“Short & Sexy Red Lycra Spandex Super Stretch Mini Dress (PVC Wet Look).”

Fuck.

When I scrolled down to those words, my pussy got wet.  The model had my body type and I just knew it would look amazing on me.  I knew Damon would love it on me as well.  I also knew he would love taking it partially or fully off.

I put it and the matching open-toe, red mid-heel pumps in my cart.  Truth be told, the shoes were strictly for me.  I think heels are sexy, but Damon couldn’t care less.  He likes seeing me barefoot or in sandals.  I think my feet look funny, but he absolutely loves them.  And, yeah, I could say something about sexist men wanting their women barefoot and pregnant.  But that doesn’t describe Damon at all.  He honestly likes the shape of my feet, from ankles to arches to toes.  Knowing this, I paint my toenails just for him.  Conversely, I love men’s forearms.  He doesn’t get that at all, but when I see him in a tight T-shirt I can barely catch my breath.

Yes, I am a mostly sexually submissive woman that likes to switch occasionally.  Kink-fearing folks: this does not mean victimized, put-upon, or abused.  I’ve known what I like since I was in my early teens.  The fact that I was raped as an adult didn’t make me submissive.  My rapist, like a lot of abusers, fantasized a pre-existing relationship with me, fucked me against my will (in the missionary position, my least favorite one) while imagining he was rocking my world, and talked up a blue streak.  Doggy-style fucking, highly negotiated kinky power exchange, and a minimum of talking is what does it for me, the opposite of what most people (even other women) imagine women want in bed.  At least my rapist was apprehended, tried for the multiple rapes he committed before being caught, and convicted.  Lots of survivors never get that.

I also don’t really care for BDSM scenes and parties.  The ones I’ve been to seem so simplified, unimaginative, and boring.  It’s as if most party goers arrived at what topping, bottoming, and switching meant before they actually got there instead of exploring and expanding what those roles can and could mean.  I prefer to get kinky with the few people who can push my boundaries without violating them and also expand my quirks.  To hell with that RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) and 24/7 bullshit, though.  I can and will call an immediate halt to anything I don’t like.

After I had bought the outfit, and while watching television together one evening, Damon casually said “Red Rover” to me.

“What?” I enquired.  “What are you saying to me?  Do you want to play a kid’s game?”

He replied “No, Leslie.  In that outfit, that’s exactly who you would be.  It should also be your safe word when we put that costume to good use.”

I thought about what he said for a hot second and concluded he was dead on the money with that suggestion.

“Thanks, babe!”  I gushed.  “That’s fucking perfect!”  I snuggled up closer to him and offered my mouth for sweet, nibbling kisses.

When he’s right, he’s right.  This is what I mean by kinky negotiation.  It’s not just what we do “in scene.”  It also has to do with how we address issues, set boundaries, make suggestions, and plan our sex lives and regular lives together.  Damon’s easy confidence and willingness to listen over the extent of our relationship has turned him into a sort of sexy mind reader.  He can anticipate what I might like based on deeply knowing me.

In my mind’s eye, I could envision the strutting, sexy bombshell he imagined me to be.  Topping the ensemble with Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses would make me seem mysterious and supremely sexually confident.  I was determined, the very next time we got down, to be the Red Rover of his and my dreams.

**********

The scene happened at a midtown hotel.  We reserved it a month in advance specifically for this sexy event.

I got ready at home alone. I slipped out of all of my other clothes and into my barely-there thong panties.  Then I slipped into the red stretch mini dress.  I loved how it slid over my breasts, nipples, and hips, like the dress itself was feeling me up, tickling me in the most intimate of places.  I slid the red pumps on my feet, stood up, and looked at myself in the mirror.  “Not bad, not bad at all,” I thought to myself.  I found my Ray-Bans, put them on, and headed out to my car.

I was instructed by Damon to park at least three blocks away from the hotel and slowly walk there.  This has a two-fold purpose for my particular brand of submission.  One, I get “told” what to do in a way that absolutely excites me.  Two, I get to put on another hat and play at being someone else.  I’m not usually sexually gregarious, but Damon knows how to bring that out in me.

I concentrated on my breaths to slow down my rapidly beating heart, adjusted my sunglasses in the rear-view mirror, and got out.

I could hear my heels slowly clack on the pavement as I strutted.  I concentrated on swaying my hips back and forth in a slightly exaggerated, but not comical, fashion.  I could sense the people I passed averting their eyes or trying to sneak a peek.  Just feeling all that barely hidden attention being paid to me sent delicious waves of pleasure down my spine and into my cunt.  I thrust my chest out so my hardened and excited nipples poked against the fabric.

I sashayed my way through the automatic doors of the hotel and up to the front desk.  The slightly flustered hotel clerk fumbled my key card into my hand and escorted me to my room.  I tipped her generously and closed the door behind her with the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer door handle.

**********

The bed was generous and king-sized.  I made sure to lay out plenty of lube on the nightstand.  I placed towels by the foot of the bed in case we needed them.

I took off my Ray-Bans and placed them in my handbag.  Then I took it out.

“It” was the blindfold.  Not a sleep mask, which would make me feel about as sexy as a retiree trying to catch some Z’s, but an actual length of cloth that had to be tied in place.  It was the fact that it had to be tied onto me that was so thrilling, so dangerously forbidden.

I wrapped it around my eyes and made sure I couldn’t peek underneath or over it, then knotted it in place at the base of my skull.  As instructed, I crawled onto the bed on all fours and waited.

I imagined what I looked like and trembled.  I could hear the hum of the air conditioner and feel the cool air bring up the goose flesh on my legs and ass.  It seemed like a long time before I finally heard a key card slide into the reader and the door chime open.

I heard the swish of slacks approach me at the bed.  I reached out to feel someone’s forearm and, finding the scar in the elbow pit I knew so well, concluded it was Damon.  I rested my face against his forearm briefly in acknowledgement.

He traced his fingers slowly across my back: across my shoulder blades, down my spine, and rested his palm just above my ass.  He used his other hand to reach down the top of my dress to stroke my titties.

His hand lazily fingered my nipples and areolae, as he had done many times before.  But because I couldn’t see what he was doing, because I couldn’t anticipate what he would do next, every part of me became a beacon for stimulation.  If felt like my breasts reached out for his hand of their own accord, even though that’s physically impossible.  It’s just what it felt like.

He broke off all contact and suspended me in erotic anticipation.  He reached under my skirt and stripped my panties off me slowly.  I shook uncontrollably with lust as he fingered and tasted my pussy.  I couldn’t hold back and squirted right in his mouth.  I bit my lip to stifle a scream.

He pulled the top of my dress down and lifted the bottom of my dress up so that it was bunched up around my waist.  I bounced and bucked up against him, but he was going to delightfully torture me by making me wait for release.  He slid my shoes off and they clacked on the floor.

I felt something cool and metallic encircling my left ankle and then my right.  I though he was putting cuffs on me, but they were jingling anklets instead. He shook one foot and then the other to hear the tiny bells ring.  I then felt soft cotton sliding up one leg and then another.  I wondered, for a brief second, what these were and then figured out he was dressing me with my favorite leg warmers.  Damon must like seeing me barefoot with anklets, leg warmers, and little else.  My guy knows what he likes and I love him for it.

Being undressed then dressed for sex is its own kind of delectable perversion.  It harkens back to a time when we couldn’t dress ourselves as children yet has the additional kick of catering to adult kinky preferences.  I love this kind of thing.

He pressed his trousered cock up against my ass and my skin absorbed the sensation of hard dick and rough fabric rubbing against me.  I heard his belt quickly unbuckle.  I reached for the lube on the nighstand, popped open the cap, and applied generous dollops on my fingertips.  Then I rubbed it frantically into the folds of my vulva and over my clit.

I grunted as he slapped his cock against my pussy and clit, warming me up for penetration.  I spread my legs wider and waited for him.  The seconds passed like centuries when he finally entered my aching cunt.  I drew out the sensation as long as I could, practically inhaling pleasure through the center of me.

That slow, sexual clap of ass against hips is its own kind of music.  Actual music during fucking distracts me.  I much rather prefer the sounds and smells bodies make on their own.  He tightened his grip on my hips and patted away.  His balls bounced off my clit shooting sparks over and through my pussy.  And because I couldn’t see anything, wasn’t allowed to see anything, the sensation doubled and tripled more than it usually would.

My jingling ankles rang in harmony with my now splooshy slit.  My dress tightened around my waist as Damon pulled it and me to him.  His pace became frenetic.  His dick unlocked me.  Wave after wave of ecstasy poured out of me in sharp and prolonged orgasms.  I grunted and groaned, screamed and sputtered, wobbled and went under my pleasure then surfaced with a sharp sting on my ass.

My breath caught in my throat and my hands shot to my mouth.  I quivered as another sting hit my ass on the other side.  I had no idea what was happening but this mixture of pain and pleasure was too good to stop.  I pushed my ass up higher and pressed my torso and face down into the bed covers and pillows.  I let loose with happy obscenity after delighted profanity.

“Fuck!  Shit!  Damn!” I yelled uninhibitedly.  My legs quivered and almost went, but Damon held me up by the waist so I couldn’t topple over.  The stings landed here and there on my butt; my ass jiggled and rippled with abandon.  Damon reached under me to squeeze my breasts, fondling them gloriously.

I thought about what this all looked like and came over and over again from imagination alone.  The stings resumed and I laughed and giggled between all the cursing and shouting I was doing.  My pussy clenched and spasmed repeatedly on his cock and Damon finally pumped himself to howling completion inside of me.

A sting landed on my ass yet again.  Then another sting struck.  I finally relented after the third sting.  “Red Rover!  Red Rover!” I cried.

Damon untied my blindfold.  After my eyes regained focus, I saw that he held a riding crop in his hand.  I thought that’s what he was swatting me with, but I couldn’t be sure.  I didn’t need to be sure.  That was the point.

It was time for aftercare.  Damon worked salve slowly and preciously over my sore behind.  I giggled with the sensation of it all: this pain and pleasure melting into sheer love.  He lazily cupped my breasts and I reached down to stroke his dick.  It was time for a cuddle-fuck.  We spooned, he entered me slowly, and rested inside of me without thrusting: sexual thanks from him to me and me back to him.