It's been a while since I posted any excerpts here at Beyond Romance. So I thought I'd share with you a bit from "Domestic Goddess", one of the stories in Rough Caress, my collection of BDSM erotica published by Eternal Press.
Although I categorize Rough Caress as erotica, many of the stories have romantic elements, featuring couples with committed D/s relationships. "Domestic Goddess" is one of my favorites, a playful exploration of what might happen when a Dom stopped acting so dominant.
The excerpt is R-rated. The story, however, like all in the collection, deserves at least one X.
She's glad to be his slave. She's just not too crazy about being his housekeeper and maid, at least not these days.
When they first moved in together, he used to make her strip before she vacuumed the carpets or washed the floors. He'd watch her, sitting in the wing-backed chair that they bought together at the garage sale, as she strutted around in her collar and high heels, pushing the mop in front of her.
"Arch your back," he'd order. "Stick out your butt."
She'd struggle to keep her balance as she obeyed, her pussy liquefying as it always did at the sound of his voice. She could feel his eyes on her buttocks like a physical caress. He wouldn't miss the signs, the flush on her face, the taut nipples, the musky scent that wafted through the apartment. When he was paying attention, his powers of observation were astounding. Not to mention his powers of seduction.
She loved housework in those early months. Of course, it wasn't often that she got the chance to finish her household tasks. She would get hotter and more frustrated, while he would be increasingly amused. Finally, he would take pity on her.
"Go get the rug-beater, Elizabeth," he'd order, and she'd scamper off to the closet to find that wicked implement of twisted rattan that she both hated and loved. Or else he'd pat his lap and say, "Get your slutty little ass over here" and she'd be there in flash, draped over his knee, shivering in anticipation, triumphant as she felt his hard-on through his trousers.
Since he lost his job, though, household chores were just that. He spent most of his time slumped on the couch watching TV, or at the computer playing video games. He complained about everything she did, it seemed, but not in the old tone of the beneficent, omnipotent Dom chastising his sub. No, he was just whining.
Meanwhile, his formerly prodigious interest in sex had dwindled almost to non-existence. Maybe once a week, he'd wake her in the middle of the night, fuck her, then fall back into near-comatose sleep. He wasn't cruel or rough—she could have borne that, would have welcomed it. It was like a reflex for him, like sneezing or scratching an itch. He might murmur her name as he came, but the old connection just wasn't there.
And he hadn't beaten her or tried out any kinky new ideas, in more than a month. She wanted to cry with frustration.
She tried everything she could think of, to cheer him up, to get his attention. She ordered outrageous costumes from Frederick's and wore them as she worked around the apartment. He barely looked up from the monsters he was blasting on the screen.
She left various paraphernalia lying around suggestively, draping the flogger over the seat of his chair, leaning the crop against his computer monitor, carefully arranging her custom-made leather cuffs and butt plug on his pillow. He simply pushed the toys out of the way with a weary sigh.
She tried directly disobeying his orders. The trouble was, lately he hardly gave her any orders. He walked around like a zombie. The zombie Dom.
More than once, she considered removing her collar. Would he notice that? Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to that point. The collar defined her, defined their intense and magical relationship. She didn't want to repudiate that relationship, not at all. She wanted it back.