The Flip Side

[Author's note: contains power-play themes within a loving interracial marriage, light domination]

Gregory got home late, after a bumpy flight, after a long queue for a cab, after traffic all the way home. He opened the door and dumped the suitcase against the wall, giving himself just a moment before yelling down the hallway.

"I'm home."

At first, there was silence, then a low rumble of feet, getting louder.

"Daddy!"

Gregory knelt down, opening his arms and feeling a little rush of joy for the first time in days as he was mobbed by his seven-year-old daughter and five-year-old son. It lifted his spirits, seeing the happiness in their faces as he wrapped his arms around them, squeezing their little bodies tightly to him as they chattered excitedly in his ears. For a moment, he lost himself in the feeling of reunion with his family.

"Good trip?"

Gregory looked up from the bundle of children, to see Lydia approaching him. She leaned over him, kissing his ear, her hand soft on his neck, her pale skin on his ebony skin, blue eyes looking into dark.

"Could have been worse," Gregory managed, struggling as his son began to wriggle playfully in his grasp as Gregory held him firm.

Lydia's attention shifted to her son, watching the way he squirmed, fighting to escape his father's grip even as her daughter wrapped herself around her father's thick chest, relishing the moment of contact, snuggling her face into his neck, black hair against black.

"It could have been two weeks," Gregory continued, smiling ruefully up at his wife.

Lydia returned his smile, stepping back, standing with her feet together in her high heels. She had been to the stylist, he observed, her blonde bob shaped to frame her delicate features, emphasising her long, elegant neck. She was wearing stiletto heels, giving her petite form a kick of extra height, and Gregory's eyes followed her stockinged legs to the hem of a powder-blue A-line dress, coloured to match her eyes, with a smart blue belt cinched around her narrow waist. Around her neck, Lydia had fastened a little black fabric choker. She looked down at him, a wisp of a smile playing on her ruby-red lips.

"Welcome home, darling," she murmured.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Oh, I think it's nineteen-fifty-something."

She smiled again, then tapped each child gently on the back of the head.

"Kids, come on, let Daddy get up. I'm sure he's tired."

Gregory released his son, who exploded across the floor, free at last. His daughter disengaged reluctantly, slipping her hand into his as he rose. His wife turned, beckoning him over her shoulder, and began to walk back down the hallway, high heels clicking on the polished wood. Gregory couldn't help but notice the seams running up the back of her stockings, watching the movement of her shapely calves beneath the hem of her dress as she led her family into the kitchen.

The smell of dinner lingered, and he realised how hungry he was, after having attempted an unrecognisable meal option on the plane hours ago. The table was set, spread with a tablecloth and napkins, plates and cutlery arranged with exacting precision, water glasses already filled and sparkling in the light from the subdued downlights.

"Could you sit them, please?"

Gregory nodded, hustling his children into their places while his wife busied herself in the kitchen. He'd just about gotten them settled when Lydia brushed past him, close, her dress rustling against his hip, to put down the steaming dish of lasagne in the middle of the table.

"Sit at the head, darling."

Gregory complied, sitting at the end of the table, flanked on each side by his children.

"Pass me your plate, I'll serve."

Gregory passed his plate to his wife, finding his attention wandering to her neck, the way the black choker sat against her pale skin, then down, to the shape of her bosom, lifted and supported by some unknown mechanism beneath her dress into plump, enticing cleavage. He looked back to her face to find with a little jolt that she was watching him. She gave him a little knowing smile.

"Here you go," she murmured, passing his plate back to him, "The head of the house is always served first."

Gregory took his plate and set it down, but he waited until his wife had served her children and then herself. She sat down at the opposite end of the table, her fingers intertwined, her eyes on her husband. Gregory nodded.

"Looks delicious," he announced, "Let's eat."

The children needed no further prompting, and Lydia laughed.

"Did you feed them at all while I was gone?" Gregory asked, amused.

"Occasionally, when I remembered," Lydia replied, "When I wasn't getting my nails done or shopping."

"I see you bought some new clothes."

"In particular?"

As if to reply, Gregory just nodded his head down.

"Ah, you noticed."

"I did."

"Do you like them? I had to order them specially," his wife replied, "Proper seams down the back are a luxury commodity these days. It took me ages to find them."

She took a forkful of lasagne, then grinned at him, saying, "In between the gin and tonics with the girls and keeping the house tidy."

"And the children fed."

"Yes, and your children looked after and nurtured, while you go off for a week on your trip."

Lydia smiled sweetly, her eyes twinkling.

"How was it?" she continued, "Did you get some time off to work on your golf handicap?"

Gregory laughed. She wasn't going to let him off lightly.

"I imagine the networking would have been especially tiring," she pressed.

"Oh, you know, the life of a top exec. Building relationships, cocktails at five, dinner at seven. It was just," Gregory waved a hand in the air, "It was unremitting."

"But you pressed through."

"I did."

Gregory turned his attention towards his children. "How was school?"

The rest of dinner was spent catching up, hearing about sports carnivals and art class. There was a school camp coming up, which was a source of anticipation and excitement. A girl was being mean.

Lydia remained quiet through the conversation, letting Gregory talk, dispensing advice to his daughter on tackling difficult people, telling his son about how his own father had taken him on camp back in Kenya when he was a boy. They'd returned for a holiday and to see Gregory's grandfather's family. Gregory talked about lions, about being in a tent in the game park in the middle of the night, hearing the animals in the distance. The look on his son's face had been priceless.

Afterwards, Lydia began to collect the empty plates, offering ice cream for dessert. Then they ticked through the usual schedule of baths and getting ready for bed, of stories and then kisses goodnight, and finally the warm silence, the two of them alone.

"I'll tidy up," Gregory said.

"No need, I did it already while you were doing stories."

"You didn't have to."

"I'm a dutiful wife, it's my duty."

Gregory laughed. "At least let me make you a drink."

"That would be lovely, darling. Gin and tonic, please."

"Another one?"

Lydia wrinkled her nose in a particularly delightful way.

"God, I wish."

Gregory took her in his arms and kissed her.

"Tough day?"

She nodded.

"Tough week?"

"Uh huh."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Work or home?"

Lydia sighed. "Mix," she confessed, "Kikster has been a nightmare this last week. I've been flat out on this technical review. They've upgraded the AI engine and it's kinda gone to shit. I spent the entire week doing PR releases for investors."

She looked up into his face, smile fading.

"And home," she continued, "It was nice what you said about mean girls and how they just need to grow up, but it's more than that."

"How so?"

"You know. I've had a word with the school."

"Want me to, as well?"

She shrugged in his arms.

"Would it work? You went through the same thing, right? The rest of the kids in her class are all white."

"We're paying enough, they're a good school. I'll have a word."

"Her friend Stef stepped in. She's made some good friends. They're looking out for each other. Apparently, it was over a boy."

"What?" Gregory gasped, "She's seven."

"Eight next month."

"As in, what? That's boyfriend age?"

"I had my first boyfriend at eight."

"What?"

His wife chuckled to herself. "You look terrified."

She nestled against his chest, tilting her head back to press her lips against his throat.

"Don't worry darling, we'll work through it."

She reached up, touching his lips with her fingertips, drawing him down to her. Gently, she kissed him.

"Don't worry," she breathed, "Sir."

Gregory found himself gazing into his wife's beautiful blue eyes.

"I've missed you, Sir," she murmured.

Gregory cupped the back of her head in his large hand, bending down to kiss his wife again. In response, she smoothed her hands across his thick chest, tracing the contours of his body beneath the cotton shirt.

"How're you feeling now?" he asked, "Still Monday?"

His wife grinned playfully. "I've been Thursday, most of the day, thinking about you, but now I'm definitely Friday night."

Gregory felt his wife's fingers entwine with his as she raised his hand to her neck. Delicately, she hooked his index finger beneath the black fabric of her choker, leaning back until it was tight against her throat. She swallowed hard, her eyes searching his.

"Me too," Gregory replied.

He disengaged from his wife's body, turning towards the bedroom, leading her by his finger around her choker. The only sound in the house was the click of her high heels on the wood as she followed obediently behind her husband.

They entered the bedroom, coming to a halt beside the bed. He released his hold on her choker and she stepped back.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yes."

Silently, Lydia stooped, sliding a drawer open to extract an item from within. She held it up for her husband to see.

"Swap?"

Gregory smiled, paying no attention to the thick leather collar, not yet. Instead, he circled behind her, his strong hands around her waist, undoing her belt, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers traced up her spine, settling on the zipper of her dress. Without a word, her began to unzip her, parting the powder-blue cotton to reveal soft, pale skin beneath, and then a line of hooks and eyes, descending from between her shoulder blades all the way down to the small of her back.

"This is new too," he observed.

"You like?"

Gregory stroked the back of her corset, then parted the back of her dress, pulling it from her shoulders and letting it cascade down his wife's perfect body. With her back to him, he took in the sight of his wife in her corset, a little satin g-string nestled in the valley of her buttocks, suspender straps reaching down to clip into her stockings. He grasped her shoulders and turned her around to face him.

"You like," she repeated, "Sir?"

Her smile was gone, but her eyes were locked on his, uncertain yet intense. He took the collar from her hand without commenting, reaching up to the back of her neck, replacing the black fabric choker with thick leather, buckling it tight. When he was done, her hand came up to her throat, fingertips touching the shiny steel ring set there.

"Undress me," Gregory told her.

"Yes, Sir."

She began to unbutton his shirt, each movement delicate and unhurried, her eyes playing over the dark expanse of his revealed chest as she separated the edges of his shirt. He luxuriated in the feeling of her fingertips brushing over his neck, then his shoulders, as she stripped his torso bare, pressing now against his chest, her lips parted enticingly. He didn't interrupt her, letting her unfasten his cuffs and pull his shirt from him, letting it join her dress on the carpet.

"Better?" he asked.

"So much better."

"Forgetting about the week from hell?"

"Just about."

She unbuckled his belt, opening his zipper, pushing his pants and his underwear down. Gregory kicked off his shoes, stepping out of his clothes. He bent down to remove his socks, then straightened up in front of his wife, his muscular, naked body towering over her. Gregory slid his index finger through the hoop of his wife's collar, pulling her towards him, bending down to bring his lips to hers.

She responded, wrapping her arms around him, feeling his muscled bulk. Her hands explored the contours of his back, settling at last just below his waist, resting on the tops of his buttocks.

"Let me take your stress away," Gregory rumbled.

He took her wrist in his fingers, directing her hand over his hip and between his legs. She pressed her palm against the thickening shaft of his manhood, grasping it firmly as it swelled. Gregory gasped.

"Remember what we talked about?" he asked.

Lydia's hand paused, still wrapped around him. She pulled back, looking up at him, dwarfed by his bulk.

"Yes," she whispered, her mouth suddenly dry, "Now?"

"I think so. I think you'd like it, after the week you've had."

"Uh, okay."

"Only if you want to try. Do you?"

Lydia didn't answer immediately, looking up into her husband's face, trying to read his expression.

"Yes," she said, eventually, "I think so."

In answer, Gregory reached to her neck, unbuckling the collar and pressing the soft leather into her free hand.

"You need to let go of me now," he murmured, looking down at her other hand, still wrapped around his substantial erection, "Unless you still want me in control."

Suddenly, Lydia seemed uncertain.

"It's okay," he continued, "I'm always the one in control. I'm okay if you want to try something different."

She didn't move, staring up at him. He sensed her uncertainty.

"This is a limited-time offer, babe. What's it to be?"

Lydia swallowed, licking the dryness of her lips.

"Okay."

She released her grip on him and watched wide-eyed as her husband dropped to his knees in front of her.

"I just hope I'm...."

"You'll be great. You've seen it enough from the other side. You know what to do."

Lydia stood immobile, hovering over her husband's bulk, looking down into dark eyes, the collar held open in her hands. Slowly, he tilted his head back, exposing his throat to his wife. Lydia's hands trembled.

"Monday," she gasped.

Hearing that, Gregory rose to his feet quickly, wrapping her hands in his, his attention fixed on her face.

"Really?" he asked, "What's up?"

In answer, she just shook her head.

"You can tell me. The last time you went straight to Monday was with the strap."

"I know."

"I didn't expect it just from the collar," he rumbled, "And putting it on me not on yourself, even less. What's going through your head?"

Lydia's face screwed up and she moved her mouth, as if trying to work the words out.

"It feels like...," she blurted, but then stopped.

"Like what, babe?"

"Like enslavement."

"It is."

"No, I mean," she stammered, "You know what I mean."

Silently, Gregory took the collar from his wife's hands and fastened it against his own neck. When he was done, he took his wife's hands in his.

"Now, what do you see?"

"You."

"No, what do you see?"

Her brow furrowed, her eyes searching his, struggling.

"A slave," Gregory continued, "You were my slave, now I'm your slave."

"It feels wrong."

"Why?"

Again, Lydia didn't answer. Gregory took her face in his hands and kissed her.

"I know this was always the sticking point, but we're not hostages to history. You're going to put me to use."

He kissed her again.

"And then when you're done with me, you set me free."

Gregory smiled down at the uncertain face of his wife, dark hands cradling white cheeks.

"But only if you want to free me," he added, "It's your decision, Ma'am. You wanted to try, I want you to try. I want to feel the flip side for once."

Gregory dropped to his knees, taking her thighs in his hands, stroking them softly.

"May I, Ma'am?"

Lydia nodded, curtly, and Gregory's hands began to move, tracing up the insides of her thighs, stroking the dark satin of her g-string, pressing gently on the soft folds hidden beneath.

"You waxed, Ma'am. You look absolutely divine."

"Thank you."

"How're you feeling now?"

"Wednesday."

"May I try to get you to at least Thursday night?"

"Yes."

Gregory's hand paused against her crotch, and he looked up at his wife's face.

"Just say it."

Lydia swallowed. "Yes, slave."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

He shifted the fabric to the side, exposing her labia, and began to nuzzle between her folds, exploring her slowly and tenderly with his lips and his tongue. He took his time, tasting her juices, probing gently inside, discovering the hardening nub of her clit nestled within. He pursed his lips around it, sucking gently until he heard his wife groan. Gregory broke contact, smiling up at her.

"How are you now, Ma'am?"

"Friday," she murmured, "Definitely Friday now."

Lydia ran her hand through her husband's close-cropped black hair.

"How about you?" she asked, "It's different, right?"

"Oh," he grinned up at her, flashing white teeth, and leaning back to give her an unencumbered view of his body, at the substantial erection standing proud between his legs, "You don't need to worry about me, Ma'am, I'm absolutely Friday night."

Lydia's gaze snapped up from her husband's manhood to his smiling face. Her back straightened.

"Sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"For breaking character. I...."

"No problem," he interrupted, "I did a lot of that at the start, myself, remember? You're doing great. Just relax into it."

"Okay," she replied, then a little smile ghosted across her lips, "Ready to be put to work, slave?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

She shook her head. "No, sorry, not that, not Ma'am. It's too much like, uh. It's too close. Too much legacy."

"You want to be the mistress of the house instead?"

"I guess. It's more, uh, appropriate, right?"

Gregory laughed, but Lydia flinched.

"Babe, you're tying yourself up in knots," he said, "Let's just leave all the thinking out of it, the role reversal, let's take the skin out of the game. It's just you and me, Lydia. You and me, and doing what we talked about, just dumping the baggage."

"I... I guess."

"I'll use Mistress, or do you want Queen? Maybe Goddess? Lady? Something without the connotations. I just used it because you like to call me Sir, but you can pick."

Lydia hesitated, but then the smile returned.

"Goddess would be a stretch, I think, and I'm not in favour of monarchic hierarchy. I can be your mistress, though."

Gregory grinned. "So, Mistress, what is your first command?"

Lydia shook her shoulders, as if dispelling the tension that had gathered there. She fixed her husband with a stern look and cocked an eyebrow.

"I think I need to see how well you can please me," she intoned.

"Of course, Mistress."

Kneeling between his wife's legs, Gregory gently eased her g-string down, exposing her glistening crotch. He reached up, spreading her apart with his thumbs, exposing her inner lips to his tender ministrations.

"Are you enjoying that?" she asked.

Gregory nodded, applying his lips to the little nub of her clit, making her thighs clench as he made contact.

"I'm enjoying it too."

She cradled his head in her hands, and then began to pull him to her, forcing his face into her crotch.

"I've been waiting for this all week," she murmured, "And I'm in no hurry."

Gregory pulled back, watching her reaction as he broke off contact, feeling her pressing harder against his head to pull him back into place. He resisted, sliding his fingers into her crotch instead, beginning to tease up and down her slit in languid strokes. Gregory felt the pressure on the back of his head ease as his wife understood what he was offering her, relaxing into his care as a fingertip began to circle her entrance, tantalisingly close to slipping inside her. At the same time, he nuzzled against her again, playing across her swollen nub with his tongue tip in the way she always liked. When she groaned, he smiled to himself, pressing his lips against her clit and suckling.