Hi all, this is my first story submission, although I have been reading on here and writing for myself for years. I appreciate your constructive criticism. Thanks.

My wife and I had been married for six years when I finally brought up the subject of dominating her in the bedroom.

There was no huge trigger or anything. We were still working, as far as couples go. You know what I mean--we were spending time together, still connecting and communicating, little squabbles about purchasing furniture or whether to go to her cousin's birthday party or my coworker's baby shower, but nothing major. We were just as happy as the day we'd met, and after such a long time together, that's certainly saying something.

Even our sex life was pretty great. Brenda--that's my wife--was staying in great shape, going to yoga twice a week and running or lifting weights a couple other times every week. I'd like to modestly say that I was still looking pretty good, myself. I'd go to the gym and lift weights too, and for the past couple of years I'd been paying special attention to my abs. It's Brenda's favorite part and age was catching up with me, so it took a little investment. It's true, we had settled into something of a routine when it came down to our actual "moves," but it was comfortable and I wasn't bored or anything. Plus, it still felt amazing, every time I was with her.

So no, this idea of mine wasn't born out of monotony or a desperate last ditch to save our marriage, or anything like that.

Honestly, it was something I'd thought about for, well, as long as I'd been thinking about sex, which was a damn long time when you came down to it. I can still remember those adolescent years as clear as day--reading about it, masturbating while I thought about it, watching videos on it when I thought my parents wouldn't catch me. I never said anything to anyone, certain that it was deviant or, at the very least weird. I figured I'd grow out of it. I mean, I was a teenage boy.

But as it turned out, I didn't grow out of it. As I got older, it just interested me more. And all of my "research," as it were, allowed me to refine my ideas on the subject. I became more specific about the types of videos I liked to watch and stories I liked to read, began to imagine with more detail the scenes I'd like to enact myself.

It wasn't an activity I found much opportunity to indulge in, although there were times here and there. To me, it was something of a sacred act. I thought it would require a real connection, and I wasn't interested in just jumping into it with any random girl I was dating. That seemed like a great way to get girls to break up with you, or if you really fucked up, get them to call the cops.

So for most all of my relationships, I was just a regular guy who liked regular sex, however he could get it. And hey, who's kidding who--that's true, too.

But recently, my imagination had been getting out of hand. I was reading more stories on the subject--something about video porn felt dishonest to Brenda, but she could hardly blame me for reading text on a page, right? They soothed my urges, to a degree, but they also enhanced them. And now I had a loving partner, one with whom I'd built years of trust, someone who I really and truly loved. This was the time, right?

And so I decided to bring it up to her. I planned it out: dinner at her favorite restaurant, a nice bottle of wine. I even brought flowers.

I know, it might be kind of strange to wine and dine a woman with the intent of asking her to allow you to dominate her, tie her up, and otherwise do wicked things to her. But, if anything, that might be the best time to try a little romance.

The waiter dropped off dessert and I let Brenda take a big bite before taking a deep breath and jumping in, head first.

"Listen, Brenda. There's something I've been thinking about for a long time." I resisted the urge to fidget, telling myself to look her straight in the eye and arrange my expression into something resembling calm but serious. "Our sex life is great, but I want to try something different."

She kept chewing and raised an eyebrow. Her way of telling me to go on.

"I want to be dominant in the bedroom."

I knew from my research that there was a lot of different terminology for what I was thinking of. But, unless for some reason Brenda had been doing the same kind of research, this seemed like the most straightforward way to get the idea across.

It seemed like it did. Both of Brenda's eyebrows raised this time. She finished her bite, swallowed, and considered me for a few moments. "What do you mean? Like, always?"

"No, not always," I told her. "Just once in a while."

She pressed her lips together, drawing my gaze down to them for a moment. "I don't know, Adam. It doesn't sound that interesting to me."

My heart dropped for a moment. "Why not?" I asked evenly.

Brenda swallowed another bite of dessert. "Well, to be honest, it sounds like you'd just stick your dick in my mouth and skullfuck me for a while until you came. What's in it for me?"

I had to chuckle. Brenda had always had a mouth on her, and she'd never been shy about speaking her mind. "That's not exactly what I had in mind." At her accusatory look, I amended, "Well, all right, I suppose a thought along those lines may have occurred to me at one point. But really, it's a bit more than that."

"What would it entail, then?"

Believe it or not, this was actually already going better than I had expected. I thought there was a small chance she would storm out on me as soon as she heard the word "dominant." Brenda is ... on the independent side.

"That depends," I said. "I have an idea of what I want, but I'm happy to modify it depending on how you feel."

"That doesn't sound very dominant."

"Well, you're my wife. I want you to be happy, too, and if that means I have to compromise a little, that's okay."

Then I leaned forward slightly, still holding her gaze. I let my mind wander towards some of the things I wanted to do to her, and gave her the smallest of smirks. "But trust me. Whatever we decide on, I will be very dominant once we get to the bedroom."

It seemed to work--my beautiful wife shuffled in her seat and bit her lip, a sure sign she was thinking dirty thoughts.

"Fine. Tell me what you're thinking of, and I can voice any objections."

"Well, if we were to do this, I'd like to pick a day. Probably on the weekend. And for that day, I'd like to be the one in charge. In everything. And I'd like you to speak to me respectfully for the duration."

"What do you mean, like, call you sir or master or something?"

"No, not necessarily. But a 'sir' here and there might be nice," I said. "You'd never have to do it in public though, and we could ease into it."

Brenda's eyes widened a little. I've always been more exhibitionist than her. "We'd do this in public?"

"Not necessarily," I said again. "But we could. Really, for the first time, I picture us only trying it for a few hours. To see how it works for both of us."

"What if I don't like something you ask me to do?" she asked.

"Well, you can tell me, and try to convince me otherwise. Still respectfully, if you could," I said. "And I, in turn, would try and convince you to do it. But I don't plan to force you. That would be a different kind of thing."

"Something you're also interested in?"

"Yes. But not right now. I want this more."

Brenda put down her fork and was silent while our waiter swept away the now-empty dessert plate. She was still thinking. "Do you want to hurt me?"

I paused, thinking my answer through before speaking. It wasn't the right time to mention this aloud, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Brenda liked a little bit of pain. She had a ridiculously high pain tolerance, for one thing. And whenever I played with her nipples, she always loved it the most when I twisted them with just a hint of viciousness, although I think she didn't even realize it.

My thoughts settled, I spoke. "Some things we would do might involve pain. But I would try not to go past your limits."

No point in informing her that I did plan to *push* the limits.

"And we can set up a safe word," I added. "Something you say that will make me stop immediately. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do. But in this situation, I would want you to try to do everything I ask of you."



Brenda stayed silent as the check came and I put down my credit card. When the waiter was gone, she voiced another question. "Why do you want this?"

I shrugged. "Who knows? It's something I've always thought about."

"But ... why, exactly?"

"I can't recall any damaging psychological incident in my childhood that might have shaped me this way, if that's what you're asking," I said calmly. "I think you know that I respect women, and certainly that I respect you. I have no urge to degrade you or humiliate you in any way. That's not what this is about for me. It's that idea of control over someone. Or maybe, more specifically, of you voluntarily giving your control up to me. It turns me on in a way that I don't think anything else does."

Brenda nodded, and I could still see hesitation in her every movement. "It's just -- I can't imagine giving up control."

I took her hands, leaning closer across the table again. "I know. And I love that about you. You are a ridiculously independent and strong woman. You are so capable and smart and you can do anything. The fact that you are even considering giving me control, for even one single night, is an honor. And, I might add, really fucking hot."

That got a smile out of her. I sensed impending victory.

"Fine," she said, almost as if she was saying it before she could change her mind. "Next Saturday. From 7 on."

I'll be yours, I wanted her to say, to finish that sentence.

She didn't. But that was okay. She would live it for me, next Saturday.


The day came quickly. Maybe because I'd been anticipating it for what felt like my entire 32 years.

I'd been planning for a good deal of the week. Buying a few items that I needed, and trying to decide among the literally hundreds of ideas that I had. I thought that it shouldn't be anything too challenging. I wanted Brenda to like this. I wanted her to want more.

I'd already decided that if Brenda wasn't into it, it was okay. Like I said, I didn't consider it some desperate need that I had that would leave me forever unfulfilled if I didn't get it. I was happy with my life, and very happy with my wife. I wouldn't risk that for some fantasies.

But I will admit that I really, really wanted her to like it.

We had discussed it a couple more times since that dinner. Setting up a safe word, taking care of some other administrative type details. But mostly, Brenda was trying to figure out what to expect. Was I going to tie her up? Whip her? Make her serve me? I wouldn't answer any of those questions directly. First of all, I wanted her to be surprised. Secondly, I was going to play some of it by ear based on how well she was taking it all, but I didn't want her to necessarily know if I changed my plans.

We had, however, gone over the expectations again. Speak to me respectfully. Try and accomplish everything I asked of her. I'd encouraged her to openly communicate with me, too, to let me know how she was feeling and if there was anything she was hesitant or ecstatic about. And that was pretty much it.

Brenda seemed pretty suspicious that the other shoe was going to drop, and perhaps she was right to be.

At 6:45, Brenda and I were sitting on the couch, watching TV. She'd given up on asking exactly what to expect, but I had been feeling the tension and, hopefully, anticipation, growing in her all day. We weren't speaking much, just letting some mindless sitcom entertain us as we both surreptitiously watched the clock.

7:00 rolled around, as it tends to do. I turned to Brenda and met her eyes, which were wide and beautifully uncertain.

"Go into the bedroom," I told her. "There are some clothes laid out for you on the bed. Put them on. When you're done, kneel on the bed with your legs apart and your hands behind your back, and wait for me."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. She nodded, and went.

Really, all that had happened was that I'd asked my wife to change her clothes and wait for me. Such a simple thing. But the context in which this was happening was already having an effect on me. I thought I might break out in a sweat.

I got up and poured myself some whiskey on the rocks.

My wife is, as I've already mentioned, a wonderfully independent woman. Hell, she is both better educated and better paid than I am. I'd spent a lot of time considering potential pitfalls: ways I could scare her off from this thing. I'd come up with a few. She'd mentioned one--"skullfucking," as she'd so charmingly called it. I knew that she had nothing against blowjobs, from experience. I think she had been more rebelling against the concept of serving me, with "nothing in it for her" as she'd put it. If I had to guess, she was more concerned about having to pour me a drink and bring it to me in the study and then clean up after me or anything along those lines.

There was something appealing about the concept of her waiting on me hand and foot in that way. But I wasn't looking for a servant or a sex slave. Some guys are, and that's fine, it's just not me. I wanted something deeper. I couldn't exactly explain what it was, or even describe it to myself. But I was going to try and show both of us.

It had been five minutes. I forced myself to sit down and wait longer, sipping on my whiskey. I wanted my wife to be kneeling in position for a little while. I was aiming for anticipation. Anxiety. Maybe a little impatience, even. I was certainly feeling all of those things, so I guess it was working on someone at least.

When five more minutes had elapsed I shut off the TV, which I had not been following in the least, and headed to the bedroom.

My wife was in a black bra and panties, kneeling on the bed with her legs parted and her hands behind her back just as instructed. Again, such a simple thing, but the sight was like a punch to the gut.

Candles flickered gently, adding a little ambiance to the low lighting I'd set up in the room. Music was playing in the background--the premium subscription to Pandora that I'd bought this week, and started going when I'd laid out her lingerie. I'd bought the bra and panties this week, so they were new, but not anything too fancy, which had probably surprised her. Actually, the bra was one she already had that I'd always thought looked particularly sexy on her, so I'd just gotten it in black. All week she'd been imagining slutty lingerie of all kinds: corsets, garter belts, stripper heels, the whole works. She knows I'm into that kind of thing. And it's true. And maybe we'd get there.

But for now, this simple satiny black bra and panties suited just fine. I wanted this to work so much that I hadn't even chosen a thong, since I know she hates them. Just a well-cut pair of panties that accentuated her gorgeous ass, and a perfectly-fitting bra that hefted her breasts up just a little. And even though she would've looked great in every accoutrement in the book, she looked goddamn amazing like this.

Still holding my whiskey, I walked around her, drinking in the sight. As I'd mentioned before, my wife has been staying in good shape. She has nicely toned arms and abs, and her current positioning afforded me a great view of them. She was naturally flexible and all of her yoga was only helping, so I knew she would be comfortable in this position, and in much more taxing ones as well. Our bed was firm enough to support her in her efforts.

As I came around the front of her, I could feel her eyes on me, but I didn't meet her gaze, just letting it roam over her body. I wondered if it felt like an uncomfortable inspection in her state of undress. I hoped it did.

I frowned when I was directly in front of her. Her knees were apart, it was true, but barely a foot. I tapped one knee with my finger. "I think we can do a better job on these, don't you?"

It was the first thing I'd said to her, and she looked taken aback. Apparently, she didn't know what to say.

"Let me help you," I offered kindly, and pulled her knees further apart. She gasped.

"Better," I said, glancing down. Her toned thighs were no longer providing any sort of barrier, and although her pussy was technically still protected by her panties, it looked much more vulnerable now. There was nothing stopping me from brushing a hand up that thigh and right onto her clit, if I so desired. But I would wait.

"Next time I say to have your legs apart, I expect this," I said. "Do you understand?"

She swallowed and shifted, but otherwise kept her position. "Yes," she said in something not much over a whisper.

At this vantage point, I had a great view of the tops of her breasts. They were the perfect shape and size to me, and I liked that she had some goosebumps at the moment--a sign that she was nervous, hopefully with good nerves that I'd be able to use to my advantage. I continued my circle of inspection, ending slightly out of her view. I settled down in a comfortable chair just slightly behind her, so I was treated to the lovely sight of her profile without her easily being able to see me.

She turned to look at me, her eyebrows raised. I raised mine right back at her and took a sip of whiskey, but said nothing.

"What now?" she asked.

Her tone wasn't particularly disrespectful, but I saw no reason to admit that. "You know, it sounds a little nosy when you ask questions," I told her. "I think if you have more questions, it might help you get an answer if you address me as 'sir.' Just to get on my good side."

Brenda swallowed. I would never have pictured 'sir' voluntarily dropping from her mouth, which is why I was taking the first opportunity I had to suggest it to her.

Rather than ask me the question again, she just looked forward again. I had to smile at her stubbornness.

A few seconds later, I saw her slump slightly and heard a soft sigh from her, as if to express some frustration. I waited until her head turned and her expectant gaze wandered back to my face once more. I narrowed my eyes.

"You know, addressing me with respect does include non-verbal communication," I said, a hint of sternness in my tone.

She looked taken aback once more, then she bit her lip. There was a long moment of silence. Then--"Sorry," she said finally, sounding relatively sincere.

I nodded and celebrated silently. She was really trying. That was not the kind of thing she would ever have apologized for in "real" life.

She faced forward again then, and waited. I watched her for a couple more minutes. She shifted every now and then, and I guessed that she was feeling quite exposed now and wanted to close her legs. But she didn't.

Finally, I got up. I went to my nightstand drawer and withdrew a long, dark piece of fabric. Brenda's eyes widened as I approached her.

"I'm going to blindfold you now," I told her, amazed at how calm my voice sounded even though I could hear the blood pumping in my ears.

Brenda did not look calm. She didn't look frightened, exactly, but she definitely looked like she wasn't exactly sure what she had gotten herself into. She just nodded, quickly, as if ready to get it over with.

"Ask me," I said.

At her look of incomprehension, I clarified. "Ask me to blindfold you, Brenda."

She worried at her lower lip. "Why would I do that?"

"Didn't I suggest something about how to ask your questions?"

She pressed her lips together that time, and I could tell she only barely stopped herself from giving me an evil look. Unwilling to meet my eyes anymore, she looked down. "Why would I do that ... sir?"

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