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I bend over her back, pushing the air out of her lungs with my weight. “What have I told you about speaking badly about my wife’s body?”
She nods. “I’m sorry. I just meant I’m weak. I promise, Master.” Her breathy voice and the rush of words make me groan, and if I didn’t hear the pitter-patter of little feet heading in our direction, I would’ve dropped Twyla’s shorts to feel if she was as wet as my pre-cum has made me. Instead, I quickly shift my hand from her neck to her shoulder and help her stand up, wrapping both my arms around my woman tightly in a hug and kissing her cheek as she settles against my front once again.
We learned long ago that physical closeness after submitting is a necessity for my wife. Otherwise, she experiences debilitating sub-drop, which she can’t control. The few times I had to rush to work right after an enthusiastic quicky, she wasn’t able to get out of bed. At first, I joked that I wore her out so good she couldn’t move after I left. But when she elaborated that it almost felt like a depressive episode, like she was suddenly overcome with sadness and loneliness and felt like she just didn’t have the drive to get up—not referring to physical strength—I knew right away what she was experiencing.
Even though I was never one to have to worry about aftercare with my previous submissives, I understood and recognized sub-drop from my years of devouring every morsel of information pertaining to this lifestyle. It’s why, before Twyla, I always discussed with the sub before playing that, if they wanted, another Dominant could come in right after a scene, so they could receive proper aftercare, just not from me.
But this is my wife. Mine. And with this little bit of aftercare—that I have no problem giving my amazing woman, since I’ll use any excuse just to touch her—it assures her I’m not mad at her, that my aggression came from my lust for her, and that she did a good job allowing me to dominate her. She gets all of that, not a single word spoken, just from a tight and prolonged hug, which is easily done right in front of our little girl as she walks in asking about a snack.
“You can have some goldfish crackers, baby, but not a lot. Dinner will be ready fast,” Twyla tells her, her voice a little shaky but clear. When Luna skips over to the pantry to grab one of the individual packs of Flavor Blasted Goldfish, I feel my wife give me all her weight, allowing herself to fully relax, knowing I’ve got her. Luna brings the red bag over to us, and Twyla opens the perforated packaging easily before handing it back to our girl. Then she hurries off to her room once again, completely clueless of what’s really going on, merely thinking Daddy is just giving Mama love like he always does.
After a moment of soaking each other in, Twyla puts her weight back on her feet and taps my forearm, telling me she’s all good. I loosen my hold enough so she can spin to face me, and I link my fingers behind her back, not ready to let her go quite yet.
“Did Doc tell you where I was going today?” she asks, reaching up to push her glasses up her nose.
“He said you were going with Astrid to try out Crystal’s pole-dancing workout. I assume she’s the one who gave you the education on the Las Vegas showgirl scene?” I prompt, being elusive about everything I know that pertains to her assignment today. The last thing I want to do is embarrass Twyla or make her feel anything negative about getting help for something she felt more comfortable seeking from a professional. While I wish she’d open up to me about what she’s feeling, I know that will come in time, when she’s ready. I’m just thankful I have the heads-up I do, so I can be conscious of not making matters worse and by subtly helping in any way I can, as her husband and as her Dom.
“Yes! That woman has led a fascinating life. First, she was a ballet dancer with training in gymnastics. And when she turned eighteen, she moved to Vegas with dreams of being a showgirl. More specifically, a dancer in a burlesque show. She grew up obsessed with The Girls Next Door, which I guess is an old show about three women who were Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends, and?—”
“Wait, you know who Hugh Hefner was?” I ask, impressed, since she really only knows pop culture icons from the things I’ve shown her.
She gives me a deadpan look. “I am from California. We lived only like… an hour from the Playboy Mansion. He was unavoidable.”
I tilt my head and concede, “That’s fair.”
“Anyway, Crystal doesn’t seem to have ever had any self-consciousness issues. She gives exhibitionist vibes for sure, and I admire that. Anyway, she learned the ins and outs, was immediately hired at one of the clubs right on the Vegas Strip, and after four years of making tons of money there, a talent scout approached her to be in a vampire-themed burlesque show that was a permanent fixture at The Stratosphere for years,” she gushes, and I love that she’s so impressed with her new friend.
“Now, the question is… did she jump at the opportunity because of her blood fetish, or did she take the job and gain the blood fetish from working for the show?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.
She gasps and swats my arm before spinning around to get started on seasoning the chicken. “That’s another thing I learned today, you butthole. I had no idea, when we were hanging out with them yesterday, that I had already met them at Club Alias! I felt so silly when she let me in on that little tidbit.”
I drag my hand along her ass as I walk back over to the canned vegetables I was opening before getting distracted by my ever-present obsession with my wife. “Sorry, doll. I didn’t want to make you feel awkward just throwing it out there that they were members and now knew who we were out in the wild. I wanted you to get to know her, since I had a feeling you’d really like her, without having to worry about what she might’ve seen us doing in whatever precarious position I’ve had you in on different occasions.”
It was a rare occasion I did a public scene with my doll, and nothing over the top or that would expose too much of her body, but the scenes we have done on display were some of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.
She smiles, looking at me with relief in her eyes. “It’s times like this I don’t understand why there are women who absolutely refuse to see the benefits of allowing a man to make decisions on their behalf.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, dumping the peas into a small pot and turning the stove on.
She nods. “Yes. I mean, sure. You can’t let just anyone do that. It has to be within a very loving, trusting relationship. Not one that’s controlling in an abusive, toxic way. But like, I just freaking love that I don’t have to worry about making every single decision in my life, no matter how small or if it’s hard. I love that you know me so well that you can take a lot off my plate. It leaves room in my brain to worry about more important things, or to fill that space with much happier things in life. Even just your quick text telling me you’d like me to grab a pack of chicken, two cans of peas, and a Midnight Milky Way on the way home was a huge relief. I didn’t even have to figure out what to cook for dinner. Bliss.”
If she didn’t already make me feel like the king of the world, this little speech would’ve handed me that title.
Especially when she continues, “You were a hundred percent right. I would’ve been in my head the whole time we were at the coffee shop, trying to remember every detail of the scenes we’ve put on publicly at the club—things Crystal and Antonio could’ve seen me doing, or you did to me. Instead, I got to relax and enjoy the conversation we had with them. So, thank you. You truly are the best partner I could ever do life with, my love.”
Her words end in a delighted squeal as I lift her off the ground and spin her around.
“In the words of Frigga, ‘The measure of a person, of a hero, is how well they succeed at being who they are.’ And you, my little doll, are well on your way to doing just that.”
She beams at me, lowering her head to kiss my lips. “Well, it’s because ‘At some point, we all have to choose… between what the world wants you to be, and who you are.’”
I groan, moving my arms to where I’m holding her up with handfuls of her luscious ass, hike her up a little higher, and bury my face between her tits, where I growl, “Oh gods—now she’s talking nerdy to me? How can I resist her when she quotes Natasha Romanoff?”
CHAPTER 6
Twyla
The next day, I finally do what I’ve been avoiding since my mortifying misunderstanding two days before. I arrive at Toys for Twats an hour before opening, so I can have some alone time to study the intimacy companion in peace, without having to worry about employees, friends, or family members making me feel awkward.
