#strip dance

Together you kept a running tab on stupid dares like it was religion.

It started on a Sunday with you sprawled across the couch, ankles crossed, a crooked grin under the brim of your cap. A preseason game murmured on low, Cate’s feet were in your lap, perfectly pedicured and taunting. The scoreboard of the week—sticky notes plastered across the corkboard in the kitchen—already had two tallies under Cate’s column from yesterday’s “no complaining through Costco” and “don’t roll your eyes at Jordan’s texts” fiascos.

“New one,” you announced, squeezing Cate’s calf like a trigger. “All week. Any time I make you blush, I get a point. Any time you make me swear out loud, you get a point.”

Cate arched a brow. “So you’re betting on your inability to keep your mouth clean.”

“I’m betting on your inability to keep your composure.” Your grin went slow and salacious. “Winner chooses the prize. Stakes revealed at the end. Cold. No take-backs.”

Cate’s smile was lacquered and lethal. “Deal.”

You knocked knuckles. The week slit itself open.

Monday: Cate lost a point at breakfast when you cornered her at the counter and merely breathed into the shell of her ear, “You’re thinking about my mouth,” and Cate’s entire face went sunlit pink. She tried to get it back by palming you through your sweatpants as she passed, coaxing a hiss and a bitten “fuck,” but you only laughed and scribbled both tallies on the board, smug.

Tuesday: Cate delivered a whole boardroom pitch smooth as silk, then checked her phone to a selfie from you in the bathroom mirror, shirt stuck between your teeth, abs and freckles and the low slope of your pelvis on full display, captioned: “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.” Cate walked into a conference room door. Third blush, point to you.

Wednesday: Cate thought she had you when she dragged her nails under your chain and down, down, down—knuckles mean and deliberate over your waistband. You swore beautifully, but so did Cate when you flicked your tongue into the cut of her open blouse and whispered, “I can taste the power trip on you,” and she had to cover her face with the nearest throw pillow.

By Friday the sticky notes were a crime scene. Cate trailed by two. You, insufferably buoyant, wore your cap backward and kissed the corner of Cate’s mouth like you were already collecting your winnings.

“Fine,” Cate said that night, arms crossed, shoulder propped on the kitchen doorway, wearing a slippy black dress that made your eyes go feral. “Reveal your prize, O Victorious One, so I can veto it on principle.”

You licked over your bottom lip. “Loser gives the winner a strip dance.”

Cate’s face didn’t shift. Not one muscle. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” You tipped your chin, wicked. “We said ‘no take-backs.’”

Cate scoffed. “We literally fuck every day, babe.”

“I don’t want to fuck. I want a performance.” Your voice went husky. “I want you to hate losing so bad you try to kill me with it.”

Cate stared at you, at the cap and the chain and the smug mouth she wanted to bite. She felt the faraway ripple of her own pulse in her ears. “You’re a perv.”

“Correct.” You slapped the couch cushion twice, an invitation and a dare. “Fair and square, Dunlap.”

Cate rolled her eyes so hard it should’ve counted toward last Tuesday. “Whatever,” she muttered, but there was color blooming high on her cheekbones. “You want a show? You’ll get a show.”

She disappeared into the bedroom. The door clicked. You didn’t move, just kicked your feet out and let your grin sputter into something like reverence. This was a ritual with you two—the dare, the surrender, the part where “fine” meant “watch me.”

The living room went low and thick as the lamp dimmer slid down. Music crawled out from the speaker, a hot little bassline Cate definitely queued up—sleazy, slow, all hips. You felt it under your skin like a storm rolling in.

The bedroom door eased open.

Cate leaned on the frame like a sin rehearsed. Black silk robe slung loose, the hem kissing her thighs, hair let down, lip glossed, knee tilted just enough to sharpen the line of her calf. A single glove on—long and satin, finger ends precise, the other hand bare, dangerous. The look in her eyes said I will make you ache for a full minute before I move.

Your mouth parted. “Holy—”

“Language,” Cate warned softly, and that should have earned her a retroactive point.

She sauntered in, bare feet whispering on the rug, the robe tied in a lazy bow. She didn’t climb onto your lap—yet. She took the space like it owed her rent, circled the coffee table, turning so the robe flashed a sliver of bare thigh, then slid a heel on the cushion next to your hip and leaned forward to press two fingers under your chin.

“Since you wanted a show,” Cate purred, “keep your hands on the couch. Or I’ll start over from the beginning when you touch me.”

“Cruel,” you said, already hoarse.

“Fair and square,” Cate said back, and let the bow fall.

The robe feathered open—a wink of pale pink satin underneath, lace cupping her breasts, a little gold charm like a drop of champagne between them. Your breath stuttered out of you, hands tightening on the cushion, knuckles pale.

Cate rolled her shoulders with the slow, precise decadence of a cat stretching in sunlight. She swayed—hips and then sternum, ribcage and then the fine flex of her neck. She made eye contact the whole time, like she was physically pinning you with it. When she turned, she did it on a dime, hem glancing past your knee, and your thigh jumped at the contact as if the fabric had teeth.

“You’re enjoying this,” you murmured, dazed.

“I enjoy winning more.” Cate smiled, wicked and bright, and slid the glove down her arm with her teeth.

The glove pooled on the coffee table. Cate set one knee on the couch to either side of your hips—not sitting, not touching, just hovering—then rolled herself down, a languid cascade, until her nipples grazed against the thin cotton of your shirt. Your head thunked back against the couch, eyes closing on a hiss.

“Eyes on me,” Cate reminded, breath ghosting your jaw. “You asked for this.”

“I always ask for this.” You dragged your gaze back up, obedient and undone.

Cate dragged her nails—lightly, criminally—down the edge of the shirt, following the chain, tracing the sternum, stopping at your waistband. She didn’t touch what was straining there, she traced around it, attention a radius of heat that made you twitch against your self-imposed restraint. Then Cate arched up and away, standing between your knees. The robe shrugged fully off her shoulders, pooling at her ankles. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her satin panties and watched you watch.

“Don’t—” you started, breathing wrecked already.

“Don’t what?” Cate tilted her head, faux-innocent.

“Don’t be nice,” you groaned. “Be mean about it.”

Cate’s smile went molten. “Oh, baby wants cruel?”

You swore, softly and involuntarily. Cate didn’t count it—she just rewarded it. The panties slid down. She stepped out of them slowly, and then—because she was a menace—she flicked them up and tossed them straight into your face.

You sucked in a startled laugh, the silk landing over your mouth. “You’re—fuck—”

“Hands,” Cate reminded, sing-song, and bent at the waist right there, hair falling like a curtain, presenting herself like a taunt. You visibly fought your instincts. The outline in your sweatpants was obscene now, insistent. You throbbed visibly, so gone it was sweet.

Cate climbed back up, finally settling on your thighs, the wet heat of her cunt kissing your stomach through the thin cotton. You tried to buck up into anything. Cate tsked and kept herself a breath away from where you would really feel it. She rolled her hips to the bassline, palms framing your jaw, her thumb pulling lightly at your bottom lip.

“Say please,” Cate teased.

Your voice cracked. “Please.”

“For what?”

“For you.” You swallowed. “For all of you.”

Cate almost broke her own rule. She almost slammed down and rode you like a stolen car. She almost gave up the performance for the ruin. But the dare was the dare, and nothing tasted better than making you ask.

“Mm,” Cate hummed, as if that answer pleased her—because it did—and slid her bra straps down one by one, letting the cups fall. She cupped her own breasts and rolled her thumbs across her nipples, eyes glittering when your gaze locked like a starving thing. Cate leaned forward and traced the edge of your ear with her mouth, then bit, gentle, and whispered, “You’re hard.”

“You’re evil.”

“Fair and square, baby.”

She rocked a little harder then, just enough. Your head tilted back again, a sound ripped low from your chest. Cate pressed a kiss to the curve under your jaw, another to your mouth. The kiss sharpened as you tried to chase it deeper. Cate pulled back with a wicked, wet click.

“God, I hate losing,” Cate muttered—except she sounded thrilled—and then she palmed you through the thin cotton once, a mercy and a promise. Your hips leapt, hands spasming on the cushion.

“Come on,” you rasped, desperation cracking your composure. “Ride me. Be nice, I’m dying here.”

Cate’s mouth curled. “Oh no, that wasn’t part of the deal.” She slid back off your lap and stood, hands on her hips, skin flushed, silk abandoned in a halo at her feet. “You asked for a dance. You got a dance.”

You stared up at her, pupils swallowing color, chest working. “At least—” You swallowed again, shameless. “At least sit on my face.”

Cate pretended to consider it like a woman perusing a dessert menu. Then she smiled, lazy and lethal. “That,” she said, “I can do.”

You made a reverent, relieved sound. You tore your cap off and threw it aside, leaned back and shucked your shirt with frantic hands, kicked your sweatpants down just enough to free what ached. You were thick and flushed and cruelly hard, already leaking, your abdomen tight with restraint. You dragged a pillow down behind your neck, eyes glittering up at Cate. “C’mere.”

Cate climbed the couch again with a queen’s surety, knees set wide on either side of your shoulders. She hovered for a heartbeat—teasing, always teasing—then lowered herself slowly until your nose nudged her clit and you both gasped.

“Fuck,” you whispered into her, hands trembling as you palmed Cate’s thighs. “Good girl, gimme.”

Cate’s laugh was breathless, broken open. “Don’t you dare call me good to get what you want.”

“You’re perfect,” you said wildly, then opened your mouth and devoured.

It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry. It was teeth barely there, tongue insistent, nose grinding against Cate’s clit in slow, ruthless circles while your mouth lapped lower, deeper, like you intended to drink her. Cate’s head fell back, one hand flying to the back of the couch, the other to your hair. She rolled her hips and you moaned into her, the sound shooting straight up Cate’s spine like an electric current.

“Don’t—” Cate panted, “—don’t you dare stop—”

You didn’t. You suckled, sucked, dragged your tongue up in flat, unhurried strokes that turned Cate’s knees to water. Cate’s thighs tightened around your head and you took it, drunk on bliss, jerking yourself in rough, desperate pulls with one hand while the other steadied Cate’s hip. The soft, lewd slap of your palm meeting your own cock punctuated the wet, helpless sounds you made into Cate’s cunt. Every time Cate rolled forward, you swallowed a little deeper, a little greedier, and Cate’s body lit neon.

“You’re—” Cate’s voice broke. “—obscene.”

“Mm,” you hummed, which should’ve been illegal, and Cate shuddered so hard the couch complained.

She rode your face shamelessly, now, the slow grind becoming a frantic tempo, each pass over your mouth whiting out the edges of her vision. You didn’t chase the pleasure. You offered your whole face up to it, angle perfect, tongue relentless, breathing through your nose and moaning like a prayer. The bassline dissolved into heartbeat. Cate bent at the waist and stole a look down. The sight of you, eyes blown wide and intent, glossy lips and your fist working your own cock like you were possessed, punched a helpless, feral sound out of her.

“Look at you,” Cate gasped, dizzy with it. “You’re going to make a mess.”

Your eyes flared, you jerked harder, abandoning the pretense of control, and dove your tongue deeper. Cate’s legs shook. The orgasm came for her like a grabbed wrist—sudden, inexorable. She broke over your mouth with a strangled cry, clutching your head and riding it out until the world passed through her and left her glittering and rung out.

You breathed against her, tender now, licking her through the shivers, murmuring sweet nothings into her skin. Cate eased down onto your chest, thighs trembling, hands still in your hair. She panted, you panted, the room glowed.

Cate shifted, boneless, to slip one knee to the side—and felt you twitch, a helpless buck. “Don’t—don’t move,” you hissed, voice urgent, and Cate froze. Your fist tightened, your abdomen clenched, the sound you made was ragged and desperate, and then you spilled across your own stomach and up, a hot stripe flinging high enough to land warm and wet across the gleam of Cate’s back.

Cate went still. Then she turned her head, slow, and said in the driest voice she possessed, “Jesus, babe. How am I meant to reach there to clean it off?”

Your laugh was half agony, half elation. “Come here,” you croaked, still catching your breath. “I’ll lick it off you like a saint.”

“No, you won’t,” Cate said, affronted and fond. “You’ll get distracted and we’ll never make it to bed.”

“That’s a compelling argument,” you admitted, then slid a palm up Cate’s spine anyway, collecting some of the cum and painting it along the small of her back like a signature. Cate shivered.

“Perv,” Cate accused.

“Correct.” You tugged Cate down until you were chest to chest, both of you damp, both of you laughing a little in that stupid, sated way love kept surprising you two with. You kissed Cate’s mouth, soft for once. “That was the meanest dance anyone’s ever given me.”

“Good.” Cate pecked you again, a quick triumphant bite to the bottom lip. “Next time you’re losing.”

“Next time,” you said, eyes gleaming, “I’m betting on something with overtime.”