Our little game

One time, my wife and I played a game: which actor or actress would she or I sleep with...

My wife’s name is Vilma. She’s 35, same as me. We also have a daughter, Agnes, who’s 12—she loves it when I braid her hair in the mornings or tie it into a ponytail using my special vacuum method (I modified the nozzle just for that purpose).

So...

I lost that round and had to name an actress. After a pause, I said Monica Bellucci.

But I lied. I was torn between two: Monica Bellucci and Ana de Armas. Of course, I’d have fucked Ana de Armas. But I figured Monica was the safer choice—universal, obvious, natural for any man. I decided to keep my lust for Ana de Armas a secret, just in case. Didn’t want Vilma getting jealous.

When it was Vilma’s turn, she said: Chris Evans.

Truth be told, I had no damn clue who Chris Evans was at the time... Vilma listed some movie titles I didn’t recognize. Something vaguely clicked, but not really. I had to look him up—then it hit me.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lied too. But if she had, why not just say Brad Pitt or some other obvious choice, like I did with Monica?

I spent some time afterward wondering: what the hell did she even see in this Chris Evans guy? I skimmed a few clips of his movies but still didn’t get it. Totally average type, like a million others. Sure, he’s got charisma, and yeah, he’s fit—but just gym-fit, nothing particularly aesthetic about that kind of build.

That conversation faded. We never brought it up again.

But the other day...

That evening during dinner, we watched Captain America: The First Avenger—the one with Chris Evans in the lead role (we just stumbled upon it on some TV channel; I didn’t even recognize him as Captain America at first). The night ended... unexpectedly.

First, I could feel Vilma’s discomfort the whole time. She stayed silent through the entire movie. That wasn’t like her. And it probably meant she hadn’t lied back then.

Either way, I didn’t want to make her uneasy. We just finished the film. Afterward, in the kitchen, Vilma was washing dishes while Agnes helped. Out of nowhere, Agnes said she liked the movie—and the hero. I was rummaging for my lighter at the time (I usually leave it on the windowsill or fridge next to my cigarettes) so I could step out for a smoke.

When I came back, the door to Agnes’ room was already closed and the lights were off (meaning Vilma had put her to bed). I asked, "Agnes asleep already?"

Vilma just said, "Yeah."

I brushed my teeth and went to the bedroom. The TV was still on, playing some other movie.

As I lay down, Vilma suddenly said, "I won’t be able to sleep without something sweet tonight."

This wasn’t just our usual before-bed sex. She fucked me.

We hadn’t had sex in four weeks, and there hadn’t been any hints or buildup.

She didn’t even grab the condoms. Didn’t ask. And we always use protection.

Honestly, Vilma acted nothing like herself. She rode me—literally—in reverse cowgirl. And I wondered: Was it so she wouldn’t have to look at me? For a second, I even got jealous, thinking she was pretending it wasn’t my cock inside her, but his—Chris fucking Evans.

But damn, she fucked me hard. The bed creaked so violently I worried Agnes might hear. Vilma didn’t seem to care. She was squatting and seemed to be doing it on purpose, making her ass clap loudly against me, slamming down with rough, rhythmic thrusts. She wasn’t herself. At one point, she took me all the way in, moved her hips vigorously so that my penis would rub against her uterus. — I heard a muffled moan.

She started shaking all over.

There were these broken, half-choked sounds—she was trying to stay quiet, but failing. I really hope Agnes was asleep.

She came three more times like that—experiencing both vaginal and uterine orgasms, as she later admitted. As for me, I only came once at the very end, lifting her hips off me and finishing to the side.

When I asked her later if she had actually imagined Chris Evans, she said no—he just turned her on and put her in the mood for sex. But something else had aroused her too. As for what exactly... well, let’s just keep that as my little secret.