This is the prologue and first chapter from my book Domme by Default (Suncoast Society). It’s fairly autobiographical (except I didn’t get on a plane and run away LOL).
[Siren Classic: Erotic Consensual BDSM Romance, pegging, sex toys, HEA]
Kinky never looked so normal.
When a wife is faced with the question of what she is willing to do for love, her answer is…anything. She sets aside her own inhibitions to fulfill her husband’s wildest fantasies.
But at what cost to her peace of mind? What do you do when you’ve been appointed your husband’s Domme by Default?
Warning: This story includes erotic M/F BDSM sex and related activities including anal play/sex/toys, a home improvement–challenged husband, a snarky, sarcastic wife, and the portrayal of a kinder, gentler side of BDSM.
Note: This book was previously published with another publisher.
A Siren Erotic Romance
I found myself standing outside the adult store, remembering a completely polar opposite set of circumstances that brought me here the last time.
Nicely Naughty was actually a better class of adult establishment than you saw in many places. It fulfilled the apparently legislative requirements of being a minimum distance from churches and schools, was painted purple and pink on the outside, used lots of neon, and was located slap next door to a tattoo parlor.
I stood beside my car, staring. I didn’t want to do this. But I thought of the man waiting for me at home, eagerly anticipating my return, the hope in his eyes and his bare ass in the air…
I closed my eyes, fighting my tears.
I didn’t want to do this.
I remembered when he held my hand, strong, comforting—and more than just a wee bit seductively—as we walked in together the last time we visited this store. During a particularly hot night of pillow talk we’d jokingly decided to buy a vibrator. Not that I needed one, because he was the Man With the Golden Tongue, as far as I was concerned.
We’d walked in, me with my face beet red and trying to meld into his body. I pressed so close as the friendly and oddly chipper young salesgirl showed us to the wall of vibrating wonder. We’d left with a fairly plain, tame purple one that only resembled a real-life penis in that it was slightly phallic-shaped.
I stared at the front windows as I recalled his voice that night. “That vibrator won’t buy itself.”
And now, here I was. Alone.
I didn’t want to do this.
I got back into my car and sat with my forehead resting against the steering wheel. If I returned home empty-handed with a lame excuse, could I face the crushing disappointment in his eyes? He would nod and look away and be a good sport about it. But like always, he would know I was lying. He would spare me from telling the truth.
He would be a good husband for me.
I cried. I didn’t want to do this.
And he did.
Little girls dream of white knights and superheroes who keep them safe and sane and secure. They dream of being protected and cherished. Unless they are into a little kink, they don’t dream of whips and handcuffs and anal plugs.
Unless it’s their guy wielding them.
They certainly don’t usually dream of being the one holding them, using them on the man they cherish.
I sat back and wiped my face. I thought about the series of IMs I’d exchanged over several days as I tried to come to terms with this with a friend of mine who I knew was into “the lifestyle.”
Get what you want to get him. It’s your call. You’re in charge.
But I didn’t “want” to get him one. He wanted it. He’d finally found a deep inner well of courage to quietly admit this to me.
I’d done a little online research with wide-eyed terror. Ironically, I didn’t feel I could buy something like this sight unseen for fear of it being too big.
Tony’s ever-helpful advice?
Get him a small and a medium, tell him to go play with them. Don’t forget the lube.
I swallowed hard and looked at the store and thought about my sweet husband’s face, the eager anticipation in his eyes when I’d told him I was going shopping…for him.
I didn’t want to do this.
But as I stepped out of the car, I knew that’s exactly why I had to.
What can I say about our marriage? It was the second try for both of us. We each had a child with our exes, and while he was over a decade older than me, it wasn’t an issue.
He was my guardian angel. I was his prom queen.
I felt rescued in many ways after a decade of an emotionally abusive marriage. He felt loved and desired after a decade and a half of a frigid ice queen who blamed him for everything from her PMS to global warming.
When we’d first met on the downside of our divorces, we’d spent hours IMing back and forth some nights as we worked. And I’ll never forget how tickled I was.
I feel like the prom queen likes me! he’d said one night.
No one had ever talked to me like that before. No one had ever made me feel like that.
When we finally got together and moved in with each other, the sex was phenomenal as far as I was concerned. I’d had a few decent partners before my ex, who was crappy in that department. My new husband had a total of three partners—including me—and had never had a blow job before I gave him one. He’d also never gone down on a woman.
I had a lot of fun teaching him that. He proved to be a natural and eager student.
The kids fledged and we were on our own and I felt everything was great. We never fought. We could disagree and go to bed and kiss each other good-night. Perfectly matched temperaments. Mine on the heated side, his a little cooler. A great give-and-take that worked well for us.
Open and honest, as our individual emotional scars from our previous wounds healed, we found an easy middle ground we called our own and enjoyed our time there.
I never felt anything lacking, except that every once in a while I wished he’d be a little more…
I trusted my husband in a way I never trusted my ex. Or any other man, for that matter. I wanted to give him that control over me. I wanted to submit to him. Now that I knew I could fully trust someone in that way, I craved it. And while we’d play it in bed on occasion, he never took what I freely offered.
Over the years we opened up somewhat in the bedroom, the dynamic slipping back and forth in play, and I resigned myself to the fact that while our marriage wasn’t textbook material, it worked for us and I wouldn’t trade him for anything. So what if our “traditional” roles were anything but?
I called my dad one afternoon, my cell phone wedged between my shoulder and cheek, as I studied the wires in the ceiling fan switch I was changing out.
“Why isn’t your husband doing this?” he snarked.
I bit back a less-than-daughterly reply. “Because he’s at work. I’m perfectly capable of doing this, Dad.”
I always got the idea my father looked down his nose at my husband in some ways. Not that he didn’t like my husband, because my parents adored him, especially after I spent years with a real jerk.
But my dad always seemed to think my husband should do it all.
“You can’t wait to do this until he gets home?” he asked.
I didn’t want to admit my husband was clueless about home electrical systems and that I would sooner lick a porcupine than let my husband touch wiring. “Dad, please. Just answer my question.”
His tone turned gruff. “Listen to me, young lady—”
Only my parents could get away with calling a nearly forty-year-old woman that. “Dad, you are the one who taught me how to change my own oil and tires, right? Why the heck can’t you help me do this, too? My husband works very hard at a good job that pays pretty damn well and allows me to stay home and do what I love. I’d think you’d be happy for me.”
Low blow, and I knew it, but it worked. I could almost hear him backtracking.
He sighed the big, put-upon, I-know-she’s-right-but-I’m-still-her-father sigh. “How many wires did you say you have?”
When I finished an hour later, I turned on the breaker for the living room circuit and watched as my new ceiling fan lazily spun to life.
When my husband returned home later that evening, he wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed the back of my neck. “It looks great, sweetheart. Why didn’t you wait for me to come home? I would have helped you.”
I shrugged as I leaned back against him, feeling calm and settled with him home. “No big deal. I don’t mind.” That was the irony. I didn’t mind, per se. It was nice knowing I wasn’t one of those weakling, wussie women who couldn’t even use a pair of jumper cables properly. I felt a little pride—okay, a lot of pride—that I had done it by myself.
Well, with my dad’s advice, but mostly by myself.
And no matter what kind of pretzel I contorted myself into, my ex rarely paid me compliments about my accomplishments. Usually he found fault and picked my doings apart, all under the guise of “constructive criticism.”
Not my husband.
He kissed the top of my head. “You’re so good at this stuff. I’m so proud of you.”
I hugged his arms tighter around me, wrapping me in a cocoon of strength and security. No, I wouldn’t trade a thousand handymen for my husband. Not on your life.
Men are no more born with a fix-it chromosome than women are born with a shopping gene. My husband and I were two living-proof examples of that. How perfect that we’d found each other.
And yet there were still traditional roles that we filled. When he had to have his gall bladder out, I sat alone in the waiting room, near panic, feeling stupid that I was crying and looking like a moron. One of the hospital chaplains saw me and must have thought my husband was dying until I admitted he was only in for a routine gall bladder removal. Hell, he was supposed to go home with me that afternoon as long as there were no complications.
I’ll never forget how the chaplain sat back and looked at me like I’d grown a third eyeball.
He’s my angel, my husband is. How do you explain to someone that who cares if I can rebuild a car engine when the thought of ever losing my husband terrifies the crap out of me? That when he leaves the house every day, a piece of me leaves with him, worry always in the back of my mind until I see his sweet face walk through the door again that night.
I had never felt more relief than I did when the nurse called me back to recovery and I could hold his hand and reassure myself that he was okay.
He came back to me.
He always came back to me.
Later that night after I’d got him settled in our bed and his pain medicine had taken him securely off to dreamland, I curled next to him, my ear pressed against his chest, and listened to his strong and steady heartbeat.
I needed him. I’d spent so many years in a mental and emotional wasteland before him that to lose him, I knew, might be a pain I could never bear. I would do anything for him. With the exception of my child, I’d never loved anyone as much as I loved my husband.
He always made me feel safe and secure. Loved. I knew he would die for me to protect me if ever put into the position.
I couldn’t say the same about my ex, that’s for damn sure.
And so what if he couldn’t remember which was the master cylinder and which was the power steering pump when checking the fluids? Who the fuck cared?
He loved me.
And I loved him.