Page 118 of The Dominator

“I’ve been doing some reading.”

I waited. She looked at the ceiling and then summoned some courage.

“About dominants and submissives and I was wondering if maybe…”

This oughta be good…

I jerked my chin up to encourage her to continue.

“Maybe we should outline some things. Like they did in Fifty Shades of Grey; they had a contract of guidelines and safe words and…”

I started to laugh. Her face went red.

“I don’t want a submissive, baby girl.”

She frowned a little and then moistened her lips, “Okay…”

I got to my feet and closed the distance between us, backing her up against the pantry door. I took her face into my palm and rubbed my thumb along her lower lip,

“I want a cock slave. No safe words. Whatever my cock wants you give me. Whatever I want. Degradation, humiliation, I could order you to fuck someone else while I watch, fuck a girl…”

The color drained from her face.

“You good with that?” I gave her an intense glare.

She swallowed hard.

I couldn’t fight it: I laughed. “Gotcha.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not nice.”

I let out a big belly laugh.

I turned around to go back to the island and she swatted my ass hard with her open hand.

“You need a spanking, Mister!” she growled at me.

She was fucking adorable. I grabbed her and threw her over my shoulder and carried her upstairs. She paddled my ass with her palms all the way up, calling me cruel, mean, a jackass.

When I got her onto our bed, I kissed her and said, “Don’t try to define us, okay? All I know about our relationship is that we’re on a road together and I’m trying to take us someplace good.”

She nodded, emotion making her eyes all sweet and wet, and then gave me her mouth.

Tommy had to go out before we got a chance to talk about anything serious, so I had hours to myself. I wondered if it’d get to a point when I could come and go as I pleased. I wanted to talk to him about it, but he came home in a pissy mood. So, I decided that I needed to think up a game, so he and I could play. Maybe I could fix his mood.

I made a homemade lasagna for dinner (despite the three in the freezer) and it seemed to help with his mood; he told me it was the best lasagna he’d had in years.

“If I was having a cook-off to pick my wife and this was your entry, baby, you’d win. Hands down.”

“If I didn’t cook well would I be out of the running?” I pouted.

“Not at all; just sayin’ if cooking were a qualifying category, this lasagna would buy you the race.”

I beamed. His mood had lifted a little, but he seemed preoccupied.

“You seem a bit tense,” I said, walking to his side of the table. I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “How about if you grab a shower and meet me in the bedroom and I give you a full body massage? Then maybe we can play.”

He smirked. “I’d love to, baby, but I have a conference call in…” He glanced at his phone, “Five minutes ago. Shit. Rain check?”

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