Isa

Mom always used to tell me that Dad had used to take her to the opera when they were still dating. It was weird to think of a time when my parents weren’t married, but there had been. They had only taken me once or twice when I was younger, but ultimately started leaving me behind because it was difficult for kids to sit still through a multiple act performance, where the performers were singing weird songs and you couldn’t talk above a whisper. You never really appreciated things like operatic singing when you were a child.

I never really went to the Metropolitan Opera House for any reason. I had applied to cook at the Grand Tier before, but they had not gotten back to me. Effectively a rejection. This was totally Lorenzo’s scene, but I was into it. There was obviously a reason why he had suggested we come here. He had fine taste in every other respect, why wouldn’t I like this. I wanted to trust his judgment, and about five minutes into the first act, I was glad that I had.

I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it was like an entire play, but grander. The story was gripping. By the time we got to the second act, I didn’t know if I’d end up running my mascara all the way down my cheeks from crying. I was overcome. There was no way that Lorenzo could have known that that was the sort of reaction I would have had to the performance. There was no way I could have known. It felt amazing to think that he had wanted me to see this. Maybe I was giving him too much credit for being thoughtful and considerate, but I barely gave him anything at all. It was our first date, and it was going great.

The singing was enough really. It was more than enough, but then he had started kissing me and asking whether I was okay. Okay? I was at the opera with my gorgeous husband. He had asked me out. We were acting like normal newlyweds. I was more than okay. I was fucking elated.

And then Lorenzo had... oh, my god. I blushed to think about it after the fact. With the dress, I had worn it was practically bound to happen. His hand had slid up my leg and he had pleasured me during the second act of ‘Tristan und Isolde’ at the Met. He had licked his fingers clean, tasting me afterward as if it was nothing. I was done. I was officially tapped out. There was no way I could have paid attention to the show after that.

I wanted to give him something. Getting his dick out of his pants would have been slightly harder than it had been for him to get under my dress. Whom was I kidding? We couldn’t stay here. I didn’t want to jerk him off. I wanted to give him more. Honestly, I wanted him to give me more, too.

What the hell was wrong with me? Was it because I was pregnant? Pregnant women apparently desired sex more than when they weren’t pregnant, but this was just... this was just something else. Maybe he derived some pleasure from getting me off, but the fact was that he had. He had made me come, and it had just gotten me hotter than before.

He had called me his ‘frigid wife’ before, and admittedly, sometimes I was deserving of the title. Who knew? Depriving Lorenzo of sex was depriving myself of opportunities like this. He was a man and I was a woman, the only man and woman available to each other to take care of things of this nature. It didn’t really occur to me that there was an element of my husband that truly wanted to have sex because it would be pleasurable for me.

Men, a lot of them at least, had sex like they were the only ones trying to achieve something. I knew he definitely thought I was sexy; he looked at me like he did, but I looked at him like I did, too. It went without saying that he was more experienced than I was. I wasn’t a virgin. I was nearly thirty, of course, I wasn’t a virgin...but I didn’t like casual sex. I didn’t like feeling used, and I couldn’t get myself to reduce another person to purely someone I was fucking. I wanted to please Lorenzo, but I also wanted him to please me. He had just fingered me in public...there was no way he didn’t want to go. I placed a hand on one of his legs and leaned into him. I very deliberately let my chest press against him.

“Let’s go home,” I whispered into his ear. He looked down at me.

“You don’t want to see the rest of the show?”

I shook my head.

“I want you to take me home,” I said. My other hand touched the side of his face, feeling his rough stubble under my fingers. I ran my hand down his neck and over his suit jacket.

“Oh yeah?” He was interested.

“I want you to take me home, and when we get there, I want you to lead me upstairs,” I said.

“Go on,” he said gruffly.

“I want you to lead me upstairs, and I want you to fuck me in our bed.” Lorenzo smirked hearing me speak like that. If he was surprised, he didn’t look it. He looked aroused.

“How do you want me to take you?” he asked. I didn’t have to think about this one.

“Hard. Dirty. Deep. Any way you want,” I said simply. Lorenzo’s dark eyes burned like hot coals. He was on his feet, pulling me up with him in seconds. I had to trot to keep up with him. I didn’t care how we looked fleeing the opera like that, my mind was set on one thing, finding out exactly how hard, dirty, and deep he wanted to fuck me.