Chapter Two: Hotter by the Minute
We both knew we'd opened new and exciting territory in our lives. We tacitly agreed not to discuss it, just to keep exploring. In addition to having roof-raising sex over the next weeks, I tried other ways to exercise dominance. One day I texted her in the afternoon to say, "I'll be home late. Roast me a chicken. Have a martini ready when I arrive." (Ever thoughtful, I included a link to a recipe for the bird, since cooking wasn't her thing.)
I sent the text and immediately started worrying. When she hadn't responded in thirty minutes I started to type "can you pull back a text?" into Google. As I did, my phone pinged. She'd answered. Two words. "Yes, sir."
Oh, my god. Why did her agreeing to cook dinner give me a hard on? I couldn't resist adding, "Wear an apron. Nothing else."
This time it only took seconds for the response: "Yes, sir."
I sequestered myself in the office bathroom to jerk off. In addition to feeling good, it would help me last longer later.
The chicken was delicious, and since the apron hung down her front, her pussy was wide open when I pushed her over the table and slid into her doggy style (what else WOULD you call it?). Normally even if she agreed to sex in the kitchen, she'd insist on cleaning up (and I'd wind up doing it). That night the broken dishes and shattered wine glasses from our tabletop romp didn't faze her. After we both came, I announced I was going to take a shower and left her with jagged pieces of glass and ceramic littered menacingly around her delicate bare feet, a milky cocktail of my cum and hers oozing sensuously down her leg.
"I'll take care of the mess, sir," she said, meekly. I hadn't even asked. Whether she meant the kitchen or her leg, I didn't ask.
It wasn't as if I became bossy all the time. Mostly we behaved like our normal selves. Every time I'd get an impulse to shift into Dom/sub mode, my stomach would flutter and I'd think of reasons not to, at least not at that moment. When I overrode my fears, she always went along like it was her favorite thing to do. Needless to say, that egged me on to do more.
I started laying out her clothes in the morning and insisting she wear only my choices. Mostly they were appropriate. Not always. One day when she'd told me some important folks were in town from the UK for meetings, I went with ripped jeans and an old pair of Birkenstocks from the weekend portion of her closet, topped off with a thrift-store find of my own: a heavy-metal band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and the waist trimmed into a ragged crop top. The band name was emblazoned in a logo so stylized that to decipher it you had to study it closely or already know.
I'd seen the band one stoned night in college and therefore could read what it said: "Shitlicker." No way was she familiar with them, nor did she have time to parse out the weirdly shaped and garishly colored letters that would adorn her chest. When she reached into the drawer for a bra, I slapped her ass and reminded her she was to wear only what I put out.
She stared at the clothes so long I expected to hear the safe word. Instead, she got dressed and left. Later she told me the folks in the meeting took her outfit in stride (she sometimes forgets she's gotten to a point people are more intimidated by her than she by them). The only hitch was that one of the Brits -- a guy dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit, club tie, and striped shirt -- turned out to be a big metalhead who knew the band -- and their name. He thought it great fun that the two of them had "their little secret." (His laughingly whispering it in her ear was the first time she learned what it was. She said she managed a knowing nod.)
He wanted to swap stories about bands, songs, and concerts over lunch. I asked how she handled that, since she'd be hard pressed to name even one Black Sabbath hit. She said, "People in those cases aren't actually interested in your opinion. They want to tell you theirs. I kept inviting him to say more and always agreed with him. By the end of the day, he thought I was a brilliant conversationalist who could write a book about death metal."
Another day I laid out a nice outfit but no panties. This time she only glanced at the drawer. I'd included a pair of white linen pants, so the missing underwear wouldn't be obvious. She clearly thought she was getting off easy.
Then mid-morning I texted her a link for a bit of audio porn I'd found and said she needed to close her office door and listen right away. There were many reasons she might've told me to fuck off, but within minutes she texted back, "Yes, sir."
That night I asked her what happened. (Whenever I gave a Dom-like order but wasn't there to see her carry it out, I required a detailed report.) The audio had been a woman telling her husband the lurid details of a mouthwateringly dirty three-way she'd enjoyed when he'd been away. The sultry voice's descriptions of the guys who fucked her and the holes they filled and the orgasms they triggered had made me cum in record time when I'd heard it. I was pleased when she told me it had the same effect on her.
"So, what happened?" I asked, all innocence.
Exactly what I'd expected, it turned out. As she'd listened, she'd realized how creamy she was getting between her legs. She'd realized that, without panties to absorb the fluids, the stains in her white pants would be apparent to all. She told me this in a matter-of-fact tone, though in the same calm manner she went on to say she fantasized about cutting my balls off for pulling this shit. I asked how she handled it. She said she grabbed some tissues from her desk drawer and stuffed a handful between her legs. When they were soaked, she threw them into her purse (so the cleaners wouldn't find them in her office trash). She had to repeat that move several times during the fifteen-minute audio but wound up with a stainless crotch.
I told her the tissue thing was cheating, so she had to be spanked. That consequence didn't seem to strike her as bad news.
We had fun in various ways that whole month. The single time she used her safe word occurred on a Sunday morning. We'd gotten out of bed, where we always slept nude, and both put on oversized t-shirts. Then she made coffee and we plopped onto the living room sofa to watch TV. We wore the t-shirts because the picture window facing buildings across the street made being there feel public.
Vintage horror movies had become our weekly staple. Lately we'd been working our way through 70s slashers. That morning's delighted us by pairing spectacularly bad acting with over-the-top gore. I always flinch at the jump scares, which makes her laugh and ask why I didn't see them coming. (I do. So?) For her part, the bloody violence that makes me giggle draws squirms and grimaces from her, but she never looks away. The grisly on-screen goings on kept us clutching at each other from the first, pre-credits crazy kill until the luridly gruesome finale. Our touches evolved into kissing and groping. She wrapped her hand around my cock at the same time I slipped my fingers into her pussy. We might've gone ahead with regular sex, but that morning I had another idea.
I stood up and ordered her to do the same. She could tell by my tone when I spoke as her Dom, and it made her eyes light up in a way I loved but couldn't acknowledge in the moment. I stripped off her t-shirt and admired the way her pert breasts stood up, engorged nipples pointing at me like fingers. She glanced uncomfortably at the window, but I didn't care. I spun her around and bent her at the waist over the back of the sofa.
I'd planted one of our favorite spanking paddles (we had half a dozen in various sizes and materials by then) and a vibrator in the side table drawer. I spanked her until her butt seemed warm, then took out a plug and a bottle of lube. I used the latter to work the former into her ass, then slipped the vibrator into her hand told her to use it. She turned it on and applied the tip to her clit. She began shuddering almost immediately, while I continued paddling her ass. The buzz and smack of our toys filled the quiet morning.
