Tymber Dalton - Domme By Default

"What did you think of Syd's story?"

"It was good."

Why was I going there? "It didn't freak you out?"

His silence was killing me. "Lots of straight guys like anal sex. It's no big deal."

"Yeah?"

How long had he wanted this and been scared to ask it?

"Yeah. If it's something you want, it's okay."

The story wasn't about anal sex, but an Owner and pet.

Master and slave.

I closed my eyes. "What else did you like?" Mentally I chanted to myself, Shut up!

I didn't need to look to see he studied my face.

"I would like to do that." Another long pause. "For you.

With you."

"More than just play?"

He rested his cheek against my flesh. "Yeah. More than just play."

Breathe, I thought. Air in, air out.

"What do you want to do?" I asked, trying to confirm what I'd heard in the least threatening way possible.

"I'd like to be your slave."

Okay, so I did hear him right.

"I won't go around beating you like a dog. I can't do that, I love you."

While this is a fictional story, the portrayal of a 24/7 M/s relationship is accurate. There is a rich and varied diversity to

"the lifestyle" that most people never know about because their information comes from BSDM fetish sites on the internet. Try to define normal, either in a vanilla or kink relationship, and it's truly impossible.

You might be more "normal" than you think...

Author's Foreword

While this story is a standalone work, Tony also appears in

"The Reluctant Dom," available from Lyrical Press.

I found myself standing outside the adult store, remembering a completely polar opposite set of circumstances that brought me here the last time.

Nicely Naughty was actually a better class of adult establishment than you saw in many places. It fulfilled the apparently legislative requirements of being a minimum distance from churches and schools, was painted purple and pink on the outside, used lots of neon, and located slap next door to a tattoo parlor.

I stood beside my car, staring. I didn't want to do this. But I thought of the man waiting for me at home, eagerly anticipating my return, the hope in his eyes and his bare ass in the air...

I closed my eyes, fighting my tears.

I didn't want to do this.

I remembered when he held my hand, strong, comforting—and more than just a wee bit seductively—as we walked in together the last time. During a particularly hot night of pillow talk we'd jokingly decided to buy a vibrator.

Not that I needed one, because he was The Man With the Golden Tongue as far as I was concerned.

We'd walked in, me with my face beet red and trying to meld into his body I pressed so close as the friendly and oddly chipper young salesgirl showed us to the wall of vibrating wonder. We'd left with a fairly plain, tame purple one that only resembled a real life penis in that it was slightly phallic shaped.

I stared at the front windows as I recalled his voice that night. "That vibrator won't buy itself."

And now, here I was. Alone.

I didn't want to do this.

I got back into my car and sat with my forehead resting against the steering wheel. If I returned home empty-handed with a lame excuse, could I face the crushing disappointment in his eyes? He would nod and look away and be a good sport about it. But like always, he would know I was lying. He would spare me from telling the truth.

He would be a good husband for me.

I cried. I didn't want to do this.

And he did.

Little girls dream of white knights and superheroes who keep them safe and sane and secure. They dream of being protected and cherished. Unless they are into a little kink, they don't dream of whips and handcuffs and anal plugs.

Unless it's their guy wielding them.

They certainly don't usually dream of being the one holding them, using them on the man they cherish.

I sat back and wiped my face and thought about the series of IMs I'd exchanged over several days with a friend of mine who I knew was into "the lifestyle" as I tried to come to terms with this.

Get what you want to get him. It's your call. You're in charge.

But I didn't "want" to get one for my husband. He wanted it. He'd finally found a deep inner well of courage to quietly admit this to me.

With wide-eyed terror, I'd done a little online research.

Ironically, I didn't feel I could buy something like this sight unseen for fear of it being too big.

Tony's ever helpful advice?

Get him a small and a medium, tell him to go play with them. Don't forget the lube.

I swallowed hard and looked at the store and thought about my sweet husband's face, the eager anticipation in his eyes when I'd told him I was going shopping ... for him.

The hope.

The love.

I didn't want to do this.

But as I stepped out of the car, I knew that's exactly why I had to.

What can I say about our marriage? It was the second try for both of us. We each had a child with our exes, and while he was over a decade older than me it wasn't an issue.

He was my guardian angel, I was his prom queen.

I felt rescued in many ways after a decade of an emotionally abusive marriage. He felt loved and desired after a decade and a half of a frigid ice queen who blamed him for everything from her PMS to global warming.

When we'd first met on the downside of our divorces, we'd spent hours IMing back and forth some nights as we worked.

And I'll never forget how tickled I was.

I feel like the prom queen likes me! he'd said one night.

No one had ever talked to me like that before, made me feel like that.

Cherished. Loved.

When we finally got together and moved in, the sex was phenomenal as far as I was concerned. I'd had a few decent partners before my ex—who was crappy in that department.

My new husband had a total of three partners—including me—and had never had a blow job before I gave him one.

He'd also never gone down on a woman.

I had a lot of fun teaching him that. He proved to be a natural and eager student.

The kids fledged and we were on our own and I felt everything was great. We never fought. We could disagree and go to bed and kiss each other good night. Perfectly matched temperaments. Mine on the heated side, his a little cooler. A great give and take that worked well for us.

Open and honest, as our individual emotional scars from our previous woundings healed we found an easy middle ground we called our own and enjoyed our time there.

I never felt anything lacking, except that I wished he'd be a little more...

Dominant.

I trusted my husband in a way I never trusted my ex. Or any other man, for that matter. I wanted to give him that control over me. I wanted to submit to him. Now that I knew I could fully trust someone in that way, I craved it. While we'd play on occasion, he never took what was freely offered.

Over the years we opened up somewhat in the bedroom, the dynamic slipping back and forth in play. I resigned myself to the fact that while our marriage wasn't textbook material, it worked for us and I wouldn't trade him for anything. So what if our traditional roles were anything but?

I called my dad one afternoon, my cell phone wedged between my shoulder and cheek, as I studied the wires in the ceiling fan I was changing out.

"Why isn't your husband doing this?" he snarked.

I bit back a less than daughterly reply. "Because he's at work. I'm perfectly capable of doing this, Dad."