doing something new. I need you to participate. I need you to put some effort into my idea. If you’re going to half-ass it, just say so right now and I won’t say another word about it. If you’re game, then here is what you’re going to do."
She was listening. It was a start.
"Finish your drink and we’ll head home. When we get there, I will walk the dog. You will change into whatever makes you feel the sexiest, then light a couple of candles, and put on some sexy music. I won’t come back inside until you tell me that you are ready. Lay on the bed and wait for me. I’m going to take pictures and tell you what poses I want.”
Nervously waiting for her expected rejection, Sam watched as Harper said nothing. She simply stared back at him. Sam dejectedly looked at the floor.
“Hey, you.”
Sam looked up, straight into Harper's eyes. Not breaking eye contact, she brought the Manhattan glass to her lips, tossed her head back, and downed the half-full cocktail. With purpose, she set the empty container on the table and spoke.
“I’m in. All in. Let’s go.”
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“Come home,” read the long-awaited signal, “I’m ready for you.”
Nearly tripping on the dog in his haste, he made it home and opened the front door. A soft glow was emanating from the bedroom doorway, and his breath shallowed at the sound of Joe Cocker’s instructions regarding a hat.
He turned the corner to enter the bedroom and stopped in his tracks. She sat with her back against the headboard, a glass of wine in one hand and the other on her thigh. She had chosen the black satin nightshirt he had given her and unbuttoned the top three clasps to expose ample cleavage. He could see her nipples had hardened and seemed to be begging to be exposed. One foot was flat on the bed with her knee bent, a pose which showed plenty of one shapely leg. Watching him survey her top to bottom, she upped the stakes by dropping her index finger into her wine and then slid it into her mouth very, very, slowly and seductively, then withdrawing it even more tantalizingly.