Once we had returned from Paradise, she told me, “Andy—my Lady…” I grinned like a piranha as she spoke my newest title between heaving breaths. “I didn’t think it was possible… for you to top our first time penetrating… Holy shit, though, you are good.” She closed her eyes and sank into the bed. “Did you cum, too?”
“Kind of? It’s not quite the same as cumming… but continuing to ride you even as you grab my ass and thrust into me and freeze, feeling you twitch inside me, hearing you moan and grunt, watching your eyes roll back, knowing that my pussy is so damn good that your involuntary biological reflexes have taken over your mind and body and you just can’t stop yourself, and on top of that knowing there’s a chance we’ll make a child… is just as satisfying as any orgasm. But not satisfying in a physical way, it’s more emotional… and intellectual.”
“Wow. That is quite hot.” She sighed. “I wish we had something to smoke right now.”
“Nightstand, top drawer.”
She retrieved one of my emergency joints from the Altoids tin (with a label warning, ‘I do not consent to any warrantless search of this container’) in the drawer next to my vibrator and gave it a hearty sniff as she dragged it across her nostrils. “Hindu Kush! Perfect for winding down.” She lit it with all the finesse one should expect of a cannabis dealer.
“I smoke one of those whenever I’m having trouble sleeping.”
“A cop who smokes weed. You’re a bad cop. A bad cop who knows how to fuck like a pro. You should give porn a shot. Some people get off on blue uniforms and badges.”
“I may very well try it out, minus the uniform. I don’t know how I got to be this good, but I’m at least aware that I am.”
She giggled a cloud of smoke and offered me the joint. “You are so full of yourself.”
I defended my honor by twisting both her nipples…
“Ow!” She donned a hurt frown. “Why did you do that?”
…and plucked the joint from her fingers. “You just disrespected your Lady.”
“Oh, right.” She sighed and put on a regretful façade. “9,999 apologies, my Lady…”
It was then I realized being dominant could be a real challenge. I fought to contain laughter at her plastic sorrow and changed the subject to avoid breaking Dom/sub kayfabe, but an amused snort managed to escape scarcely a word into my question. “What—(snick)—color would you like your collar to be?” I took a draw off the joint and focused on my lungs, distracting myself from the urge to laugh.
“You’re letting me decide, my Lady?”
I handed back the joint and watched her draw a lungful as I released mine. “Of course not. I just value your input. If it’s a color I like, we’ll go with it. If not, I’m picking something else.”
She chuckled smoke. “Of course. Black leather and, if you don’t mind, spikes.”
“Sure. I’ll search for collars on Nile Traders once we’ve fucked a couple dozen more times.”
She passed it to me and I toked. “I’d… um… like it sooner rather than later, so, if you don’t mind me suggesting, we can buy a spiked choker locally and slip a D-ring on it for attaching the leash.” I passed the joint back.
“Where are you suggesting that we find a spiked leather choker… locally? Perhaps… at the mall?”
She knew where I was going with that question. “I’d have to think about that…” She sucked on the joint amid the silence that discomforted her more the longer it went on.
As my smirk grew into a grin, the concern on her face bloomed, and once I figured I had her about as worried as she would get, I whispered into her ear, “(Hot Topic?)”
Anguish descended on her as her fear came true. “Christ, no, I would never forgive myself. It’s bad enough I’m okay with buying something that isn’t used, if I bought anything from that place I’d have to excommunicate myself from all the underground subcultures in which I’ve entrenched myself.”
I plucked the joint from her hand and suggested, “How about… an actual pet store?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” I took a long drag.
“That’s, like, for animals, though.”
I held the smoke in for a while to give her words time to leave their impression and to give my forthcoming response greater weight; when finally I spoke, my words came out as eerie wafts of smoke. “Judy… you are an animal.”
I returned the joint. “Um… (Yes)—but—wearing a pet collar meant for actual animals would be humiliating.”
“Isn’t that the point of pet play?”
She groaned. “You’re right…”
“You want it.”
“Yeah. True.” She sighed. “I want it. Pretty badly, actually. A real pet store really is the way to go if we’re gonna take this game seriously.”
“Tomorrow, after work.”
“I’m afraid you’re gonna make me regret letting you own me.”
I winked. “Not knowing whether I’ll make you regret this is half the fun.”
She groaned again. “Does pet play include euthanizing pets who are in terminal agony?”
“We can roleplay that, if it’s your kink.”
“Um. I was (joking,) but… oh—kay. Maybe.” She toked and passed.
“‘Maybe’? Is my pet implying she hasn’t decided whether to give me, her owner, permission?”
As I said this, she realized she had committed a faux pas. “No. Of—course not, my Lady. If you want to pretend-euthanize me, I’ll be a good girl and pretend-die.”
I broke out into laughter. “I’m messing with you! I want you to be happy. If you aren’t comfortable with something I’m doing, tell me.”
She exhaled relief as I inhaled some smoke… “Thank you. I do appreciate the reassurance that I didn’t give myself to someone who’s been hiding a tyrannical streak.”
…and spoke my smoke. “But isn’t tyranny sexy?”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then admitted, “Yes… in moderation.”
I nodded. “Tyranny in moderation is what I shall strive to give you, then.”
She prayed to the ceiling, “Dear Lord, please euthanize me if my Lady goes too far.”
I passed the joint and mussed her hair. “In case I go too far… we do have a safe word, Pet.”
“I guess, though there’s a possibility I might… ‘forget’.”
“Please use it if it’s called for.”
“Alright, (fine,)” she said reluctantly.
I slid off her cock (her cum rained down upon her belly) and laid next to her so that we were face-to-face and wrapped my arms around her neck. “Don’t you mean ‘as you wish’?”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Yes, I will do precisely as you wish. Because, as you have pointed out before, I am devoted to you.” She finished off the joint, then smokily sang: “But baby can’t you see—there’s nothing else for me to do; I’m hopelessly devoted… to you…”
“You’re quite a singer. What’s that song?”
“‘Hopelessly Devoted to You’, from the 1978 musical Grease. If you want a glimpse into my childhood, or if you’re interested in movie musicals, even in the slightest, you should give it a watch. Olivia Newton-John has pipes. For all his singing and dancing talent, though, John Travolta’s a Scientologist, so try not to fall for his charm.”
“We can watch it together, and you can cover my eyes and ears to shield me from the cultist’s siren song and dance. How about Saturday?” Then I remembered something. “No, wait—the Pride parade is on Saturday, and I wanted Diane to walk me on the leash. We can watch musicals on Friday nights.”
She made her own (very effective) attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “You mean… you don’t want to walk me at Pride?”
She was clearly kidding with me, but with those glistening amber orbs she had ripped the viscera out of my abdomen and stomped it to a pulp. I opened my mouth, then lost confidence in my reply, growled in frustration, then settled on whispering, “(Fuck.)”
She patted me on the shoulder. “I could go either way, you can always walk me next year—since this is your first time, it might be better to go as a pet, and, most importantly, she asked before I did.”
“I asked her. Begged her. She didn’t wanna do it cuz it’d be a bad idea for us to appear in public as a couple, but I told her I could wear a mask and a wig—and she said she’d get them for me.”
“Being the asker is all the more reason to go with her. You were insistent, she opened up her mind to give your request consideration; she’s setting aside time to be with you; and she’s going through the effort of procuring a disguise for you. So it would be better not to renege after she’s done so much to satisfy your wants when they conflict with her needs—and with yours. She’s doing something special for you, and you should communicate your appreciation by showing up with a smile and thanking her enthusiastically at least once before it starts, again somewhere in the middle, and one last time after it’s over.”
“You’re a very thoughtful woman, but you and I are close enough to talk about marriage, she and I aren’t. We’re soulmates. I’m closer to you than I am to her.”
“Parades aren’t my thing. Go with her.”
I nodded wistfully. “As you wish.” I kissed her, then reached down and fondled her balls. “Do these have any more in them?”
“For you… they’ll always have more.”
“Alright, let’s see if we can give you a numerical advantage over my dear Pink Kitty Boy and—the other guy I fucked earlier.” I got back on top of her and resumed riding her. “I don’t know what I should call you as my pet.”
“Do I really need a pet name?”
“It’s part of our agreement. Haven’t you given it a thought?”
“Shit, I dunno. I’ve never had a pet to name, I have no idea where to start.”
“I didn’t have any, either.” I played with her hair. “You’re into ’70s music.”
“And ’20s, ’30s, ’40s, ’50s, ’60s, ’80s, ’90s, aughts, teens, and the current ’20s, among other decades and centuries.” I didn’t think her sarcasm was really necessary, but I got the gist: I knew much less about my soulmate—in particular her taste in music—than I wanted to admit.
“Okay. Um. I shall dub thee… ‘Blondie’.”
She considered it briefly. “I like it. Thank you.”
I patted her on the head and winked. “It doesn’t matter whether you like it.” She shook her head but kept her smile. My belly gurgled pathetically, interrupting my cock riding, and I realized I was absolutely famished.
“Oh, my,” said Judy. “That one sounded despondent. Your stomach is begging for nutrition.”
“The only thing I’ve eaten since… this morning… was a couple loads of cum.”
“Okay, that’s sexy in a dirty way, but it doesn’t quite meet the qualifications of a snack or even a nibble. We need to feed you.”
“I could drive us to Del—”
“Okay, Andy, I will disobey you and stop you from getting behind the wheel if you’re drunk and high. Do you understand?”
“I feel perfectly sober…”
“How many drinks did you have?”
“Three. Four. No, five. Um. I don’t remember.”
“You haven’t been slurring your words or struggling with your balance, but five drinks should make somebody as small as you beyond plastered. I’m feeling icky after finding out the extremity of your drunkenness only after we had sex.”
“Would I ever turn down sex with you, my soulmate, to whom I am hopelessly devoted?”
“We aren’t having any more sex until you’ve sobered up. Same for next time I smell alcohol on your breath—if I ever get my sense of smell back. I won’t be taking any chances if you can’t remember how much you’ve imbibed.”
I grumbled. “Fine. Even though it’s completely unnecessary because I’m never drinking again… if you really care about not fucking me while I’m drunk, you have a right to set that boundary.”
“You’re God damn right I do. No sex and no driving if you’ve had even a single drop of alcohol.”
((I guess it’s possible I’m unfit to operate a motor vehicle.)) “Alright. I’m okay with that. I shall permit thy disobedience under the current circumstances.”
“I appreciate having your permission, but I don’t need it. Your safety always comes before our game of Domme and sub.”
I had no idea what to do. She was discounting my authority, but she was right. I nodded in a very un-ownerly way. “As you wish. Can you drive us?”
“I know how to drive, stick or automatic, but I don’t like either—besides, we just shared a joint, there’s no way I’m driving high.”
“Then let’s walk to Jack.”
“Let’s.”
I asked her about her favorite musicals, and she listed several—Grease, The King and I, The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, Oklahoma—that she would like to watch with me. We each ordered two Breakfast Jacks because they were the cheapest sandwich on the menu.
While we waited for our food, I asked her, “Who’s that on your shirt?”
“Ghost. I bought it at the 2011 Maryland Deathfest. They are magnificent—but beyond their music I really dig their blending of Catholic and Satanic aesthetics. Here, listen for yourself…” She unlocked her phone and played the music video for ‘Square Hammer’ for my musical edification.
As the song ended, I told her, “I liked that, I liked the guitars and the drums and the lyrics, and the Satanic stuff is fun. Play me another.” We sat there in that Jack in the Box listening to the band’s songs and watching their music videos and clips from their concerts. There came a time my head and eyelids were drooping and I realized that I was close to passing out—and felt in most aspects of my existence like pounded shit. “Judy… I… am… so… (exhausted…)”
“Let’s go, my Lady.” She threw away our trash and approached the door, then looked back and saw that I was still seated. “Hey, Andy?”
I tried to stand but lost my balance; though I stopped myself from falling, my foothold was still precarious.
She rushed to me and wrapped an arm around my waist to prop me up. “Andy, are you okay?”
“I’m… tired.”
“I’m tired but I’m working…” she sang in a familiar melody, excavating from my hippocampus a quarter century of neurons to unearth some of my earliest memories—
{Running through the sprinkler while the radio blasts one of this year’s top 100 hits the day before I’m to be introduced to the tribulations and terrors of the public schooling system.
{Shosh spinning up a CD she’d purchased one or two years ago while I struggle to complete my subtraction homework; the songstress’ poppy post-grunge sound—sometimes vengeful, sometimes optimistic—takes the edge off my frustration as I push myself to master the fundamentals of arithmetic.
{Crying on the couch over a book about a boy and his two redbone hounds while one of Shosh’s favorite albums softly fills the living room; the song grounds me, helps me through my fictional grief.
{And as the chanteuse sings to her best friend with benefits, I sing to the ones I’ve yet to meet, just loud enough for them to hear, “Don’t be alarmed… if I fall… head over… feet…”}
“You couldn’t help it, it’s all my fault,” she replied melodically. “Let’s get you to bed, bestie with benefits.” Suddenly I was cradled in her arms, like a bride being carried by her groom over the threshold of their nuptial home. “I’ll take you home, my Lady.”
“(As you wish,)” I mumbled, as darkness gently drew me into a cozy dream of collars, leashes, butt plug tails, and dildos of all shapes, sizes, and colors.