Playing the Game (11 page)

She watched him walk down the hall, closing her door after he’d opened his. Her fingers raced to unfasten the envelope’s metal prongs and slide out the contents.

The word “contract” had pushed an image into her brain of comically thick piles of legal paper. Henry had given her four sheets of paper. Four. She skimmed. Two held nothing but questions.

The questions they contained made her flinch. Fuck, had she considered her sexual boundaries relaxed? Henry must think them nonexistent.

Why the fuck did he need to know how often she looked in a mirror or what phobias she might harbor? Or how her parents had disciplined her? Jesus Christ.

At least the sex ones made sense. Her preferred frequency for intercourse. Intrusive, sure, but logical. He’d need to know how often to fuck her, wouldn’t he?

The extent of her previous sexual experience. What, he wanted a laundry list of every guy she’d taken to her bed and how they’d screwed her?
To fill in the gaps in my education.
Nervous laughter spilled out.

Masturbation. Telling him how often, fine. But telling him
how
she touched herself? The toys she used? Her thoughts and feelings during the act?

The whole damn thing was horribly invasive, not only sexually but emotionally. Psychologically.

Alice tossed the papers on her kitchen table–
Henry’s
table, the sturdy, antique wooden two-seater he’d loaned her–and refused to look at them. She needed food. And a shower. She did not need pieces of paper defining when and how she got laid. She did not need some huge mind-fuck from her neighbors.

She’d go back to finding guys the old-fashioned way, with blind dates set up online, and fuck them whenever she chose to.

Mind churning, she jumped in the shower. Dating was such a chore. Meeting new people. Rejecting the incompatible ones as politely as possible and hoping they weren’t the sort of nutjobs who stalked people afterward. Negotiating the tentative back-and-forth of early dates wasn’t all that different from a contract, was it?

She already knew Henry and Jay, and she’d sampled the sex. She’d never come so hard or so often. Skip the awkwardness, keep the fantastic fucking.

Her fuzzy outline in the fogged mirror agreed with her.

Henry wouldn’t ask such personal questions without a reason.

“He wants me to be satisfied.”

Why bother? The guys she’d dated hadn’t given a shit.

“It’s an ego trip. A power thing.” Her reflection nodded. “Right. That’s why he’s in control, why there’s a contract. He gets off on satisfying me because it makes him feel like some huge fucking stud.”

Which he is. It was totally fucking hot, and you know it was.

Looking over the contract again wouldn’t hurt.

She pulled on comfortable shorts and an old t-shirt, a soft one with a faded logo from too many washings, before she microwaved a frozen meal and sat at the table to read.

Henry would take the primary responsibility for preventing both pregnancy and disease. She’d be welcome to supplement his precautions with hormonal birth control or some other method if she liked, but he’d supply condoms and arrange for regular testing.

She snorted. All well and good, condoms being an absolute must in her book, but she wasn’t dropping her birth control, either.

Thinking of him as solely in charge of such things seemed odd. None of her previous lovers had wanted the responsibility. As if they thought she magically wouldn’t insist on a condom when they couldn’t produce one. She scanned the page. What else would he be in charge of?

He guaranteed her physical safety. What the hell did that mean? Sex complicated enough to require a disclaimer sounded like more than the occasional rug burn or bruised back.

She shuffled to the last two pages, the questions. Nothing but questions.

The first one requested she indicate whether she
had
tried, was
interested
in trying, or
refused
to try–four columns, eight rows, minus one blank spot–thirty-one. Thirty-one different sex acts, some of which she didn’t even recognize.

She laughed. Side-achingly hard, folded over in the chair.

She’d been nine. The summer after third grade. She had informed her parents with solemn dignity of her intent to sample every option at the ice-cream parlor. Thirty-one flavors before the end of the summer. Lacking a computer at home, she’d gone to the library to make her chart professional. Grown-up. Used her allowance to buy a pack of star stickers to rate each flavor in her experiment.

A single scoop, every other day, allowing time for her palate to refresh itself, of course. All summer. She’d tried every flavor. Some lasted only four bites, her minimum sample size for an accurate ranking, but she hadn’t skipped a single one.

Was she less adventurous at twenty-seven than she’d been at nine?

If things got to be too much, she could stop, right? She flipped back to the first page. Item one. Either party would be permitted to reopen negotiations at any time, for any reason, or end the contract at will. Right. If she didn’t like it, she’d say
see ya
and struggle through awkward greetings in the hall and strained friendships like a grown-up. No big deal.

She reread item two. Henry asked for a specific window of time. He agreed her life outside those hours was her own. Although he encouraged her to eat regular meals and get enough sleep, he wouldn’t interfere if she didn’t. He just reserved the right to judge her health for himself when she arrived and refuse her if he believed her too tired, ill or otherwise unprepared for playtime.

His protectiveness might be frustrating, if he underestimated her capability, but it was for her benefit. If she was honest with him about her physical condition, he wouldn’t need to step in for her. Okay. Good. Item two was not a problem, either.

Item three. As Henry’s long-term partner, Jay would participate in their activities and be allowed sexual access to her during their time together, at Henry’s discretion. A fancy way of saying she had no say in how she was fucked or even in who was doing the fucking. The contract was careful to note that this courtesy–

She snickered. Courtesy? Henry made sex sound like helping her with her coat.

This courtesy would only be extended to Jay and not to any other potential sexual partners. Was Henry expecting to have other partners?

Well, why not? Jay did sometimes. He’d probably had sex with that woman on the Fourth of July.

She’d stuck to monogamous relationships before, but an open one wasn’t an automatic deal breaker. Did she need exclusivity if this was no more than an excuse to get laid regularly and try out some kinks?

Food for thought while she skipped to the questions. If she decided not to go through with this, Henry would never see her answers anyway. If she did, he’d have incredibly intimate knowledge of her, and she’d know nothing she didn’t already. Where was
his
questionnaire?

“Right. Like he’s just gonna hand over information.”

The contract allowed him to hide behind the dominant label while she exposed herself. Divulged everything. She wouldn’t learn the reasons for his actions unless he chose to tell her. The inherent unfairness of the inequality itched at her.

“That’s why he called it a submissive role. I have to trust he’ll act in my best interests.”

Alice tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. White. Smooth. Not like the popcorn ceiling in her childhood home. The more accurate data she gave Henry, the better understanding he’d have of her best interests.

She started on the questions. Answers went on a separate notepad, as the pages themselves didn’t leave enough room. The first answer had an embarrassingly small number of
have tried,
but the small number of
won’t try
made her proud. Most things fell under
willing to try,
especially since she was confident she could stop things at any time.

The second question was a big one. Previous lovers. He didn’t care about their names. Just how many she’d had, how long the relationships had lasted, why they’d ended and whether she’d been in love with them. What a preposterous question. Of course she hadn’t been in love with them. Love didn’t exist, not like that.

She gave them numbers and wrote out complete answers. If Henry wanted thorough, he’d get
thorough
. Assuming she showed him the answers at all.

More than eight years of sexual activity since she’d given it up as a college freshman. Two relationships longer than six months. A handful of flings. Two one-night stands. Not a single sexually satisfying one in the bunch.

She’d kicked them all to the curb. Politely, for the most part. It was just sex, and lousy sex at that. What was the point of the sweating and heaving if she got nothing in exchange? Her own fingers and her vibrator knew her a hell of a lot better than those men had. Even Adam, and they’d been together two years before she broke it off for good. He’d been convenient. For a while.

Sexual compatibility had always seemed out of reach. Until Henry had sized her up for ten seconds last night and fucked her brains out. He was
good
. If he taught her how to make satisfaction happen with any partner, the experience would be a valuable one.

Worth handing over all of this information? Worth handing over control?

She tapped the pen against her notepad.

“Yes.”

Her hand was cramped and frozen in position by the time her answers satisfied her. Henry wouldn’t have a single reason to reject her, even if she brought nothing to this arrangement beyond inexperience and enthusiasm. Maybe he’d let her put a chart on his fridge.
Note to self: Buy some star stickers. A lot of star stickers. Buy stock in a sticker company.

“Because I am going to fucking ace this.”

* * * *

She waited until Sunday morning to call Henry’s cell.

He picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Alice. It’s lovely to hear from you.”

“Hi, Henry. I’m–I finished. I’m ready to talk about the contract. If you are.”

“Certainly, my dear. Bring it over and we’ll chat now. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”

He hung up before she could respond.

Now. Now? She’d thought this afternoon. Or tomorrow. Tomorrow was good.

The pages she’d filled with her writing lay loose on the table. She rushed to tidy them, to create a neat stack and slide them into the envelope he’d used.

She tapped the envelope like a telegraph operator. Was it too businesslike? Maybe she should be more casual.

Out came the pages.

“Relax.” Her voice sounded loud to her ears. “It’s a chat with Henry. We’ve had dozens of chats.”

Oh yeah? Before or after he’d fucked her senseless?

“Right. Right. This’ll be a little different. I’m prepared for that.”

Sure. Because a woman freaking out over an envelope screamed Boy Scout levels of preparation. She blamed Henry. If his interview process was anything like his application form for sexual partnerhood, it’d be more intensive than a Secret Service background check and astronaut training put together.

Sure you wanna go through with this?

She stared down at the pages and blew out a breath.

“Henry and Jay are good guys, and this is temporary. An experimental phase. I never did the whole girl thing at college. Maybe sex under contract with two guys is my kissed-a-girl moment. I’ll either like it or I won’t. No harm, no foul, right?”

She scooped up the pages, left the envelope, and marched down the hall. She rapped twice before pushing the door open. “Henry?”

“Here, Alice. Come in, please.”

His voice had come from the kitchen. A deliberate move on his part? Passing the dining room table aroused vivid memories, the thrill of being splayed across it Friday night. His slight smile had to mean he was thinking of it too. Or at least he was amused to have made her think of it.

Aside from the small sounds as Henry poured juice and set plates on the breakfast bar, the apartment was quiet. Two plates.

“Isn’t Jay here?”

“Not for this, my dear. You might desire privacy in this discussion. But if you wish for Jay to be here, it’s an easy matter to fix.”

“No, it’s just it affects him, too, right?” His boisterousness might’ve made her less nervous. A welcome distraction.