Who's on Top? A Twisted Romance Ch. 02

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.

Suddenly I pulled the plug from her butt and tossed it aside. Then I slathered more lube over her ass and onto my hard cock. I placed the tip at her beautiful, puckered hole and began to push. I knew the importance of going slowly. I'd barely gotten half an inch when I heard it.

"Pineapple."

Ouch. Since "no" means "no" (or in this case, "pineapple" did), I told her to stay there while I went to get paper towels to wipe up the lube. She sensed I felt a tad deflated and pushed me back against an armless chair. I sat down with my cock straight as a flagpole. She mounted and rode me like a jockey gunning to win the Kentucky Derby. She surprised me by sticking the vibrator between us, holding the head against her clit on one side and my cock on the other. It only took maybe two minutes for us both to bellow our orgasms. If they weren't perfectly simultaneous, they were close enough for jazz (and I love jazz). I pumped what felt like a gallon of cum into her quivering belly.

She kissed me and stood up. "May I shower...sir?" she said.

I nodded permission and watched her perfect ass wiggle off dripping streams of cum as she made for our bedroom and its en suite bath.

The morning hadn't turned out as planned, but in our game, even a miss was a win.

A few weeks later, we took a Sunday afternoon walk in a nearby park. When we got back into the apartment and deposited our sneakers and socks on the rack by the door. I took that moment to inform her in my best Dom tone we'd be going away for a weekend. She loves to book getaway spots and is good at choosing, so she took my announcement as an order to find us a place. I said I'd already reserved one. And I'd pack for her. I got a whiff of nerves off her body language, but she'd become so good at her role she simply looked down and said, "Yes, sir."

When I told her the dates her eyes got wide. "Sir, I have a work thing that weekend. The CEO set it up. It's a big deal. I'll show you such a good time the next weekend."

I stared at her for a long time. This woman who never blinked while of driving outrageous terms for multi-million-dollar international business deals visibly quaked while I held her doe-eyed gaze. "We're going the days I said. Tell your boss you have to change the 'thing.'" I said it with disdain. She looked down, then back at me. "Unless," I said sharply, "you'd like me to slice you up some...pineapple."

She turned away from me and let out an exasperated, guttural, "Fuck." She waited a few beats and then added, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"I'm sorry, honey, I didn't quite hear. Are you swearing?"

"No," she said so quietly I could barely hear her.

"Because you know that requires discipline."

She wiped her hands over her face, then dropped them to her waist. She faced away, but I could tell from the movement of her elbows she was unbuttoning the fly of her jeans. When she'd finished, she slid the denim down to her ankles, then hooked her thumbs under the elastic of her panties, pushed them down to join the jeans, and slid both over her bare feet. Then she stood, still not facing me.

"I'll tell my boss. We'll change the 'thing.' Thank you for making plans for us."

"That's a good girl," I said, surprised as hell.

"And you're right. I said bad words. Worse, I lied about it. I'm ashamed. I'll feel much better when you give me what I deserve." Then she padded to the nearest chair and bent over the back, her perfect ass poised in the air awaiting the paddle. I gave her a hard spanking, my horniness growing along with my curiosity about who was really in charge here.

The night before we left, I made dinner and left the kitchen an unholy mess. Spaghetti sauce caked on the stove, flour on the counters, and a variety of slippery types of glop all over the floor. As we got into bed, I informed her that I expected to find it spotless when I got up. Then I put on my sleep mask and laid back.

When I got out of bed in the morning, she was sitting in a spotless kitchen in a sharp office outfit she'd chosen for herself, since she'd dressed before I woke. Breakfast waited on the table, and the pans used to make it had been cleaned and put away. God knows what bleak hour she had to have gotten up to do everything, but she was all smiles.

I told her she'd done a great job. She said, "Thank you, sir," and kissed me. I looked her outfit up and down before she left. Tight pencil skirt. Dark vest. High heels. Hair pulled back. Make-up tasteful but subtlety severe. She looked like a Dom.

I said I'd see her later. I'd set up my day to work from home. Getting out of the shower around one in the afternoon, I texted her, "Come home now. Time for our trip." Half an hour later, I was calm on the surface but freaking out a little inside. Then my phone pinged. "Yes, sir."

When she got home, I told her to change clothes immediately. I'd laid out the ripped jeans, Birkenstocks, and metal band t-shirt. I gave her an appraising glance when she'd finished putting them on and said her hair had to be more punk. She disappeared into the bathroom for a couple of minutes. When she came out, she'd let it down and messed it up. I couldn't explain how she'd added a streak of neon blue. Punk AF, as I'd asked for. But where had she gotten the color? I shrugged it off. What man knows the things women keep in their bathroom cabinets? And it worked. She'd come home a few minutes before looking like a boss and now she could easily have been some drunk-ass chick leaving a club at two in the morning.

I'd already fetched the car from the parking garage and lucked into a space right in front of our building. The small bag I'd packed for both of us waited in the back seat. No question which of us would drive. I was the only one who knew our destination.

But if I thought I knew what would happen once we got there, I had a lot to learn.