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.
