Page 202 of The Dommes

Chapter 73

Kathleen

I’ve been experiencing such a rush for the past few days. From the moment I told Ira my terms, I’ve felt myself coming back to the person I always knew I was.

No, not like that, silly. What I mean is that I’m back in top form. The Kathleen I always present myself as.

Ira likes to think she was practicing a perfect poker face, but I felt her waver. I saw her consider what I told her. And even though I’ve spent the past few weeks convinced that I no longer wanted to dominate her, I now know how wrong I was.

She needs a Mistress to keep her in line.

Ira was the first person to see the potential to submit within me. She wasn’t wrong. What she didn’t see, however, was the potential inside herself as well.

To be fair, I didn’t see it at first either. When it comes to people, they tend to know exactly what they want, whether that’s dominating, submitting, neither, or both. A person who has been in the scene for as long as Ira is fairly locked into her role. Dominants especially don’t like to ever give up power. They’re souped-up types who want the world to contour to their whims and needs. I can’t blame them. I often want that power as well.

Can’t you see it? Ira Mathison, treating me like the goddess I deserve to be. From head to toe, I will be adored.

I will feel truly loved.

Oh, I don’t doubt that she loves me, but she’s asked so much of me already that I can’t imagine giving more of who I am and taking nothing back in return. She wants me to be a switch? Fine. She’d better be willing to do the same for me.

I tell Eve as much over lunch at her place.

She whistles, shaking her head over an empty plate of spaghetti and salad. “She’s never going to do it,” she says with hesitation. “She has no reason to question herself like you have.”

I give her a look.

“Don’t do that. You may have told her that the only way to keep you was to try it, but she’s still a person at the end of the day. This isn’t some lesbian ranting. This is cold, hard reality. You know it as much as I do… she’ll cry about it for a few weeks until she finds a new, more inclined sub to do what she wants. She’ll probably be blond if it makes you feel any better.”

Hardly. “You don’t know her like I do.” Pasta swirls on my plate as I push it into the design of a smiley face. Meatballs are eyes. Some parsley creates a cute nose. “She’s head over heels in love with me. Plus, her family needs that money. She’ll definitely consider it.” There. A perfect Italian smiley face, now with extra oregano for seasoning. “Whether or not she bites… well, I’ll find out by tomorrow.”

Eve studies me, shaking her head slowly. “Please don’t set yourself up for heartbreak. I don’t understand what you see in her, and I doubt I ever will, but I care about you. You deserve happiness. Please be careful.”

That is perhaps one of the sincerest things Eve has ever said to me. Usually, she layers her words in jokes and crude threats, but this is the genuine concern of a friend and confidant. Not that I never trusted her in this capacity before – we wouldn’t be best friends otherwise.

But hearing her like this makes me reconsider what I’ve done.

No, I’m not taking back my ultimatum. I can’t show that kind of weakness in front of Ira. I don’t want her thinking that she can wait for me to get over my Domme snits and then back to business as usual. That would not be sustainable in a relationship with me.

And it shouldn’t have to be.

However, let us face the facts. I love Ira. Ira loves me. We’re two stupid assholes in love yet fundamentally incompatible. Something has to be done about that.

This is me attempting to take control of my heart. It’s the least I could do for myself.

Halfway through helping Eve with the dishes, my phone buzzes with a text message. I think nothing of it as I walk over and pick it up, staring at Ira’s name with a black and white picture of a rose in the background.

Fitting, isn’t it?

“I’ve made my decision. Meet me for dinner tonight so we can talk about it.”

I show Eve the message. She frowns, soap suds hanging from her hands as she lets faucet water beat one of our plates from lunch.

“What?”

She shakes her head again. “She’s going to tell you no. Or if she says yes, there is going to be a huge stipulation. I am telling you.”

I text Ira back for more details. “Say what you will.”

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