Date Night (Her View)

Date night. Finally.

It’d been awhile since J and I could do this. The pitter-patter of small bare feet on the laminate flooring reminded me of why — the little one. I smiled, hearing him chase after her: “Baby girl, no don’t take off your dia…per.”

With a quiet chuckle, I turned my attention back to my wayward hair, letting my mind drift, as it tends to do. My smile turned into something soft and secret. It may be date night tonight but only a few hours earlier, J and I managed to sneak in a little fun while the little one slept off her grilled cheese sandwich and fries.

I could still taste him on my tongue, even now, even after brushing my teeth.

The slight bitter and salty taste lingered, drawing the slow, steady pulsation of blood lower and lower. I soon felt the pulsation throb.

Yea, underwear wasn’t going to be needed tonight.

Especially in this dress — a little black dress with a sexy twist: a plunging neckline (which accentuated my smaller-than-average breasts) and a hemline that fell to mid-thigh. Every thread seemed to hug the slight curves of my body and the stark darkness of the dress contrasted alluringly with my pale skin.

After slipping on my heels, I ran my hands down the front of the dress and took a deep breath. I didn’t often wearing this type of clothing; the niggling, insidious insecurities I, at times, managed to stow away loudly cackled in the back of my mind.

“Oh, shut up you,” I mentally chastised myself.

This dress made my long legs look fucking fantastic and I planned on rocking this LBD like the pretend porn star I was.

Insecurities be damned anyway. I needed only to walk downstairs for the sparkling jewelry, smokey eye makeup, and tiny dress to work in my favor. J awkwardly stood in the middle of the room, staring with his mouth open.

The little one tugged on his sleeve and waving her cup in front of him: “Apple da-da! Apple!”

Our babysitter, Danielle, mouthed “wow” and why did I ever think, even for a second, that I couldn’t rock this dress?

“Pick your jaw up off the floor in front of the babysitter.”

J startled, scrambling for something witty to say. Danielle merely offered a small smile and ushered us out the door. With a kiss on the little one’s forehead and some last second reassurances to Danielle, we walked outside where our Uber driver patiently waited.

Cue the start of date night.

Much to my surprise, we pulled up in front of the newest swanky restaurant to grace downtown’s storefront. I couldn’t recall the menu, but J whispered “Yes!” under his breath. Following his eye line, I spotted the cause of his whispered exclamation — craft beers and whiskeys.

He may be excited about the beers and whiskeys, but I was excited about the vodka. I nearly ordered a vodka on the rocks for I could feel the vast array of eyes on me as I walked beside J. Perhaps they weren’t actually staring; however, I felt on display, much more skin showing than I usually felt comfortable with. The fish bowl sensation, planes of skin under the microscope-like panes of glass, crept up quickly and sharply.

I needed that drink — and fast.

The food, though delicious and savory, found itself on the proverbial backburner while J and I laughed, joked, and talked. Days and weeks of stressful workloads, familial obligations, and a very cute but needy little one demanding our attention, had kept us from truly enjoying each other’s company. Despite our entrance into the swinger and BDSM lifestyle, we were one of those sickeningly sweet couples who rejoiced in small, almost indiscernible touches, cutesy kisses, and frequent “I love yous” passing between our lips.

It felt nice to rediscover that often-elusive metaphorical space that was just ours.

In this space, though, resided a little secret J believed was his secret. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his Reddit browsing, specifically of the hotwife and hotwife captions pages, wasn’t exactly a secret. I couldn’t pass judgment, however, for I held on to a secret of my own — I was not turned off by the hotwife lifestyle, rather I was ravenously turned on.

Sure, the idea of another man inside me unsettled me a bit. I tended to romanticize the idea that J would be the last man to ever be inside me. But then, furtively stowing away J’s breathless, erotically-charged reactions as I took various sized dildos during our rather active sexual adventures, I let my mind wander: would he have a similar reaction if I took a big, thick cock attached to an actual man and not a strap-on? Would he want to reclaim me as he did after prolonged stretching by those various sized dildos, reminding my loosened and slick pussy that, while it may be used and abused by others, it belonged to him, and to him alone?

So I peppered him with questions until the opportunity arose for us to have some fun with another couple. I wanted him to know, in not so uncertain terms, that I wanted what he wanted — that I craved what he wanted.

I craved seeing him slack-jawed, breathless, and flushed, eyes ravenous and fiery. I craved his possessive touch and subsuming kisses after another man had touched me, kissed me, and even came inside me. I craved it because there was nothing hotter, sexier, and more erotic than J in the throes of jealous, domineering fervor — a fervor that lasted not hours, but days, and resulted in soul-satisfying, orgasm-laden sex, leaving my legs week and my body headily satiated.

This is precisely what happened following our romp with the other couple.

But now, it was time to spice it up.

I may have indulged his hotwife fantasy, but now I wanted to indulge his other fantasy (and my own, if I’m being perfectly honest): a big, black cock. I made some videos, although slightly embarrassing because I wasn’t really a porn star, featuring some of our more prominent black dildos that J endearingly called “Derrick.”

Tonight, it seemed, J had other plans. The little smirk on his face told me dinner and a possible hotel frolic with “Derrick” role-playing scenes may be of the literal, and metaphorical, table. I didn’t particularly like that little smirk — it meant he had a surprise.

Have I mentioned that I don’t like surprises? As a self-professed control freak, surprises meant a total lack of control and a total lack of knowledge and awareness. That little smirk had appeared earlier in the week, but much to my dismay, J managed to weasel his way out of answering my nagging questions.

With the reappearance of the smirk, I knew the “surprise” was intended for tonight and not down the line (and yes, he does, on multiple occasions, like to let the “smirk” emerge for events and gifts months in advance).

In our Uber car after dinner, he acquiesced and told me the name of a club not too far from the restaurant. I immediately Googled it, only finding a few reviews. It must be new, I surmised, though the few reviews I did read were good, labeling the club “clean,” “intimately atmospheric,” and “[having] decent drink prices and nice bathrooms.”

Ok. I can work with that.

As J paid the covers, I took another deep breath. Why we were here…well, there was only one reason: dancing. And I couldn’t dance. Even with the three vodka cranberries warming my blood from dinner, I nervously shivered.

Dancing meant being the center of attention; or rather, what felt like being the center of attention for me. I possessed zero rhythm and I swore I was tone deaf, unable to discern the subtle differences in beats and harmonies despite my unwavering and unconditional love of all things music. J has always had this undying attachment to women dancing — women dancing drove him wild, thrumming each erogenous chord in his sturdy, compact frame, until the only thing he could do and see was stimulation and sensation.

His most powerful masturbatory experiences were watching videos of scantily clad, or naked, women dancing.

Yeah. He wanted me to dance. He wanted to watch me dance, clad only in this LBD that, really, left very little to the imagination.

I needed another drink. Stat.

J didn’t leave me stranded, effortlessly sliding a fresh vodka cranberry into my hand. I immediately drained the contents and motioned for another, to which J slyly asked, “Ready to dance?”

I offered him a snide “I’m not even close to ready for that” and an eye roll as I handed him my empty cup.

Giving me one of his infamous smirks, he grabbed the empty cup and turned back to get me another drink. In what seemed like no time, a second vodka cranberry was slipped into my hand. I didn’t waste any time draining the contents again, eyeing the dance floor with trepidation. I knew at some point J would want me to venture onto the dance floor, but honestly, was there enough vodka in the world to entice me into thinking I could actually dance?

Sure, yeah, more than likely the other dancers would not notice my floppy fish style dancing, so lost in their own styles and movements. Yet the swelling crush of gyrating bodies did not exactly seduce me into that venture onto the dance floor.

So consumed with the mounting anxiety, I nearly missed J telling me he was going to the bathroom and could I please get him another drink? I mutely nodded and turned back to the bar, letting him disappear into the weaving throngs of club goers.

With some precision and luck, I squeezed my way in between two drunken frat guys and declared the stool my territory, harrumphing their lack of chivalry. It didn’t take long, however, for their attention to find two bottle blondes with perky, and very clearly fake, breasts pouting because they couldn’t get the attention of the very obviously gay bartender.

“Typical,” I chuckled.

From beside me, I heard, “Agreed and I’d bet my corner office that they suck in bed.”

I turned and added, “Because women that stereotypically attractive usually are. Their looks do all the work.”

As I spoke, my eyes had to trail upwards, passing along the strong lines of an incredibly striking black man, dressed pristinely in designer clothing. The dark jeans accentuated his toned legs and chiseled ass, while the quarter-sleeve shirt hugged the dips and curves of his muscular arms and broad shoulders. My mouth went a little dry because damn, this man was gorgeous.

Despite my evident staring and slightly slack-jawed expression, he graciously offered me his hand and his name, “I’m Taye.”

“Raegan.”

“I appreciate the deep-seated cynicism.”

I chuckled, “Happy to oblige. I don’t particularly like being that critical, but really, do you have to play into the stereotype?”

“And what, I have to know, stereotype do you fall under?”

“Hmm,” I considered, “A combination of them, I have to admit. The Nerdy Girl. The Punk Rocker. Note the short hair, multiple tattoos, and pale skin I’ve obviously acquired while whittling away in the library.”

Taye laughed, a deep, throbbing tremor of a laugh. Ok. Yet another checkmark in the “Too Attractive For Me” column.

“I’m a jock.”

I smiled, “Honey, your jock-ness is as obvious as that bartender’s gayness. It’s written all over you. Let me guess, football player?”

Taye flashed a smile and it immediately sent blood pooling in the pit of my stomach. Fucking hell, he was hot.

“Guilty,” he said, his smile lingering. “Running back. N.C. State for a year and then I transferred to smaller division two school closer to home.”

I grimaced, “Oooo, I don’t know if I can talk to you anymore. I’m engaged to another ACC school alum.”

Before Taye could respond, I felt arms slink around my shoulders from behind — J. I’d barely noticed how long it’d been since he left to use the bathroom. Slight tension radiated from him; he knew better than anyone that I didn’t regularly talk to strange men at bars. I had no problem telling a guy to fuck off, but Taye was different.

Taye was interesting.

“Oh, hey baby. Took you awhile. This is Taye and we were just about to talk about the football games this weekend.”

J gave me an incredulous look, but recovered quickly and shook Taye’s hand. Soon, another round of drinks were ordered and we lost in football talk for a bit. That is, until some ridiculous 2000s rap song came on, and J’s eyes widened. Taye immediately jumped off his stool and held out his hand to me, but I shook my head — dancing and I didn’t get along.

My husband, however, had other plans — clearly. With a gentle, but insistent, push from his hand on the small of my back sent me sliding off my stool, directly into Taye. Oh, I see where this is going, I internally mused.

Taye held his hand out again and when I took his hand in mine, it is a branding shock to my system, hot and strong.

“Come on Nerdy Girl,” he said lowly, breathily. “Dance with me.”

I went easily, willingly with him. It’d be sheer stupidity to deny Taye this directive, especially when his gaze was so intense and evocative. His gaze cut right through me and it was as if I was being lit up from the inside out, nerves engulfed by a fiery inferno, which burns so hot; too hot.

The seismic shift that temporarily toppled my equilibrium was Taye turning me around and pressing my back into his chest. He guided his hands to my hips, fingers digging into the feminine curve of my hipbones just as the song moves into the chorus.

In this moment, all I knew was that Taye’s hands felt so good, perfect even, pressed against my deceptively long lines. They began to draw themselves along the dips and hollows and valleys, vast planes stretching endlessly and gloriously beneath his touch. In this moment, anywhere he touched was fine with me, just as long as he kept touching me.

The song mysteriously lulled me, tricked me into believing Taye and I were the only ones in the club. I tipped my head back, resting it against his shoulder, and fuck, we were so close together.

I allowed Taye’s hands and hips to guide us both, grinding and rotating and thrusting. Other bodies pressed against us and I was only vaguely aware of them because all I felt is Taye — muscles twitching, hips rhythmic and dangerously expert.

A particular deliberate roll of my hips extracted a deep, rumbling moan from within Taye core. His breath was hot and damp against the sweaty skin of my neck. While I certainly felt the warmth of multiple vodka cranberries, I was not so much drunk on my alcohol intake as I was by this man gyrating and matching my every move.

Even with my eyes closed, lids fluttering and long lashes skirting across my cheeks, I felt Taye’s gaze on me, chancing a look to see if I was enjoying this as much as he was. Through the thin fabric of my short dress, I felt the tightening stretch of his pants, a bulge slowly and steadily rising.

Fuck. I could feel him everywhere and something inside my head, a tumbler falling into place, unlocked the shackles of my inhibitions and I lost myself in the sweet, delicious feel of his body.

He slipped his hand downward until his fingers glided across my dress’s hemline. His fingers curled under the hemline, not much, just an inch or so, just enough to make me whimper. The space-time continuum seemed to abruptly slow down and speed up with each rock and roll of hips and the throbbing bass line served as juxtaposition to the up tempo beat — building, fast churned by slow, sultry thumps and pulses, and obscenely dirty.

A combination of the new — when did the song change? — lyrics, the contrasting bass line and thumping beat, and the weight and feel of his body against mine pushed me over the edge. I suddenly ached to be reckless, to be reckless with him, this beautiful stranger, so I turned my head and nuzzled the sinfully soft patch of skin below his ear.

Abruptly, Taye stops dancing and whispers in my ear, “Let’s get another drink and then finish what we started.”

With a nod, I follow him back to the bar. J is still sitting where we left him. In the heat and rapture of the previous moment, I nearly forgot about J, but one look at him told me he’d been watching, and enjoying. It only took one glance to notice the sizable bulge in his lap.

“You two have fun out there? I couldn’t really see y’all too much and I kind of lost sight of you,” J said. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know he was attempting to appear nonplussed, like he wasn’t watching intently from his stool.

“We had a blast,” I smiled and slid my arm around Taye’s waist, hugging him. “I know I don’t normally like going out dancing, but I’m glad you picked this place.”

Taye excused himself to the bathroom, only after letting his hand linger on my knee. J saw this and smirked, “I’m glad you’re having fun, babe. You and Taye seem to be hitting it off well.”

I flushed. “We are. He’s great, and funny, and quite a dancer.”

I knew I was rambling and louder than usual, but the alcohol, and the want I suddenly and fiercely felt for Taye, was making me feel invulnerable and powerful. “If he comes back and asks me to dance again, do you mind?”

Before he could reply, a Bachelorette party squeezed past us, en route to the other side of the bar. J’s eyes followed them and then offered me a wink, “I think I’ll survive babe. Go dance and have fun.”

My smile came quickly, so I kissed him, a soft “I love you” falling my lips as I did so.

Minutes later, Taye led me back out onto the dance floor. I went without hesitation. We found a secluded corner and it only took me a few seconds to find my position against him, back to chest. His hands quickly found their way to my hips again and he dropped his lips to my ear.

I moaned as he nibbled at my earlobe, worshipping every inch he can reach with his mouth.

It’s filthy and outright pornographic.

But I don’t care, not anymore.

I reach behind him with my hand, scratching blunt nails along the back of his neck; its what he earned as he hit a particularly sensitive inch of my neck. He traced the outer shell of my ear with his tongue and I melt into his body, pressing back, back, back as far as I possibly can. I kept my fingers tangled in his hair in efforts to keep his mouth right where it was, tasting and exploring my ear, my neck, the curve of my jaw.

He nudged my legs apart, shifting my petite weight back onto his thigh, and rolled his hips in a way that not only dragged my ass across his crotch but also allowed me to slide down, dragging friction along the heat emanating from the apex between my legs.

I scrambled for his hand, and at first I thought he might think I was pushing it away, but in reality I tried to push his hand down, to push his hand further beneath her hemline of my dress.

I tightened my grip on his hair, and turned my head just a bit more, baring my entire throat for Taye’s mouth to take and claim. His breath smells like whiskey and beer and he nibbled tiny nips and bites down my neck, tempering the sting with the flat of his tongue.

“Fuck, I bet you’d be so good, so perfect for me. I bet this little cunt of yours is fucking dripping wet and you’d be so tight around my dick. You’d take it, wouldn’t you? Bet you’d take it just like you were made for me to fuck you…”

Taye wants, muttering words that I could only feel the shape of, because he’s losing his patience.

The shock of his words merely lasted a second or two because I felt how painfully hard he was. I didn’t care about the public setting or the throngs of gyrating bodies surrounding us. I didn’t care that this was so far outside my comfort zone and something I just didn’t do on a normal.

I didn’t care about all of that because all I cared about right then was the music and movement and skin.

I felt the intensity all the way down to my bones.

I tilted my head just so, so I could press my lips roughly against his. The pressure and persistence bruise our mouths and I almost couldn’t keep up with the rhythm I set. The hard bite of his teeth sank into my lips, which soon give, turning malleable long enough for me to catch up.