Done Passing As Vanilla (750 Words) – BDSM
This is a short story about like-minded people finding themselves and each other. There is no explicit sex.
This story was written for the 2024 Literotica 750 Word Challenge. Below this line are exactly 750 words.
Tonight was her first night out since the divorce. She intended to make the most of it.
The dress was new, and a splurge. But its fit-and-flare silhouette flaunted her hard-won waist and the subtle black-on-black metallic floral jacquard elevated it from merely sexy to…alluring.
It had been too long since she had felt sexy, much less alluring.
Everything else she dug out of dusty boxes. The lacy bra, the matching panties, the garter belt, the gossamer stockings. The tall boots, the long gloves, the dramatic makeup. The riding crop.
She was done passing as vanilla.
She entered the club alone. She didn’t recognize anyone, but the archetypes hadn’t changed.
The boy by the door who tipped his fedora and called out, “My Lady…”
The man at the bar who put his hand on hers before she could pay and, ignoring the crop she held, said, “Let Daddy take care of that.”
The shirtless beefcake who led with, “Will Mistress grant this worthless maggot the privilege of licking the filth from her divine boots?”
The only surprise was the guy who greeted her in what sounded like passable Japanese. She’d expected “me love you long time.” Had yellow fever gotten classier? Curious, she answered in Mandarin. Confusion clouded his face. Oh, well.
She debated moving deeper into the club, where people would be playing openly, but another man was already approaching her. “May I ask you to dance?”
Tonight’s theme was “Mostly Waltz.” Here, that meant Metallica, “Nothing Else Matters.”
“Can I lead?” she asked.
He blinked, then smiled. “You might need to be firm.”
She made a show of hanging her crop from her hip. “Try me.”
But she hadn’t led in years, and he had clearly never followed. Soon, a botched twirl brought them to a standstill in the middle of the floor, holding each other and laughing.
“Try leading that again.”
“No, let’s switch.”
He was skillful, and, better yet, considerate. He danced to her level, seamlessly incorporating her missteps into his choreography. By the time she led him off the floor, she was pleasantly breathless, and not only from the exertion.
“Water, something to eat, whatever you want to drink.” She held out a few bills.
He took them without protest and returned with water, seltzer, poutine, and her change. With a flourish, he pulled a napkin-wrapped fork from his pocket. “I’d hate to soil those gorgeous gloves.”
“So thoughtful.” Only one fork, she noticed, and he remained standing, a small smile playing at his lips. Delighted, she pushed the poutine forward and gestured at the other chair. Only then did he pull out a second fork and sit.
“Are you into gloves, then?” she asked.
“I find I can be into many things, for the right kind of woman.”
Rehearsed or not, it was clearly heartfelt. She asked the obvious question. “What kind is that?”
“Someone who knows what she wants and how to get it.” His expansive gesture encompassed her clothes, the dance floor, the change. He had recognized her little tests for what they were. “Someone adventurous, playful, and flexible, who can try something, laugh, and try something else.”
“Someone susceptible to flattery?” she suggested archly.
“Someone who recognizes and appreciates sincerity.” He paused until she nodded in acknowledgment. “For the record, if I were trying to flatter you, I’d say something like—“
Her minute gesture stopped him mid-sentence. She regarded him, impressed but by now not surprised. Making a snap decision, she said, “My first marriage ended this year. My fault, for saying yes even though I knew what kind of relationship I wanted.”
Her gambit paid off. He leaned forward. “Which is?”
“Loving, monogamous, mostly vanilla. Children. Cuddling, in-jokes, walks, sappy notes. Frank discussions. Respectful, productive arguments.”
“And when those arguments end in stalemate…” He glanced at her crop on the table between them.
She shook her head. “Then he accepts my decision, freely and cheerfully, because he trusts—because I have shown that I can be trusted to do what’s right for both of us.”
“I can see you’ve thought about this.” He nodded approvingly. “Why bring the crop, then?”
She squirmed, suddenly haunted by every previous attempt to have this conversation. “I was kind of hoping I’d also—sometimes—get to tie him up, beat him, ruin him onto my boots, make him lick them clean, that kind of stuff. But just for fun, and only if he’s into that, of course.”
“Oh, he’s into that.” He grinned. “All of that, eventually.”
Like A 7 train stiletto show (750 words), this story was inspired by defiant_1, this time by Dance.
A pet peeve of mine is the telepathic top. When possible, I try to show the talking that goes into a good scene and a good relationship. If you like that too, check out my stories Her First Foot Boy and Asked and Answered, or kumquatqueen’s excellent Tell Me What You Want.
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