Sunday Snog: Domestic Goddess

My snog today is from my D/s short story "Domestic Goddess", which has been published in various collections including Rough Caress. 

Elizabeth's a natural submissive, devoted to her Master. However, when he loses his job, he also seems to lose all interest in dominating her. Finally she decides that her only option is to turn the tables on him.

Don't forget to visit Victoria Blisse, read her delicious excerpt, and then follow the links to all of today's other sexy snogs.

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Gently, she reached for his arm, which was resting on his thigh. He didn't resist. In one swift motion, she fastened one cuff to his wrist.

"What the hell...?" he sputtered, finally startled out of his gloomy reverie. He didn't react quickly enough, though, to prevent her from capturing his other wrist in the leather bonds, so that his arms were linked behind the back of the chair.

"Elizabeth, what are you doing?" His voice sounded irritated, but when she looked at his face, she saw uncertainty, fear, and definitely, the beginnings of arousal.

She swiveled his chair around to face her, lifted his chin with one finger and tried to stare him down. "You know exactly what I'm doing. I'm taking control, since you seem to have given up in that regard."

"Elizabeth..."

Before she even knew that she was going to do it, she slapped his face.

"Silence, slave. No complaints. No excuses. You need this, I know you do." A splotch of red bloomed in the shape of her palm.

He shut his mouth, but his eyes moved over her, finally registering her costume, and her exposed cunt below it. He licked his lips. She noticed a stirring in his crotch.

"I didn't say you could look at me, did I?"

He shook his head, obeying her command not to speak.

"Eyes down." He complied. She felt euphoria rising in her chest, bubbling through her veins. She could do this. In fact it felt easy, almost natural.

"And for the rest of the afternoon, at least, you will address me as 'Mistress'? Understood?"

Head bowed, he nodded.

"Let me hear you say it."

"Yes, Mistress." His voice was gruff, as if he had a difficult time forcing the words out. But the bulge in his trousers continued to grow.

"Now," she said, "it's about time you did something useful. All this silly computer stuff." Rolling his chair away from the desk, she pushed his monitor and keyboard back toward the wall and moved aside the piles of CDs and papers jumbled about on either side. Then she hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the surface, and spread her legs.

"Turn around," she ordered.

He used his feet to roll the chair back to face her. His eyes widened at the site of her ruddy pussy, drooling only inches away from him. Then he remembered, and lowered his gaze, before she could remind him.

Good. He was more pliant that she had expected.

She watched him for a moment, full of love and some other feeling, something with a nasty edge. His erection looked distinctly uncomfortable, trapped in his trousers. All the better.

She saw his nostrils flare as he took in her scent, noticed the pulse in his temple, beating fast. His breathing was quick and shallow. Clearly he was was beginning to wake up, to enjoy playing this game.

She felt suddenly giddy, drunk with her own powers. But she couldn't allow him to see this; she must still play the role of the harsh, angry mistress.

Splaying her thighs even wider, she put one booted foot on each arm of his chair. Her hungry, swollen cunt gaped at him. "Eat me," she commanded.

Eagerly anticipating her instructions, he began to lean towards her even before she finished speaking. She stopped him with the spike of her heel, pressing it against his still-inflamed cheek.

"And if you don't do a good job," she murmured, putting a little sugar in her voice to counteract the violent gesture, "you know that I'll make you very sorry."

"Yes, Mistress," he mumbled, his mouth already full of her flesh.

He applied himself to his task with commendable diligence. His tongue slithered snake-like among her folds, swimming in her juices. He sucked and licked, nibbled at her clit, plunged his nose as deep into her cleft as it would go.

With her arms behind to brace herself, she pressed her pelvis forward, forcing his face into her cunt, as if to smother him. Or perhaps drown him would be more appropriate. Between his saliva and her own secretions, there was quite a puddle growing on his desk.

He certainly didn't seem to mind.

With his arms fastened behind the chair, he was in a bit of an awkward position. He had to bend forward from the waist and lean over at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. She felt a brief pang of sympathy; she hated for him to suffer. But this was what he needed, what he wanted. Wasn't it? She hiked herself up further on the desk, away from him, so that he had to work even harder to keep his mouth on her sex.

"More," she said. "Harder."

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Want more? You can read the whole story on my website!

An Excerpt from "Domestic Goddess"

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.