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“We’ll have to do this again,” Jan said earnestly.
Becky nodded. “We must. Maybe more.”
“More?” Jan teased. “How much more would you want to do?”
“It depends what the syzygy is like.”
Jan looked momentarily puzzled.
Beside her Rob was frowning and Becky knew he would have a perplexing journey home trying to figure out whether she’d said the safeword because she didn’t want to repeat the experience of the soft swap, or simply because she’d found an opportunity to use the word.
And, she supposed, by the time he asked her, she might have worked out how she felt about the experience and whether or not she wanted it to happen again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MIND YOUR MA’AMS —
FEMME DOMME
Disguise our bondage as we will,
’Tis woman, woman, rules us still.
—THOMAS MOORE
For a moment, I thought I didn’t have any femme domme clips of my own to share. I told myself, You don’t really write femme domme, now do you, silly girl? And then I thought, Oh, excuse me. What did you just say, little voice? Because my New Stories folder—yes, that’s the ever-so-clever title on the lip—is filled to the rim with f/d stories!
Why?
Well, I have this funny internal glitch. Occasionally, I will meet a man and think, Dom. You are a total Dom, Sir. And other times, I will meet a man and think, What you really need is to have some woman, some ice-cold woman, take charge of you. In either case, I go write a story. Like “Plucked,” which features a man named Sandy who meets his match:
He chuckles, nervously. When was Sandy last nervous in front of a girl? Sometime circa the ’90s, I’d have to guess. “I’m here,” he says, “for good.”
“That’s my only option? For good?”
I feel as if Sandy and I are in some way connected. Our hearts beat faster at her dark, slow words. My mental pleas of Run, Sandy, run, have changed in a quarter note to Be bad for her, Sandy. Go home with her and be bad.
He looks at me, and I see that although his face is composed, his eyes are begging. I pour him a shot and refill her glass, buying him time. I’ve never been nice to Sandy before, but the look he gives me is pure gratitude, worth more than any crumpled-up buck tip he might leave on the bar.
In “Broken,” my main character finds something he didn’t even know was missing:
She had cuffs in her hand, as if magically, and she dangled them in front of his face. “You want me to tie you to the bed?” he asked. He’d never played like that before.
“No,” she said. “I want to tie you down.”
His cock responded as if she’d spoken directly to it instead of to him. What was going on? He’d never even thought to do things kinky before. Most of the girls he dated were so young that simply the act of fucking was exciting to them.
“Are you game?” She put one hand on his dick. He was rock hard. “You seem game.”
“I was going out,” he said, to give himself a second to think.
She nodded. “I know. You were going out. Take off your shirt.”
He could stop this charade at any second. He could tell her she was over the top, rebounding, using him to get her aggressions out. But he took off his shirt anyway.
Some people might start out with their fantasies online, like the character in “Flash,” from Bondage on a Budget:
In the online room, she was a dominant. She held court and the people around her scurried to obey. I did, as well. I’m not proud. But I was able to capture her interest with my remarks, and ultimately she invited me to join her in a private room. Once alone, we continued our fantasy play. She had a camera. She tied me up and took pictures, spread my legs and observed my cunt under a magnifying glass. I liked it, enjoyed being exposed. It was safe for me since all of it was a farce.
