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I don’t want any of that for Sienna tonight.
I want her to be all-in. I want her to be cognizant of everything happening between us. I want her to remember every detail, whether it’s just for her to look back on and have a fond recollection of the experience or if she wants to use any of it in one of her books. It’s what gave me extra motivation to make sure everything about this first meeting was as perfect as I possibly could.
So in order to “snap her out of it,” as people like to call it when you bring someone out of a “daydream,” I say in a sharper tone, “Little one,” and when she blinks a couple of times, then lifts her eyes from my chest, I pat the top of my right thigh twice with the fingers of my right hand as I finish repeating the order. “Come here.”
Here is where a submissive’s role is truly tested.
In my experience, her response could go one of four ways.
Total indignation at being called over like a pet, which would—one—send her either into haughty-but-playful brat mode, or—two—into a rage, telling me to straight-up go fuck myself as she realizes she’s not a sub after all.
Three, her flight instinct could finally win out and send her running.
Or, four—
And of course this is how the sweet little sub I’m so lucky to have found me reacts—
Her palms immediately drop to the floor between her slightly spread knees, her ass lifts off her heels, and she gingerly crawls toward me between my legs.
Chapter Eight
SIENNA
Sweet Jesus in a handbasket.
Again, what the fuck have I gotten myself into?
But even as that thought repeats over and over in my mind, my body’s response is all the same. I want him with every fiber of my being. Plus, seeing how massive he is, when he’s not even fully erect…? Yes, anxiety fills me, but also excited anticipation.
What would it feel like to have all of that inside me? And along the edges of all those thoughts, there’s a voice doing cartwheels and merrily sing-songing, Holy shit, I just now realized we never saw a photo of his dick! What a thrilling surprise! Of course this man has a monster cock. He’s got Big. Dick. Energyyy!
How have we been talking for this long and him not send me an unsolicited dick pic like every other man on the face of the planet?
There has never been a male in my past who either hadn’t already put a photo of his cock up on his dating profile or who hadn’t just gone ahead and sent one to me at some point before we had sex for the first time.
Even my ex-husband, Art, had gotten drunk at his fraternity’s party and sent me a dick pic—albeit a blurry one taken in his inebriated state—a couple of dates into our relationship, before we had gone all the way. So I always, always knew what to expect, what I was getting into, before I was ever faced with a penis in person.
But it’s not until my eyes land on Mjölnir—that’s Thor’s goddamn hammer, for all the non-nerds out there—that it dawns on me I hadn’t seen this man’s. It hangs so long and thick the crown of it damn near touches the leather he sits on, which is quite a feat, since he’s not leaning forward. He’s relaxed back against his fancy seat.
“Little one” comes his voice, bringing my eyes back to focus on the deliciously wide expanse of his chest. Though I hear him add, “Come here,” it’s the movement of his hand, patting his thigh, that catches my attention and has the instant effect of setting me in motion.
I don’t even think. My body just does as it’s told. And while I’m sure it would’ve been annoying to some women, would cause them to scoff and fight against the idea of some man treating them as if they’re a dog, it’s only a sense of calm, of relief, that settles over me. The voices have shut up their incessant chatter, and inside my mind, it’s blissfully quiet for the first time in as long as I can remember.
Only my mantra floats around like white noise, whispering encouragingly, Just do as he says and everything will be okay. He’ll keep you safe. You’ll receive the reward you earned, and you’ll make him happy by allowing him to give it to you. Win-win. The perfect exchange. No need to think. No need for thoughts on top of thoughts on top of thoughts. Just do.
As I’ve crawled, he lifted one of his knees to give me more room, and when I’m as close to his body as I can get between his legs without actually getting up and straddling his lap, I stop, because I don’t know what I should do. But I don’t have time to worry about that—to try to think up all the options and then choose one, which could be the wrong one and not what he wants—because his next instruction comes right on the tail of praise that makes me want to continue doing whatever he orders.
