Take My Whip: Fantasy Date Night, Guest Post by rife

It’s Friday night and we keep this night blocked off on the calendar. 5:30 rolls around and you send me around the block to walk the dog once I wrap up my work for the day. When I come back, you’re sitting on the porch in your jeans with the leather crotch, a tight new black t shirt and the chest harness. All the deck furniture has been pushed off to the side and your Bluetooth speaker is playing a mixture of jazz and romantic pop music. You are wearing your heavy harness boots and you let your goatee grow out a little.

I giggle, suddenly feeling underdressed in my daytime pajamas and sneakers. I prance over and get up on my toes to kiss you. You let me. “Hi, Daddy! What’s all this?”

“I’m taking you dancing, boy. Go get dressed.”

“Mmmhm. I mean, yes, Sir.” I say softly and pad inside to feed the dog and put on that slinky grey dress you like and my combat boots with the soles that have worn down to slick nothing and the chain wrist cuffs that match my collar that you like to see on me. I wash the work day off my face and scrub dry until I’m pink.

You raise an eyebrow at my outfit choice but you’re smiling underneath it.

We dance for days and days on the porch as night falls and the bats come out to play. Sometimes the tempo is slow and our feet barely remember to shuffle while we kiss with lots of tongue and you run your fingers through my fresh soft buzz cut. The smell of wisteria finds its way to us across the breeze and if our neighbors see us, they pretend not to.

Sometimes the tempo is faster and you throw me across the boards in controlled chaos. It takes every ounce of concentration to just follow, to listen for the cues in your palm on my back, to remind myself of the rock step-triple-step beat, to give over to the music and your direction. There are moments when it is effortless and we are just flying, one creature.

Finally it is fully dark and you press me back against the one oak tree, breathless and sweaty on the warm summer night. Ed Sheeran or some other sensitive white guy is still crooning on but all I can feel is your dick hard against the fly of your jeans against me.

You press me hard enough that I’m sure the rough bark will leave marks, pinning my hands over my head, looping the chains around my wrists into that hook that usually holds the wind chime. I’m impressed by your forethought but the nation is quickly swept away my your hands doubled up on either side of my rib cage, stroking the length of me up and down from exposed armpits to the bottom curve of each hip. I shiver and swoon under your firm big hands that make me feel so small. You inch the bottom of the dress up teasingly slowly. I really hope the neighbors aren’t watching now.

Just when I can feel myself start to squirm and rub my thighs together anxious of the wetness I can feel coming on… you pull back. I whimper a little and sigh involuntarily, which of course is what you want.

“Not now, pet. You’re going to wait.”

“Mmmrf. I mean, yes, Sir.”

Inside, we make pizzas — yours pesto and salami with a cauliflower crust, mine sourdough and jalapeños and onion. They are delicious, but I am distracted thinking of the packer still between your legs. After dinner you tell me to ignore the kitchen mess and follow you, so I do.

You strip my dress off like someone who has done it a hundred times before and nod approvingly at what is revealed: just mounds of tight exposed flesh with no underwear. I feel you press up against me from behind and your arm wraps around my throat.

“You’re going to take my whip, boy, and then you’re going to take my dick.”

“Mmmmmm… ! I mean, yes, Sir.”

The wood of the coffee table is shockingly cold at first and my nipples flinch against it, but I relax into it as you layer gentle strokes with your big fat deerskin flogger all across my back. I moan despite myself as you ramp up in intensity and land a few solid strikes across the curve where ass meets thighs. You always were a leg person.

You pause to lean over me and grow into my ear. “Mmm, beautiful. Good boy. Ten more. Count for me.”

This time, I do not hesitate. “Yes, Sir.”

You step back but your fingers trail across my reddening back like it pains you to be separated. I can still feel the energy of you reach out to me across the room.

Until it is concentrated into a fiery pinprick of the kiss of your single tail.

“One, Sir.”

I try to remind myself it is just sensation. I try to erase pain from my vocabulary and just feel it. Easier said than done.

“Two, Sir. Three, Sir. Oh…! Four, Sir.”

Now we are both flying, drunk on your power. You push me harder to see if you can draw blood and break in this whip. Make it bound to me like i am to you.

The lash falls hot across my shoulder and i squirm hard, but the trickle raised is just sweat.

“Five, Sir..!”

You love me but you quiet that part of yourself with reserve to get what you want. No, it’s not want. You will be nice later. You need blood.

“Fuck! Six, Sir. Seven! Ah!”

I squeak out with difficulty eight and nine. You tell me a hundred times i am a good boy for taking it so nice and it lands every time.

Finally the warm droplets are pooling for you and you can feel your dick hard and straining in your jeans. You laugh aloud as i flinch hard out of habit while you barely tease me with number ten.

“Ten, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

You run the tails and your fingertips over my back and ass, drawing in the red, savoring my flinching as you pass over the already raised welts. My breath is heaving and so is yours, in time, I think.

In a moment your fly is open and you are crammed against me, sliding in easily to the hilt of your open jeans. You pull my hips back into you with both hands and groan as you start thrusting slow and deep the length of you. You wrap your hands around my face and shove your fingers hard against my tongue. You are growling a steady stream of filthy words but my brain isn’t even processing it anymore. I am overwhelmed by you.

“Fuck, that’s so nice. That’s right. You just take it for me, you little whore. That’s Daddy’s slut. Unh, you feel so good. So tight baby. Daddy’s going to give it to you. Fuck…!!!”

I guess I came too, because the next thing I remember: I am in a puddle, dripping into the carpet and high and there is no pain anymore.

You scoop me up and guide me into the shower, lather down my dully aching back with peppermint soap and wrap me in your big soft Daddy robe.

We eat Girl Scout cookies and watch Steven Universe until I fall asleep on your shoulder.

In response to what you want

I would love to watch you dance.

From the way that you fuck I can imagine how your body would move, all sweet s-curves and slow gyrations: there is such precision in your physicality, such openness. I can see the way you’d raise your arms to float at shoulder-height, eyes heavy to the floor or on the bodies around you, so tuned in to the music, the beat, the rhythm. You’re aural that way, I can feel it in the ways you speak with your body, a language all to itself I am just learning to interpret and read under my fingertips like braille, waves of energy rising falling.

There is so much you can tell about the way someone fucks by how they dance, and the way someone dances by how they fuck; but I’ve never seen you dance. Still, I can imagine how your torso slides and arms carry out the movement, how you can pop your hips to accentuate strong moments.

I would try to keep up with you on the dancefloor just as I try to keep up with you when we fuck – you carry me high and I follow your guidance, despite that I am making the choices. It is your body that dictates my choices, your breath, your responses, the precise way you gasp “oh god” and start to shake. In dance it is the same: I take your lead and match your rhythm until we are so synchopated that I can move you, can create variations on a theme and read you well enough to know you’ll follow where I lead.

It’s all energy. Building and releasing, swirling between us.

More literally:

I will sit at a table sipping whiskey while I watch you. Gently finger the shaft of my dick through my slacks and remember the last time I made you move like that.

You take a break, breathless, and come over to sit on my lap, straddle me, your short skirt hiked up, my hands on your thighs, you can feel my cock against you and let yourself grind up and down for a minute, your arms around my neck, mouth on mine.

(Just the thought makes me harden.)

This is maybe when you say “I gotta pee,” or “please baby, fuck me now,” or I say “I need some fresh air,” or “goddamn you,” and I’ve had enough waiting. I take you out back to the alley or to the filthy club bathroom – the men’s room. On your knees on the dirty tile. Cheek against a brick wall as I make you moan.

I’ll whisper things against your jaw, your neck, that make you squirm. Look at you, all ready for me. All wanting. I can take you wherever I want to, just how I want to, can’t I.

I want to hear you breathy in my ear again. Feel your hands grip my shoulders, thighs grip my hips as you cry out, scream, come.

the hurricane between us

Four full days, four nights.

I don’t even know where to begin. There was wandering around the Village, visiting The Leatherman and New York pizza and a very successful trip to DSW for shoes – I found brown leather Steve Madden loafers, she bought ruby slippers, these incredible wine-red heels. There were noodles at Republic, coffee & bagel breakfasts in Park Slope, dancing at the dyke club Cattyshack (and a little too much whiskey for me, which only made it easier for her to fuck me on my kitchen floor after), burlesque at the Shanghai Mermaid where we stepped into 1920s Paris, which featured the house Tin Pan Blues Band. There was an unsuccessful dance at Stepping Out Studios and then the subsequent making up for it at Therapy, where, yes, we did get busted having sex in the bathroom.

There was sex and fucking and making love and play and rope and my flogger even came down off the wall for a while.

There was sitting in a coffee shop, writing across the table from her. There were late night conversations on pillows and morning light over her face and showers and walks and drinking and stories on the subway and kissing her. Holding her hand.

It was hard to stay present, hard not to be sad that she was leaving, that this was temporary, but I wanted to squeeze everything out of it that possibly could. Since she left, I feel numb. I took a deep breath, started focusing on my 200-item to-do-list and couldn’t focus on anything, not even a TV show.

I held it together until I peeled back the covers to find the baby-blue babydoll nightie she’d been wearing all weekend, sheer, barely covering her ass, so beautiful, and it smelled like her skin of course, and my fingers had been holding her body inside of it for days, and then suddenly it was just fabric, empty, and I welled up with the loss.

I know – we both know – better than to cultivate such intensity so early on in a relationship. We’re both passionate, intense, emotional – makes for romance and fascination, I’m sure, but we are wary of the distance between us, we discussed this; angry that we cannot properly date, slowly, excitedly, and instead we’re doing this hurricane long distance thing.

I don’t know what we’re going to do. All I know is, the next step is that she’s working from Puerta Vallarta in February, and I’m going to visit her at the villa she’s rented (just happens to be over Valentine’s Day). Twenty-two days, then, until I get to see her again.

I can make it until then.

One step at a time.

we dance

I slept on the plane and dreamed of us spinning, dancing on a slick floor. Heels and wing tips and she wore a light thirties dress with fringe, I was in slacks. I led her by her wrists, shoulders, neck; she twirled and brushed against my arms and body like somewinged creature barely touching down, gliding, humming next to me.

I was a better lead in the dream than I really am; in the dream it was effortless. I wore a fedora, suspenders. It must’ve ben salsa we were dancing.

Her body is smaller than mine, petite. I understand what it tells me. I read her hips like braille, bones and muscles and oh she’s strong.

She does the swing-out and a small hand flourish, crisp head snap and she gives me those eyes as I pull her back in, so I pause, she runs her hand up the buttons of my shirt, tilts her head so our mouths are close. I tip my hat onto her head and she laughs.

I twirl her fast, once-twice-threetimes and then catch her neck, turn her body, dip her one-handed, my other arm out, and my hat falls from her head to the floor as we kiss.

*

Also on this plane flight was, in my same row, but on the other side of the isle, the boy I first messed around with in high school, also going back for the holidays. He was traveling with his girlfriend.

He was The Casanova in high school. All the girls swooned over him, and he and his long, greasy hair, black trenchcoat, and flirting meant that he gave long back rubs to all of them in the drama studio.

As far as I knew, though, the only one he was messing around with was me. Our relationship was not public – we would not flirt or barely even acknowledge each other at school. But after school, in the park, in the cemetery, we’d be kissing, touching for hours.

I wanted to be him sometimes, wanted that kind of seductive power and desire over those girls.

And now look. Here I was, so freshly fucked I could still taste her, still feel her cock inside me, and here he was, with a sweet girlfriend, no doubt, but still doing the same things he used to, the same silly flirts and methods, I saw him do it, he was barely a grown-up version of his high school self, really he was the same, just with a better haircut.

He told me later – we went out for drinks – that he didn’t lose his virginity until college. That he had a lot of trouble with girls, with relationships.

Not that I haven’t, certainly. But I’ve had big loves, I’ve had big romance, big heartbreak, beautiful women who have shared my bed, shared my life. I’m so grateful for the influence of the women in my life, of sexuality, of exploration, of eagerness to play and learn and just be.

I wanted to tell him about my adventures, wanted to tell him how much I appreciated messing around with him and how fun and safe that was for me, how grateful I was that he showed me his soft underbelly when the other girls thought he was this tough guy, how great it was to look up to him, to wish I was him and now, to realize the ways I’ve surpassed him, the ways I am on the way to becoming my own Casanova.

I didn’t say any of that. Funny, sometimes, what you know will be too much to reveal. Thank the blog gods for, finally, a space to (over)share.

4. the update on sex

(That’s what you were really waiting for, isn’t it? Isn’t that what brings you back here?)”Do you swing?” I asked her to dance. She looked up at me slyly, a little shy, from the picnic blanket.

“A little. Salsa I’m better at.”

“Let’s go. Over there?” I nodded to a slight clearing in the crowd nearby.

I can tell a lot about someone by the way they dance. Not the grind-and shimmy club dancing, though that has its own sets of tells, but partner dancing: a fine art.

First, there’s her grip on my hands, her form, her resistance. Her hands should be gently placed over mine, not gripping or clinging on, but soft. There should be enough resistance in her arms to allow her body to be carried by whatever minute movements I make.

Then, there’s how she responds. How her body takes direction, how well our bodies talk to each other.

Last, but not overlooked, is her feet. I can’t see them (nor should she – we should maintain eye contact, ‘dancing cheek to cheek’ as they say), but I can tell where she puts them and I can tell how well she can pick them up, anticipate my movements, follow my body lines.

I’ve danced with women who have been taking classes for months – years – who were not as good follows as those who have never had lessons. It isn’t only the lessons – it’s also compatibility, syncopation, inner rhythm.

This girl at the picnic, we didn’t dance well together. She kept trying to lead, so I would back up and follow, but she wasn’t a very good lead, and kept doing follow moves, which encouraged me to lead. I couldn’t keep clear what was happening between us.

We walked back to the picnic blanket, joking, when the song ended. I knew what she’d be like in bed – awkward, pushy, in control but attempting to be submissive. And honestly, that’s not what I want.

If only I knew what I did want.

the prettiest girl in the place

“You,” I said, lips right next to her ear, the gardenia scent on her neck more tangible at such close range, “are the most beautiful girl in this whole place.”

The music thumped, colors from the lights fluttered. I’d been watching her for half an hour, since I got here, and had danced next to her for the last two songs. I couldn’t hear my own words but trusted she could.

She could. She flushed, bowing her head a little, looking up at me through her lashes. Tossed her thin, long blonde hair.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.

She nodded, still shy, eyes flashing. Interested. “Vodka cranberry?”

I smiled – that half-smile-smirk with the soft eyes, perhaps my most handsome look – and returned to her with her drink, red, in one hand, my drink, Jameson on the rocks, in the other.

She sipped hers slow through a straw. Lips carefully placed. We drank. We danced more. Hands on her hips, watching the way her body spun and quaked. Such elegance in the slow curves. I spun her around the dancefloor and she followed. Brilliantly. Blue eyes on my face all night.

Wrists in my hands and her back up against the wall, mouth open. Open. Anything could happen here. The wall is sticky, the floor acts like it hasn’t been swept in years. Crushed under the bottoms of too many feet. Push her legs apart before she realizes I’ve cornered her. Take her by the hand and lead her outside the bar.

She follows, wordless. I light a cigarette.

“So,” I say.

“So,” she says, kicking at the brick building with the toe of her flat silver ballet shoe. Dark capri jeans folded nearly to her knee. A loose blouse, soft yellow, thin, revealing everything.

I smoke. Breathe. I’m not particularly interested in the cigarette. It’s just something to do with my mouth, instead of …

She leans against the brick wall and shifts her hips. Shifts her weight from one leg to the other. She doesn’t look at me. She waits.

Oh, god, I’m terrible at this part. Just stay calm. No expectations. Just me, and the prettiest girl here.

I say something (anything) witty. She laughs, a delightful sound. A reward for my efforts and I try again, which becomes again, which becomes dominoes and her eyes shine as she gazes smiling at me. She bites her lip, parts her mouth. Breaths in.

I flick my cigarette with my thumb and forefinger, sparks against the sidewalk. I take a step closer to her and gently let my hand touch her hip. She breathes into the touch, deep and sharp, breathes into the place where my fingers are touching skin. I circle her waist with one arm, she’s tiny, shorter than me, delicate. Her arms fall back from her shoulders like her hair, gravity pulling them down and against me who is pulling her another way, against me, to me, and her back arcs and I lean over her as she tilts her head.

I hesitate. Feel the space between us electric and alive. Then kiss her, light, a whisper of a kiss, air and spun sugar and she tastes like gardenia.

The thick blossoms of summer.

And it hits me: I’m single. One. Only me. There is only my own desire, my own life path, my own choices. There is only my needs, my intentions.

This is not to say I do not want someone, I do. But I am picky now. I know what I don’t want.

This girl, this lovely girl, the most beautiful girl in the whole bar, looks back at me and says, “Ready to dance?”

Oh, am I ever.