A Date Night with W

I wish I had the photos, but words alone will have to do (for the moment.)

Last night I had a “playdate night” with W. With all the changes this past month, our schedules (mine, Ad’s and, consequently, W’s) have been shuffled around a bit. Ad is now working Fridays until 10:00pm, so W and I are going to start making Friday night “playdate night,” like we used to do.

I dress up.

I show up.

He does things to me.

Three hours later, I come home to Ad, somewhat (or more than somewhat) the worse (or better) for wear.

This hits on some serious triggers for W. He loves the idea of fucking me up for a finite amount of time and pushing me out the door. He loves the idea of sending me home to my boyfriend fucked up by him. He loves the idea of me coming home to Ad sore, abused, and horny. He loves the idea of Ad using my body when I arrive home, because I am so horny I need to get fucked – and Ad taking advantage of that.

So, although I could stay over (and may, occasionally, since, as W said, sometimes he won’t want to let me go, or I’ll be too messed up to drive, or part of fucking me up will be using me all night) I usually won’t stay over, even if I can.

He said last night he thought about our date all day. So did I.

He made special preparations, something he hasn’t done in a long time.

I made special preparations as well.

I dressed as he had specified: smart, sexy, classy. In a slightly sexed-up version of my “interview clothes.” I felt like a teenager sneaking out of the house as I left, because I had to walk by my pseudo-father-in-law on the way out and I didn’t want to wear my high heel fuck-me-pumps, so I wore flats and carried my heels surreptitiously in one hand.

I changed into the heels before I went up to W’s door, just as I had for our very first play date. When I arrived, he opened my coat and gave me a once-over, nodding his approval, before handing me a different pair of heels. (I like a man that knows what he wants.)

And then he put a ball gag in my mouth. I don’t know if he noticed my shiver when I felt his hands at the nape of neck as he tightened the gag’s strap.

And then, with very few words, he proceeded to take me upstairs, tie me up and strip me, one piece of clothing at a time.

I was gagged, but that didn’t stop the occasional whimper as he pulled a piece of clothing from me.  As he pulled a nipple, or ran his hand down my back. As I was slowly, inexorably, stripped naked to his gaze.

Being tied didn’t keep me from leaning into him, from smelling the deep maleness of him, from pushing against his hand when he pressed it against my breast, my hip, my mound.

There was rope, but no rope torture. There was dominance, but no pain. There was force, but no brutality.

It. Was. Fucking. Hot.

I’m already anticipating our next date.


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