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Not A Date

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It wasn’t a date. It could hardly be called that. A friendly drink, timed after lunchtime on a weekday for practical reasons. And there were rules. They’d begun corresponding in lockdown. Not an ideal time for, well, anything really, unless you liked knowing your neighbours better, and not closer than two metres. But the exchange of messages had struck a nerve. There had been an indefinable something… not even fully pursued. There’d even been chats… actual chats voice-to-voice, but as is so often the case, life had been complicated then. A break-up on her side. An age gap between them. A geographical… inconvenience.


But time had passed. A fortuitous re-connection. An innocent ‘how are you doing?’ got a reply, then another. Then it was a conversation. Now it was this ‘not-a-date’. There were rules.

Actually, it just felt… relaxed. The fact that this was not going to lead to anything was oddly relieving, he thought, as he parked the car in a convenient space at the rear of the pub. He was dressed in what he liked to call ‘urban chic’. A strange mix, he supposed – cargo trousers in a dark grey, a black T-shirt, and black hoodie but with his navy blue Armani suit jacket on top. His usual four rings glinted in the sunlight, one on each thumb, one on each pinkie. His purple ear-studs, one in each ear, hinted at a low-level sardonic arrogance, Roman-toga style. His grey stubble said ‘age, experience, authority and George Alex’ in self-effacing nonchalance.

Age was a boon, he thought… less to prove, a relaxed attitude, less desire to impress. What was, simply was. He’d booked a room in this same pub for the night. It hadn’t been a long drive – three hours with some traffic, but an afternoon drink, or two, wasn’t a good basis for then driving home. And he was self-employed after all.

He'd done this before, of course, on other occasions. Then there’d always been some level of expectation, on both sides. As a Dominant man, he was also used to a degree of planning. He enjoyed that responsibility. Thinking ahead to what might occur, he’d always arrived before with some… toys…a paddle, or rope… a small bag of possibilities, like a wizard going to an audition.

But this time, no bag other than his overnight one. They both knew this was purely social and he was prepared to enjoy it. No bag, no responsibilities, no expectations. Not even any instructions. On previous meets there’d always been a lead-up to something like this. So that by the time a social was arranged they’d already got as far as that flirtatious low-level dynamic. “Come in hold-ups”, he’d say…” something blue, no panties.” And they would, because they wanted to please him, and he knew they did. And the obedience was flirtatious for them both.

So on this particular occasion, he was quite prepared to enjoy her company. He knew they’d get on. They were both kinky after all, and he found that endlessly intriguing, everyone’s individual story. None quite ever the same as another...interests, experiences, points of view. It was going to be a good afternoon. He wondered what she’d have chosen to wear. He was pretty certain that her inner exhibitionist would lead her to wear something clingy yet classy, that allowed her to subtly tease while remaining apparently demure. “No,” he thought, “demure was utterly wrong.” He knew enough to know that beneath her well-spoken exterior was a slut-in-waiting. “Ah well”… he thought, as he washed his hands in his en-suite bathroom, he’d just wait and see.

He quickly shaved around his jawline and neck, adding a favourite cologne, and regretting his portly build as he saw himself in the mirror. “Ah well,” he thought again, nothing riding on today’s social, so perhaps it mattered less.

He arrived in the bar downstairs ten minutes early. He always thought it could be intimidating for a woman to arrive first, though today, at this hour, there were few folk about. One young couple in a corner, a much older man with a dreadful comb-over, seated at the bar, a married couple coming to the end of a meal.

He wandered to the bar to see what wines they had. He didn’t order yet. It felt wrong to order knowing she was imminent. He realised he’d no idea what she drank… or IF she drank.

“Business or pleasure?” said Mr Comb-over, seated a few feet away.

“Pleasure” Alex answered, politely, but in a tone so as to discourage further conversation.

And then – there she was. Alex had a moment’s advantage. He was hidden by the bulk of the guy in front, so was able to take in the shape of her, the walk, the hair, the …yes… confidence. And why not? She was wearing a classic black dress, hem above the knee, low cut but not too low, and, yep – the material clung to her just as he’d supposed it might. Her legs were bare, he noticed, idly – no hold-ups then. So definitely not a date. No nuanced hint at a later possibility.

He detached himself from the bar and went to welcome her.

“Rosie…” he stated it. It wasn’t a question – he knew it was her.

“Alex”, she answered in the same tone. They laughed. It was already companiable, easy.

“Now,” he said, “I’m staying the night so I’m free to have a glass or two. Can I get you something?”

“I’m not,” she said, with a hint of firmness, though her eyes and mouth were smiling, “ but a glass of wine will be lovely”

They spent thirty seconds discussing colour, grape and the price of wine in pubs, then he went to order, and brought back a bottle. “Just makes more sense,” he said, half-apologetically.

They sat opposite each other.

Alex could see the older guy at the bar staring at Rosie. “You’ve one admirer already, at least” he told her, “the guy at the bar can’t take his eyes off you.”

“I don’t mind being stared at too much” she replied.

As if by some tacit permission, Alex allowed his eyes to take in her face, her body – or at least as much of her as he could see above the table. He’d wondered if she’d wear a bra. She clearly wasn’t. He looked into her eyes and she raised her eyebrows. Now she knew that he knew she wasn’t.

“Happy?” she asked.

“Ecstatic” he answered.

They smiled at each other. It was easy. A casual flirtation was all. There were rules.

For the next ninety minutes or so, they chatted. They covered boyfriends and girlfriends, lovers and life-stories, dipped into philosophy, laughed at ironies and ill-fated past meetings, shared parental annoyances and the price of property, debated which country they’d live in if the UK wasn’t an option, avoided politics, and shared their favourite films.

Eventually Alex said, “Rosie, my dear, this bottle is nearly empty. About half a glass each. And I’m dying for a pee… do we say goodbye now, or will you nip upstairs with me and we can finish this off?”

Rosie looked at him, weighing up the situation.

“You could use the public toilets in the bar, and just come back,” she said.

“I guess I could” he answered, neutrally. “Your choice.”

And there it was. That was the moment, wasn’t it. The rules. She could have said, “I’ll wait here then.” And that would have been fine. Genuinely fine, for both of them. This was not a date.

“Just to finish the wine then,” she said, and rose to her feet.

You never know what room you’ll get when you decide to stay in a pub. Sometimes it’s a converted affair with paper-thin walls and a very ‘temporary’ feel. As if discreetly reminding you it’s only one night and it’ll do! Other times it’s a sturdy room with the weight of decades or even centuries pervading the walls. Alex’s room was the latter, not huge but large enough for a double bed, a sofa set into a bay window, and a small unused fireplace, now with a modern woodburner set within. Not that they needed it. It was August after all.

A gentle sunlight shone through the window, hitting the maroon duvet cover and highlighting the dust motes that danced above it. Birdsong and the faint drone of a bee.

“Do excuse me,” said Alex, nipping into the en-suite bathroom.

When he emerged, Rosie was standing in the bay window looking out onto the garden below. It was an astonishing sight because as she stood in profile, the outline of her was side lit so she stood out in sharp relief against the white walls behind her. But what completed the picture were the stripes of light across the top half of her body, where the Venetian blind in the window split the rays so that they lay across her like welts of golden luminescence.

One shaft of light lay against her right breast, and even from here, Alex could see her nipple clearly pushing against the material of her dress.

Without really deciding, he walked over to her and stood close, slightly diagonally on her right side. She was gazing out the window but, he realised, her inner focus was on her own body. He gazed at her, motionless. Although her eyes looked straight ahead, her breathing was shallow, her lips slightly parted. Alex realised she was letting the warmth of the sun on her body have its effect. What was visually arousing for him was, of course, physical for her. And the stillness in the room held both of them. Alex couldn’t bear to break the silence with chit-chat…

Slowly, he raised his right arm horizontal to his shoulder, arm bent. He held it there. So that she’d see it.

She oh-so-slowly turned to look at him. He could see that she knew his arm was raised. Deliberately, so she could see him do it, he looked at her breasts, held by the black material. Alex didn’t know if this cost hundreds of pounds from Rosie McCartney, or nineteen pounds from Shein, but in this moment it was the perfect choice.

He looked back at her face, into her eyes.

This felt so intimate. He slowly moved his hand towards her face. He still didn’t know what he was actually going to do but, he knew, he wanted her to know she could break this at any time. All she had to do was move away, or say “no”, or even a smile would have changed the atmosphere.

Instead, she almost imperceptibly raised her chin, and his hand found itself around her neck. He squeezed, firmly but gently. He felt her shoulders drop, her arms go limp. Her breathing, with his hand controlling the air she could take in, grew quicker.

Alex leaned in, closer to her ear. “So you’re used to being stared at,” he breathed, “and the slut we both know you really are just loves that.”

There was an audible gulp as Rosie took a breath in. Alex relaxed his hand and she took grateful breaths.

Alex leaned even closer. “Of course, he growled, “there are rules. This isn’t a date. Say the word and I’ll pour that wine…”

For an answer, she put her hand on the wrist around her neck, and pushed it against her throat. Alex squeezed.

“You’re such a fucking slut” he growled, his own breathing shallower. “I should have known when you went bra-less you wanted a good fucking. You can’t help letting the whole world know, can you…”

Using his weight he pushed her backwards onto the bed where she sat, held in place by his arm, her feet on the floor, his hand still around her throat. The black dress had risen up to her thighs. Alex could see her bare legs. Shapely. It aroused him to know her cunt was so close.

“Open your legs” he said.

She didn’t move.

Alex released her neck and with his left hand grabbed a fistful of her hair. Pulling backwards and twisting her hair around his fingers he made a ball of it and held her non-too gently in place, her gaze now directed to the ceiling. She whimpered.

“Open your legs” he said, his voice more demanding.

She didn’t move.

Deftly, Alex reached down and roughly pushed his hand between her legs. Working his hand up her thighs, he could feel the material of her panties.

“I think I’m going to discover you’re a filthy little girl,” he whispered in her ear. “I think I’m going to find out your mind is filled with dirty thoughts…”

He worked his fingers into the edge of her panties and pulled. There was a ripping sound as the lacy material gave way. She gasped. Alex allowed his fingers to find her lips… and the wetness of her…

“God,” he gasped, feeling the warmth and openness of her cunt beneath his fingers, so inviting, so fucking erotic. As he kept his fingers there he felt the juice of her on his fingertips.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he said in a low tone, “I could give you to the old guy in the bar and you’d beg him for it, wouldn’t you…”

“Wouldn’t you!” he repeated, and tugged at the ball of her hair in his fist.

“Yes” she replied

“Yes ‘Daddy’” he instructed, and pushed two fingers into her needy cunt.

“Yes… Daddy” she gasped, and Alex felt her contract as warm liquid reached his knuckles.

“Such a slut for Daddy” he growled.

Now, releasing her completely, withdrawing his fingers, he pushed her backwards onto the bed. She reached down to (presumably) pull down the hem of her dress. He slapped her unguarded left cheek with his right hand. She gasped and put her hand to the red mark on her face. Alex grasped her by the shoulders and roughly turned her face down on the bed.

Deliberately forcefully, he lifted the hem of her dress above her buttocks. Rosie struggled to keep the dress covering her ass, but Alex used her wriggling to gain purchase on the remnants of her panties and ripped them completely. Brushing her fussing hands away, he spanked her hard on her right ass-cheek. There was an audible gasp, and she gripped the duvet cover with both hands. Alex spanked her left cheek. Another gasp, and her knuckles held onto the maroon material of the bed.

“I’m going to turn your ass the same colour” said Alex, “ask me to spank you.”

Rosie said nothing, but turned her head sideways so her right cheek lay against the bed.

“Oh dear, little whore” said Alex with deliberate sarcasm, ”I’m afraid you just turned funishment to punishment”

Deliberately, not hurriedly, he spanked her. Sometimes on one cheek in succession, sometimes alternately, sometimes harder… sometimes, for momentary relief, more gently. But consistently, inevitably. Rosie moaned, cried out, tried to move aside, but he held her in place.

At last, he stopped.

As she slowly realised the spanking was over, her knuckles relaxed and her hands lay flat against the duvet cover. Alex noticed that, in actual fact, she didn’t mark easily. There were red dots in places his palms had contacted, but no handprints or obvious red areas. As she lay there, recovering somewhat, ass stinging, breathing calming, he leaned over once more to whisper close to her ear.

“Either you’re resilient, or your body knows how to take it. Which tells me you’re a filthy little girl. How many men do you fantasise fucking you when you masturbate, hmmm?”  

Without waiting for an answer, Alex parted her legs. She didn’t resist. Either she was worn out from her spanking or…

Alex pushed his thumb into her wet cunt. And it really was wet.

“Your body betrays you, dirty little baby,” he said,” it knows what you want even when you try to act like a nun.”

Using his thumb, Alex fucked her cunt from behind. The angle it allowed him made it possible to rub her g-spot in a way his fingers wouldn’t have been able to. Even as she bucked and moaned she couldn’t help herself moving her hips against the rhythm of his movement. His thumb rubbed her inside and his fist punched her ass with every inward thrust.

And she came. Not once, not twice, but three times because he just… wouldn’t…fucking… stop. The gushes that accompanied her orgasms soaked the linen. Alex didn’t care. He relished the signs of his control, of her abandonment.

Finally, Alex stopped.

Rosie didn’t move.

He stood up.

“Do excuse me,” he said, moving unhurriedly to the en-suite bathroom. He washed his hands and face, and straightened his clothing. He hadn’t even undressed. No release for him. Not this time. That was OK. It wasn’t a date.

Feeling less rumpled, he went back into the room.

Rosie had pulled down the hem of her dress so it half-covered her bruised ass. Alex walked over to her. Sitting on the side of the bed, he stroked her hair back so her face was clear. She looked at him, her breathing still ragged.

He said, gently, “I’m going to go back to the bar. I’m going to order two glasses of chilled white wine. I think the remains of our bottle may have got a bit warm. Feel free to use the shower if you’d like… and, no problem if you choose not to join me. It’s not a date, after all.”

He kissed her gently on her forehead.

“Oh,” he added, “and if you feel you need to masturbate for….” he smiled, “… a different kind of orgasm, be my guest. Or maybe save that for later.”

Downstairs in the bar, he ordered two glasses of Pinot Grigio. Mr Comb-over was still there. Looking at Alex, it appeared he’d forgotten they’d already exchanged greetings.

“Business or pleasure?” he asked

Alex carried the glasses to a different table, in a corner of the room.

“Pleasure… definitely” he threw back over his shoulder.

Sitting down, and taking a first welcome sip of the chilled liquid, Alex wondered if she’d join him.

Or not.

Perhaps she was busy.


Damn that was a hot 🥵 story. Very well written and thought out.
What a brilliant read!😍😍😍
Amazing read!! Giving to my Daddy to read!!
I love this so much! Bravo
  • 1 month later...
Great piece of writing
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