A couple of weeks ago I went on one of my special (W-mandated) dates. This is how the date started:
I left work (only a little past the time when I should have) and got my fuck-me pumps out of the trunk of my car. After changing into this more-appropriate pair of heels, I touched up my makeup, pulled my hair out of its ponytail, and smoothed my “Special Date” lotion generously over my legs and arms. I sniffed the familiar, sweet scent and smiled to myself, enjoying where my mind went: not to my upcoming date, but to why I was going on this date. W hadn’t asked it of me. This one was all me, a gift from me to him. And yet, even so, I felt the weight of his expectations of me in this situation, how he expects me to behave, and what he requires of me–and it made me deliciously excited, before I’d ever met the guy.
But then, it’s never about the guy, is it?
This lotion is one I had picked out recently to wear only on my Special Dates. The dates I go on to please W, whether I want to or not. The ones where I truly am the slut for him, playing with, pleasing and servicing the men he chooses to allow to use me. I have several different scented lotions that I normally use, depending on my mood, but I don’t like to use one of my favorites for this sort of thing. I don’t want to think about some should-be-forgotten stranger every time I open a bottle of my favorite scent. Conversely, every time I do open this other lotion, I want to be reminded. I want to remember each and every time I do this for W, I want to think about him making me do this, I want to think about being fuckmeat and his cunt that he loans out for his amusement. And I do. I put it on and I think about it every time I breathe, and every time I do it drops me into that special headspace, that “My body is his to do with what he wants, I am a hole for his use–and every cock that uses that hole is his cock,” space.
W always tells me that he does this as much for me as for him, to expand my sexual experiences and let me be exposed to as many men and as many different sexual experiences as I can. He is convinced that being a serial monogamist for most of my life (several long-term live-in monogamous relationships, few flings or boyfriends in between, and then a 15-year marriage) means that I didn’t have the opportunity to act out most of the slutty-girl scenarios that other girls did–and so he insists that I do them now. Scene-speak, for the most part, but maybe he’s right in some ways. I do do this for him, and I would not seek out these situations on my own, but in the process of doing them…well, yeah, I get to experience some things I never might have otherwise. And I get to be someone I never got to be: I get to be “that” girl, the one all the boys want.
On a recent date, “that girl” was a girl that rode on the back of a Harley and flashed her tits (and, in my case, her twat, because I can never do things halfway, lol.) She wore a too-short skirt and halter top with mile-high heels, drank beer and flirted shamelessly with all the guy’s friends. And when he told her to show his friends some tits and ass, she did–yes, blushing and embarrassed!–but she did it because that was what he had told W he wanted, a girl to show off to all his friends, to make them envious of him. And they were–because of me! It was…a heady experience.
And they didn’t treat me badly, as I had feared. They treated me like some amazing gift dropped into their midst, something exotic and special, something to be ogled but not accosted, either verbally or physically. After thinking about it, I realized that maybe that was because even while I was doing these totally outlandish, out-of-character things, I was still me. Yeah, I may have flashed my tits and shown off my piercings, but I also smiled at them, teased them and talked to them, I blushed when they complimented me and listened to them. I genuinely enjoyed their company, and I was flattered by their attention. And later, what did my tough biker guy tell me he liked most about our day? Not that I was such a slut and an exhibitionist. Not that I dropped to my knees in his kitchen an hour after meeting him and gave him a blowjob. What he liked best was that I touched him, all day, in front of his friends and when we were alone. I touched his arm, held his hand, or placed mine on his thigh while we sat at a table. I leaned in and talked to him, telling him little things for his ears only, and when he left the table and returned to it, I watched him. I paid attention to him. That was what made the day special for him.
Those things weren’t about being “that” girl. They were just being me. And in being me I was that girl. The alluring, sexy, sought-after one, the one they all watched and all wanted. I’ve never gotten to be that girl before. And so yes, although I was there because of W, I got something out of it too. I experienced something that I never had before, and never would have if not for him.
On this date, I didn’t have a scenario negotiated for me by W. I didn’t have a script to adhere to, I didn’t know what fantasy my medic friend (he is a paramedic) had in his head. We had been talking for months, but the only part that had been dictated by W was that Medic was to know that I was there for the purpose of satisfying him sexually. The guy is vanilla, except for the fact that he knew what the set-up was–that W was calling the shots in this way. I was there to pleasure him, and had been instructed to tell him that very specifically, which I had done over text. He had been very excited by this prospect, and he had gotten quite graphic in discussing what he’d like to do with me in the days leading up to our date. But as the evening progressed, I realized that the Medic was, in spite of all our heated text-chat, somewhat shy, and possibly uncertain what to do with me. I could tell he was interested and excited, and he brought up W’s edict a couple times, but it never got beyond talking. And the night was ebbing away.
He had a woman who had been specifically told to sexually please him, and he didn’t know how to get there.
I don’t always know how to get there either. How do you go from talking about work and friends and life to, “Take me home and fuck me, please, because my Owner would really like me to get your cock inside me”?
The thing about being submissive is just that–you’re submissive. You don’t have to take the lead, you don’t have to make the first move. Which is not to say that I am sexually passive, not by a long shot, but I don’t have to direct things. While the Medic did not read as submissive at all–in fact quite the opposite–it was clear he just didn’t know what to do with me. And I, well, I am just not used to men that don’t reach out and take what they want. I think it may have been similar to that first time my ex held a whip in his hand and shook his head, unable to use it. Societal conditioning was just too strong–he couldn’t hit a woman. Eventually, I overcame the ex’s reticence. Could I overcome the Medic’s good manners?
The problem with the Medic was that he really was a nice, well-brought up guy. And guys like that don’t hit on a woman on the first date. Although he had hugged and kissed me warmly upon first meeting me, he had been the perfect gentleman since then. Too much a gentleman. And since it is my natural inclination to follow someone else’s lead, I could very easily have simply let things go on and on that way.
But I had my orders, didn’t I. And I could tell by the way Medic looked at me, that it wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to me. He just didn’t know what to do with me.
So…I had to step outside my comfort zone, step out of being me, and…seduce him. Become the temptress. Tantalize him and draw him in…
In some ways, it was much more of a role than the audacious biker’s chick had been. A much harder role. Flirting comes naturally to me, but only because flirting (to me) is about making someone feel special, paid attention to, noticed. I didn’t even realize that what I do when I interact with people is flirting, until a girlfriend pointed it out me, telling me that I flirt with everyone, men and women. And that was before I’d ever contemplated dating women. To me it wasn’t flirting, it was just…relating. Being interested. But because of that, flirting never had a sexual connotation to me. It was just part of me and how I relate to the world around me.
But now, suddenly, I had to be deliberately flirtatious. Deliberately seductive. This is a role that I have never played well, never known how to play. How could I be that girl? I went into the restroom and considered simply giving up. Going home to W and telling him I had had a nice date, but the guy just wasn’t that into me.
But that wasn’t the truth, and I knew it wasn’t the truth. He wanted me all right–but I had to make the first move, so that he would know it really was okay.
I sat in the restroom and wished W had text. A few well-chosen words and my head would be in the right place. I would remember that what mattered was not my own discomfort, but pleasing the Medic, and through him, pleasing W.
It was that realization, as I sat there and fought with myself, that finally turned it around for me. It was that realization that finally got my head in the right space. Yes, I wanted it from W, and it would have been so much hotter for me to hear it from him in that moment, but (again) it wasn’t about me and what I was comfortable with. It was about what I could for him. And suddenly I was able to re-frame the situation. I was able to be the girl that I knew W would want me to be, one that could walk up to a man who was very nearly a stranger and ask him to fuck her. And once I accepted that, I really was able to embrace the role, to be that girl. My previous excitement and enthusiasm returned. I wanted nothing more than to drive this guy wild, to make his wildest fantasies come true, to be the hottest lay he’d ever had. I left the restroom, walked up behind the Medic’s chair and draped my arms around his shoulders. Placing my lips just behind his ear, I asked, “Isn’t it time you took me home and did all those nasty things you said you wanted to do to me?”
Twenty minutes later we were at his house. Two hours later, I was on the phone to Ad, telling him that I was on my way home. Twenty minutes after that the Medic was already texting me, telling me what an amazing night he’d had, and asking when we could do it again.