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Bracing myself above my little one, I cup the back of her head and claim her mouth in a kiss that demands her tongue’s submission. Her openness and eagerness to offer up her mouth to me is all the evidence I need to know she’s satisfied.
The collar around Grace’s neck. These nights immersed in pain and pleasure. The freedom to slip into subspace without having to worry about suddenly being called upon. This is how she reminds herself of who she is, in addition to being a dancer and a mom.
I eye the dried rivulets of wax on her body, the splashes of color glossed with the mark of my ownership.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now, little one.”
She sighs contentedly. “Thank you, Sir.”
I stroke the side of her face. Our life together changed irrevocably when we became parents, but that doesn’t mean we have to change who and what we are to each other. We can pledge to carve out moments for setting aside the titles we’ve been given—daddy, mommy, boss, dancer—in favor of the titles we chose for ourselves a long time ago.
Later, in the dark, in our own bed, I pin Grace’s hands above her head and bury my cock inside her. I’m not surprised when she comes again, so soon after the last orgasm my tongue demanded from her clit.
“You’re mine, little one,” I rasp, punctuating each statement with a thrust. “And you’ll always be mine. Say it.”
She gasps as I drive deeper, her muscles flexing around me and her slickness rousing me to fuck her faster.
“I’ll always be your little one, Aidan,” she says. “Forever.”
I kiss her sweet lips, still swollen from sucking my cock like a good girl. After four years of marriage and nearly nine years together in all, I still want my Grace as badly as I wanted her the night she knelt at my feet at a play party she wasn’t invited to.
To me, she’s still that wide-eyed tenacious girl with the sunshine smile and a proposal I couldn’t say no to. I will never desire or love anyone more than I desire and love that girl. My wife. My ward. My little one.
