Even if I am the same way, it doesn’t mean an explanation isn’t lacking from this situation. Something has happened. Ian doesn’t turn possessive alpha male on me like this unless something causes it. Yet no matter how much I want to question it, there’s one thing I can’t control.
The fact I’m already getting into it.
“Why don’t you change into that sexy thing you bought today?” He’s not in my bra yet, but his fingertip smoothes over the bump that’s my nipple. This woman can’t control her shuddering. “Katie.”
Uh huh. Hoo boy. There’s a Dom in my bedroom, and he only has hands and eyes for me.
Does he want me meek and submissive? Sometimes that’s what I deliver, but only on my terms. Does he want a petulant brat who makes him work for my respect? That’s what I throw down when I’m in a playful mood and he wants to dominate me. When I’m suffering through a tailspin of emotions that fuck with my head?
This is the most natural I get in my submissive role.
“Why should I do that?” I whisper. Kisses descend my cheek and neck. “What’s in it for me?”
“You know.” That vibration in my ear sends a million sparks through my body. “You know exactly what’s in it for you.”
Do I ever! A blank consciousness. The ability to escape from this stressful world where image is everything – more important than my own damned accomplishments. Oh, and endless pleasure, I guess. There is that. Ian can be a total cad in everyday life, but when he puts his mind – and cock – to dominating me, I’m usually screaming and writhing within ten minutes.
He caresses me. Not sure if it’s my face, arm, or collarbone, because my brain doesn’t want to think about anything. I know what he’s doing. Ian’s giving me a taste of his fantasy. Our scenes are about passion and pleasure, of course, but they’re also about catharsis. I don’t know how many times I’ve had mental breakthroughs when I’m bent over getting spanked and told to serve.
You’re probably wondering if it ever goes the other way around. After all, I’m coming from my own background of domination. Yes, being a Domme is cathartic in its own way. Men who used to submit to me were definitely experiencing catharsis through fantasy. I have a feeling, though, that male Doms are coming from a completely different headspace from beta males and Dommes.
I don’t pretend to know what Ian is thinking when he’s pulling my hair, immobilizing me, or making me drown in his seed. Sometimes I don’t want to know.
“You mean the black lingerie?” I ask sweetly. My head turns for a kiss to the lips. I’m not disappointed.
“I wouldn’t mind you naked, but tantalizing is good too.”
A surge of energy overtakes me. I turn on the couch, grasping his hand and looking up into those determined eyes. “Can you do that thing?”
His façade chips. “Depends. What are you talking about?”
For some reason I can’t hold his gaze, even though his eyes are following mine wherever they look. “Feels weird asking when you’re already like this.”
“I want to give you what you want.”
I’m taken aback at the finality of those words. “I want to feel like I have nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.”
All I can do is hope that he knows what I’m talking about. Thankfully, he cups my chin and softly smiles. “That’s all I ever want to do, my love.”
***
The moment I emerge from the bathroom, dressed in the black negligee I bought today, our scene will officially begin. Knowing this, I change my hair multiple times, wanting to live up to Ian’s perfect vision of me. I may not know exactly what that entails, but I know I want to find a balance between who I really am and the opposite end of my own spectrum. “Sweet Vixen,” is what I will call it.
The negligee accentuates every inch of my body, including the inches not covered by any fabric. The cups boost my breasts up, the lace so sheer that there’s no mistaking my nipples, already hardening. From the bust flows satin as sultry as my attitude. It covers my mound and brushes against my thighs. I’m wearing a black thong that I know will be ripped off my body within ten minutes.
I hope it lasts longer than that.
Only thing I don’t know what to do with is my hair. I go from leaving it down to pulling it back into a tight ponytail. The ponytail is too innocent. Sometimes we play at me being the innocent virgin and him the man who does more than soil me – because, excuse me, sometimes a girl wants to pretend that the man she loves is the only one she’s ever known – but that’s not what I’m going for tonight. Leaving it down is too messy. I put it back up in a twist, but this time it’s loose.