Page 22 of Daddy's Naughty Dog Trainer

At least, most of them.

CHAPTER 6

Three weeks into our new arrangement, and I'm starting to think Sean Ferguson might be some kind of wizard. How else to explain the transformation of both Lucky and me?

Lucky has become a model of canine good behavior. He is walking perfectly on leash, responding to commands instantly, even learning a few impressive tricks that have the Barking Bean regulars applauding on Saturday mornings.

As for me? Well, I've become surprisingly adept at following rules too. I arrive on time for every session, keep my phone tucked away, and follow Sean's training plans to the letter.

Mostly.

Because as well as things are going, there's a part of me that can't resist testing the boundaries now and then, you know, just to see what happens. Just to feel that delicious thrill when Sean's eyes darken and his voice drops into that register that means I've pushed too far.

It only takes one word, one glance from him and my underwear are dampened, my nipples tightening. So far, he hasn’t gone farther than kissing and some light petting. He’s driving me crazy. I masturbate nightly, thinking of him and allthe delicious things I want him to do with and to me. Of course, he is disciplined and he’s taking it slow. Too slow, if you ask me.

We've settled into a routine that's anything but routine. Wednesday evenings are still official training sessions, focused primarily on Lucky but with an undercurrent of tension that occasionally erupts into something more when Lucky is safely occupied with a chew toy. Saturday mornings are our "field trips" ostensibly for Lucky's socialization, but increasingly about us.

And the "us" part? It's evolving in ways I never imagined.

Sean likes rules.

Clear, explicit rules with equally clear consequences. At first, I found it amusing, his need to label and structure everything, even our budding relationship. But I've come to appreciate the clarity. There's something freeing about knowing exactly where the lines are drawn.

"You're distracted today," Sean observes as we work with Lucky in his backyard. It's a warm evening in late spring, the air heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and the darkening clouds promising of rain later. I love North Carolina spring thunderstorms.

"Sorry," I say, refocusing on Lucky, who's waiting patiently for his next command. "Just thinking."

"What are you thinking about, princess?" Sean prompts, standing a little too close behind me.

I glance over my shoulder at him. "You, mostly."

His expression softens slightly. "Care to elaborate?"

"I was thinking about your rules," I admit. "And how I don't hate them as much as I thought I would."

Texting him before I left to go somewhere, and when I arrived safely. Calling him every night before going to sleep. Eating regularly. Some of his rules were basic expectations to living a healthy life, things I overlooked or shoved to the side. Iam being honest when I say that I don’t mind them as much as I thought I might. Last week, he had me come to coffee without underwear on. It was thrilling.

That earns me a genuine smile, a rare and precious thing from Sean. "High praise indeed."

"Don't let it go to your head." I turn back to Lucky. "Okay boy, let's try that weave again."

We finish the training session with Lucky showing off his new agility skills, weaving through makeshift poles Sean set up in the yard. When we're done, Sean rewards Lucky with his favorite treat and me with a lingering kiss that promises more.

"I was thinking," he says, drawing back slightly, his hands still resting on my waist, "that you might stay for dinner. I made a lasagna, just have to warm it up."

"You cook too? Is there anything you're not good at?" I tease.

"I'm sure you'll discover my flaws eventually." His tone is light, but there's something in his eyes, a vulnerability I rarely see.

"I'd love to stay for dinner," I tell him, meaning it.

Back inside, I help Sean set the table while he puts the finishing touches on the meal. His kitchen is exactly what you'd expect it to be. Like everything else of Sean’s, it's immaculate, organized, with everything in its proper place. But there are touches of warmth I hadn't noticed before: a colorful ceramic bowl on the counter filled with fruit, a silly dog-shaped timer on the stove that must have been Diane's.

"This is nice," I say, watching him move confidently around the kitchen. "Very domestic."

"Don't sound so surprised." He slides the lasagna into the oven. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."

"I didn't mean it like that," I clarify. "It's just... seeing this side of you. The non-work, non-training side."

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