The Doctor Dom Series concluded this month. It’s an Erotic Romance with elements of BDSM and Medical Kink. If you’re looking to expand your horizons a little bit, this is the perfect series!
He smiled at me. “You are a new patient, correct, Miss Preston?”
“Yes, Doctor,” I mumbled.
“And I see, from your notes here, that you haven’t had a full examination in over five years.”
I winced. His tone had a mild rebuke in it. “Yeah, sorry Doctor.”
“It’s important to take good care of your health, young lady,” he said, his tone hard. Oh, that tone. His voice had a direct line to my pussy, and when he took on that tone; firm, dominant, my pussy just clenched and gushed in response. I bit my lip. “Unfortunately,” he continued in the same hard tone, “this means that your exam will be longer today, as I have to check more things, make sure everything’s in order.”
I nodded. “I understand, Doctor,” I said softly.
I’d never role-played before. I’d always wondered if I’d feel silly, if it would feel contrived. But maybe that depended on who I was playing with. Patrick had an air of effortless command, he was very much in character, and I responded to him, his dominance causing submissiveness in me.
“First, the basics, height and weight,” he said, and this time, there was an undercurrent of laughter in his voice. Oh, the jerk. He was now going to know how much I weighed. I flushed beet red. I could stay in character, or I could not step on the scale.
I stepped on the scale, feeling utterly naked as I moved in my mostly backless, see-through hospital gown. The cool air hit my nipples, causing them to perk up. Patrick just grinned.
“One hundred and twelve pounds,” he said, making a notation on his clipboard. I flushed beet-red.
“Height, please, stand against this chart,” he pointed to the markings at the door. Oh, he had been very, very thorough.
I stood against the chart, my face still flushed. My naked bottom made contact with the door, and I felt very, very exposed. He came up to me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me up against the door. This close to him, I could feel the heat in his body, I could smell the woodsy smell of his aftershave, and I could almost feel his hard body against mine.
“He’s your doctor,” I thought to myself, fully embracing the role. “Get a grip, Lisa.”
He pushed me back on the chart. “You need to stand straight, Miss Preston,” he said firmly. “No slouching, head up, look straight ahead.”
His hand brushed against my nipple as he reached for the clipboard. Accidentally? Heat rose within me as I looked straight ahead, waited for him to write down my height on the clipboard, before I moved.
“Five feet, four inches.” His voice was professional. “Ok, let’s get going, please sit on the stool.”
The stool he indicated was stainless steel. I sat on it, my naked bottom making contact with the cool surface, and I squirmed a bit at the cold.
His lips twitched as he watched me. There was laughter in his eyes; a warmth that made me feel cherished, even as he went about making one of my dark fantasies come true.
“Ready, Miss Preston?” he asked me.
“Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I replied. Every time I called him Dr. Anderson, there was a clenching of my muscles, a twitch of lust. My pussy was soaked through; I could feel the moisture trickle out; leak on the stool below. I flushed beet-red; the telltale spot of wetness would be visible when I got up from the stool. He was going to see how aroused I was.
He moved next to me, almost straddling me. The way he stood, his lab coat had swung aside, and his erection was clearly visible, and almost at my mouth. I licked my lips; I couldn’t help myself. I heard him chuckle briefly.
“The stethoscope works best against bare skin, Miss Preston,” he said. I nodded, flushed, reached up behind my back to remove the tie holding the gown together. My breasts lifted as my hands reached behind my back; he was standing so close to me that they pressed up against his groin. I untied the tie holding the gown in place; the gown fell to my waist, and my naked breasts were exposed; and to my chagrin, my nipples were already erect.
I heard him take a deep breath, and then he bent down, and pressed the stethoscope against my chest, perhaps a little closer to my breasts than was appropriate. His fingers brushed my nipple as he held the stethoscope against me, and my nipple hardened further, swelling even more under his touch.
My fantasy always started the same way. I’d be in a doctor’s office; he’d be conducting an examination, and then, slowly, he’d take greater and greater liberties with me. First, he’d stand so close to me so that I was slightly uncomfortable, but yet unsure if I was just being paranoid. Then, he’d graze my nipples accidentally, and I’d be confused about whether I should protest or not. Finally, he’d do something that would make his intentions clear; that he wanted me, and he was going to have me, and there would be nothing I could do about it.
As Patrick brushed his hand against my nipple, there was nothing I wanted more than for him to keep going; to keep touching me.
He moved behind me, his erection brushing against my cheek as he moved. I flushed; my mouth half-opened; I wanted him to put his dick down my throat; to use me hard, without consideration for my pleasure. My pussy gushed as it responded to that thought.
The stethoscope was cold at my back; but his hand was pressed on my shoulder, keeping me steady. “Stay still, Miss Preston,” he chided.
“Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I muttered. My brain was enveloped in a haze of lust; my pussy clenching; my insides churning with longing.
He straightened; came around, looked at me. There was heat in his eyes, but his tone was even. “Very good, Miss Preston, let’s get going to the next bit; I’m going to need you on the examination table.”
“Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I said obediently, getting up. I hadn’t been paying attention to my untied robe, and as I rose, it slid down, untethered, to my feet. I went scarlet in embarrassment, and kept my eyes lowered. I was mortified.
“I see naked bodies every day, Miss Preston.” His voice was laughing. “But,” he added, his voice hard, as I moved away from the stool, towards the examination table, “it seems that we have a problem.”
He was looking at the wet spot on the stool. I went beet-red again. “I’m sorry, Dr. Anderson,” I mumbled. My voice was very soft.
“Apologies are easy, Miss Preston,” he said, his voice even, “but you need to fix this mess, please.”
I looked around for paper towels; found none. Surprised and slightly shocked, I looked at him. There was open lust in his eyes, and there was warmth and laughter too.
“Of course, Dr. Anderson,” I whispered, lowering my face to the stool, bringing my tongue out to lick my juices clean from the table, as he had intended.
Was I embarrassed? A little bit. Humiliated? Not really. I had looked in his eyes, and he was clearly loving this, but the warmth and laughter in his gaze also made me feel respected. And so I licked the drippings of my wet pussy from the stool, and watched the heat rise in his eyes, and felt powerful at his response.
I gazed into his eyes when I was done; deliberately licked my lips. “What would you like me to do next, Dr. Anderson?” I asked him, my voice clear.
I think the series is hot and kinky, but I also think the two main characters, Patrick and Lisa, genuinely care for each other, and it shows in their actions.
But right now, Charles and Natalie seem to have their own story going on, don’t they? But when it gets written? Hard to tell. Sometimes – the characters write their own stories, and all I have to do is write it down. Other times, it’s harder work. Realistically, if there’s a Natalie & Charles story, it won’t happen in 2014. (Front and center right now is a trio of stories set in Venice; the first one releases Aug 15. Please check out my blog for more information, and sign up to my mailing list for new release notifications and specials!
James has really done a brilliant job taking that original image and adapting it to each new story that came out.
One of them wrote back and promised me she’d kill me if I didn’t reveal the twist. And so, the series was born. The entire series – all five books – has taken almost eight months, start to finish.
I twirl the ring on my left hand. It is my new nervous tic.
I’m nervous because I’m on the phone with Patrick’s mother. On the surface, I get along well enough with her, though we’ve never really connected on any meaningful level. But this upcoming wedding is straining all of the surface politeness.
“My dear, your plan is simply not… appropriate,” she sighs to me.
It isn’t my plan. It is our plan. Both Patrick and I have decided we don’t want a wedding filled with bells and whistles. Immediate family and closest friends, and we’ve decided to rent our favourite curry-and-beer bar for an evening instead of throwing a fancy wedding reception. Twenty-five people tops. It’s a good plan. It fits our personalities, and besides, we are both insanely busy. We don’t have time to fuss about a wedding.
Teresa knows this perfectly well. She also knows that Patrick will be much blunter, and will tell her summarily to butt out. And so, she’s on the phone with me.
“Teresa,” I try. “Why don’t you talk to Patrick about this?”
She exhales on the phone. “Lisa, men aren’t interested in wedding planning,” she says to me. “But Patrick has a certain image to maintain, certain people that he must invite to the wedding. This plan of yours is sweet, of course, but just not practical. You really must talk him out of it.”
Right. This is all code for the fact that my fiancé’s parents are richer than God, and they want a big fancy wedding to invite all their friends to. I rub my temples. I feel a headache coming on. Teresa’s been doing a version of this conversation for weeks now.
I hear the front door open, and footsteps down the hallway. It’s Patrick, thank heavens. Please get me out of this conversation. “Teresa, Patrick just walked in. Why don’t you talk to him?” I hand him my cell phone and go to the bathroom. I need an ibuprofen.
He walks in a couple of minutes later. “I don’t understand why you don’t just ignore her calls,” he says, grimacing as he sees the box of ibuprofen. “She’s driving you insane.”
“Because…” I huff at Patrick. We’ve had this conversation before. I don’t know how to ignore parents. I get along with mine. Unlike Patrick, who has a lifetime of experience fighting battles with his parents, I have no prior practice.
He grins at me. He’s right, of course. I should just let Teresa’s calls go to voicemail, and let Patrick deal with it. But I want his parents to like me.
You know that inner insecure teenager that lives inside me, the one whose face was covered with acne growing up, the one who never got asked to prom? Sometimes, she’s a massive pain in the butt. If it weren’t for her, I’d have no problem ignoring Patrick’s parents.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say. I’m tired of this wedding nonsense.
“Indeed,” he says smoothly. Too smoothly. He’s got something planned.
In the blink of an eye, I find that my tiredness vanishes and my headache recedes. Because, when Patrick has that tone in his voice, it means I’m about to get thoroughly worked over. And, as always, I can’t wait.
Both of us approach D/s with caution. We’ve been burned in the past; we have scars from prior D/s relationships. But, as with most things, with time comes trust and comfort. We’ve been together for a year and a half. Now, when we play our games of dominance and submission, we live in a warm cocoon. We inhabit a safe space into which the rest of the world cannot intrude.
Each of us needs that space at different times, but we both need it. We have slightly different kinks that we default to as well. Patrick prefers straightforward BDSM. I need my little medical play fantasies fulfilled ever so often. Happily, all of this means more sex. More sex is good.
We have a simple system. If I want a session, I leave Patrick a note on the bathroom sink. He does the same for me.
It sounds a bit scheduled, doesn’t it? Lacking somewhat in spontaneity? But here’s the thing. No matter how busy my day is going to be, that sink ledge is the first place my eye falls to every morning. I am always simmering on the edge of arousal, wondering if my Dom has something planned for me.
Two days ago, I left him a note asking for a doctor’s appointment. The next day, he’d written a note on the reverse side. ‘Confirmed,’ was all it had said. No date. No time.
But I see the look in his eyes and hear the sound of his voice, and I know. My doctor’s appointment is today. Right now, in fact.
And just like that, the same way I do every single time, I fall into that space where I feel only arousal. Where there is never any fear, because I have nothing to fear from Patrick, and he has nothing to fear from me.
He is my Dom, and I am his sub. He is my Doctor.
He looks at me, his head inclined slightly. “Why don’t you go upstairs?” he says. It sounds like a suggestion; it is an order.
I turn wordlessly and climb the stairs. I feel the gaze of his eyes follow me the entire way.
Lisa is normally the most good-natured of women. She is fairly unflappable. She laughs a lot. She smiles constantly. She is a joy to be around.
Most of the time.
In complete fairness to the woman I love, this current shit-show isn’t her fault. We’ve been on the same page regarding about our wedding, and the phrase ‘low-key and casual’ has come up repeatedly. No. This particular shit show is entirely orchestrated by two people. My parents.
The thing is, Lisa really loves her parents. They eat together every week. She talks to her mother on the phone often. She goes with her dad to watch football games, cheering for the Bills, which is such a waste of time.
My parents are sucking the life out of her.
A year ago, I would have been nervous about playing with her if she was stressed. But things are different now. While I’m not entirely sure I agree with her approach of using BDSM as stress-relief, I trust that she knows her limits.
She has her safe words. She’ll use them if she needs to.
It’s time to play.
I go into the bedroom first and open the lingerie dresser.
Some women collect shoes. Others, handbags. I have a thing for pretty lingerie. Most women have a drawer full? I have a dresser full.
I take out a new midnight blue silk slip. Patrick, I’ve learned over time, has one strong preference with regards to lingerie. The one with the easiest access wins. No corsets, no boy shorts. This slip grazes the cheeks of my ass, and barely covers my pussy. I bought it just for sex. I leave off the panties, of course. Panties just impede access.
Finishing my preparations with a quick run of a comb through my hair, I head over to the examination room and take a seat on the stool. I wait for Patrick.
He knocks before he comes in, and his eyes heat up when he sees the lingerie.
“Ms. Preston,” he greets me. “You have quite an intense examination ahead of you.”
Yes. Intense is exactly what I need. Patrick knows me so well. He’s been seeing the signs of stress, and he knows how to combat it.
“Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I mutter submissively.
“Among other things, we’ll be testing your pain tolerance today,” he says. “I want you to use a ten-point scale to let me know what you are feeling.”
“Is one low or high?” I ask him.
“Low. And ten should be at the point where you’d normally use yellow.” Okay. Yellow is my warning word to give him an indication that I’m getting close to a safe word point.
I nod my understanding.
“Stand up,” he says. He gestures to a corner. “Move over there.”
“Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I whisper, and he looks at me for a long, intent second, as if he’s trying to decide what to do with me today. Then he moves over and starts pulling out toys. Riding crop. Paddle. Nipple clamps. Speculums. Gags.
Oh, I am in for it.
At the start of my relationship with Patrick, I might have wondered if I was being punished because I’ve been a bitch to live with for the last few months. Now, I know better. There’s absolutely no spillover. None at all.
The outside world doesn’t get to enter this room. This is just for Patrick and me.
“No enema?” I ask him, and he flashes me a look that warns me to keep quiet. I bite my lip and obey instantly, feeling calm descend.
He moves towards me with the nipple clamps dangling from his fingers, swinging from the chain connecting them. “Offer me your breasts, Ms. Preston,” he says.
I inhale deeply, pushing my breasts out. I slip the shoulder straps down and pull them out, cupping them towards Patrick. “Please clamp my breasts, Dr. Anderson,” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Did I ask for a pretty little speech, Ms. Preston?” he says, and I shake my head. Oh, intense is right. I’m going to do everything I’m told in today’s session, and nothing else. And I’ve already earned myself one punishment.
He pushes me against the wall, and his fingers reach for one nipple while his mouth descends on the other. His teeth bite, nip and nibble, and my nipple engorges in reaction. The other nipple is pinched and pulled till it swells as well, readying me for the clamps. I shut my eyes and let the feelings of his mouth and his fingers sweep through my body.
Already, my pussy is soaked.
The clamps are placed on. They are tweezers-style, and Patrick slides the ring that tightens them upward until I hiss in pain and gasp ‘eight’.
“Ooh, if you are at eight already, you are really in for it tonight,” he says with mock sympathy, but his fingers are sliding the ring back. I exhale. “Four,” I say.
He grins at me. “Four is good.”
The chain connecting the nipple clamps swings between my breasts, and Patrick attaches a clip to it. I wonder what he’s got planned. Weights?
My need to know what’s in store for me isn’t going to get fulfilled, not yet. Patrick fetches a pair of wrist cuffs, and a pair of ankle cuffs. He kneels in front of me, fastening the cuffs around my ankles, biting my inner thigh softly as he works. In seconds, I’m moaning, and trying to push my mound into his face.
He laughs. “You must be patient, Ms. Preston,” he says, looking at me with devilry in his eyes. “Self-control is such a virtue, don’t you think?”
I roll my eyes. “Indeed, Dr. Anderson,” I retort. “My self-control is the only reason I’m not smacking you right now for teasing me.”
His mouth compresses to a stern line, but his eyes still dance with merriment. “Two punishments already,” he says. “You are going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow.”
I’m counting on it, Patrick, I think to myself, but I shut up. I do have clients in the morning, and Patrick knows that. He isn’t going to flog me so hard that I’m aching and sore tomorrow. Which means that if I don’t behave, my punishment will be a lot worse. He will take me to the edge, repeatedly, and forbid me from coming. I’ve been punished that way once before, and I hated it.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Anderson,” I say meekly.
The wrist cuffs are fastened around my wrists. My right wrist is attached to a chain from the ceiling. We put the hooks in a few months ago, and I’ve already had several memorable sessions tied up with my arms stretched up and my legs spread wide.
I assume the same treatment is due on my left wrist, and I helpfully move my hand up, but Patrick shakes his head. “Ms. Preston,” he says, his voice hard. “I’m warning you. Do only as you are told. Nothing less, nothing more.”
I nod, abashed. But inside me, I can feel the tight knot of tension I’ve been carrying around ease, and my stress levels recede as I give up control to my Dom.
Patrick steps back slightly. “Bend your left knee up,” he instructs me, and my left wrist is fastened to my ankle, holding my leg up in place. He brings the crop and runs it over my bare foot. “Three punishments,” he says. “Hmm. Twenty strokes. Count them out.”
I was quite sure that extending my left wrist towards the ceiling had earned me another punishment. His count has confirmed my assumption.
The first slap lands on my heel, and I jump slightly, wriggling my toes. “One,” I count, resolving to keep as still as I can. My jump has set my breasts swinging, and a renewed burst of pain from the clamps distract me for a few seconds.
The next two strokes hit my toes and my arch. I bite my lip and hiss out the count. The stroke on the arch hurt.
Pinpricks of pain. Pinpricks of pleasure. I don’t think I can tell the difference. It all blends into one beautiful whole.
Two more sharp strokes. One on the fleshy pad between my arch and my toes, and the second back on the arch again. I jump hard at the stroke on the arch, and swivel away from Patrick.
“Perhaps you need some extra incentive to convince you to hold still, Ms. Preston,” he says, his eyes narrowed. I see a chain in his hand, and he connects one end to the clip on the chain that swings between my clamped nipples, and the other to the clip between my wrist and my ankle.
Fuck. Now, any movement will yank at the chain between my nipples. A scarily effective incentive to hold still, indeed.
My lips twitch, despite themselves. Patrick can be really devious sometimes.
He catches the look in my eyes, and he winks at me before swinging the crop at my heel again.
Yup. The slight shudder I make in response to the stroke has vibrated up, and I feel the ache in my nipples. “Six,” I moan.
“Check-in for me,” he says crisply. “Where are you at, pain-wise?”
I’m not in pain. Each stroke has vibrated through my body, and there’s a hot core of pleasure in me. My pussy drips, my skin is flushed. “Three? Four?” I say, and he nods and the crop whistles through the air again.
The remaining strokes land all over my feet, and I count. When he’s done, he releases the clips holding my nipples and my leg in place. “Move over on the examination table, please, Ms. Preston,” he says, and I obey, wincing slightly as my tender foot comes in contact with the ground.
Patrick sees the wince. He walks over and looks at my foot. “You’ll live,” he says unsympathetically, but his fingers are massaging my sole at the same time. God, his touch feels so good as he rubs the ache away.
He can crop me anytime if he follows it by this sweet, sensuous foot massage, I think with a quick smile.
“What?” he asks, and I repeat my thought. He smiles at me. “If you want a foot massage more often, you just need to ask, baby,” he says, slipping out of the role of the stern Doctor for an instant.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I grin in reply. But I’m really not going to demand foot massages at will. Patrick spoils me plenty already.
I wriggle my toes at him, ready for the next punishment. He smiles up at me, and shakes his head. “Patience,” he counsels. “Here, let’s get these off for a while.”
The nipple clamps come off, and I bite my lips as the blood comes rushing back.
Exhale. Inhale. Breathe.
When the ache recedes, Patrick gives me my next order. “Lie down on the table, face down,” he says. I do as he instructs. He fastens my wrist cuffs to the legs of the table, so that my arms are stretched in front of me. My hair is quickly braided into a fat braid, and my ankle cuffs are fastened to it so my head is pulled up, and my legs spread open. An efficient hogtie.
The crop swings down methodically on the other foot. This time, I haven’t been asked to count, and I don’t, mindful of his instruction to do only what he’s asked, nothing more.
With each swat, I moan and wriggle. With each wriggle, the bindings tug at my hair, and my pussy drips in response. My toes alternately curl and stretch.
When Patrick is done with the crop, he leans forward and pushes my slip above my ass. “I want to bite this ass,” he growls, and he does, nipping at my cheeks, and lapping my dripping pussy. “I want to taste this sweetness,” he rumbles, licking a line all the way from the bottom of my slit right up to my clitoris, but stopping just shy of it. I whimper. I need his touch on me.
“Patience,” he says again, but I can see the outline of his hard cock underneath his slacks. I lick my lips, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed.
He unbuttons his pants and unzips his fly, and pulls his dick out. There’s a glistening drop of precum on it, and I reach out with my tongue to lap it up. He lets me suck his cock for a few minutes, and I get wetter and wetter as I hear him make noises of pleasure in response.
But then, he pulls away and tucks his cock back in his pants, zipping back up. “Patience,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse, and I smirk inwardly. This is a test of self-control for both of us.
I’m released from all my bindings and Patrick turns me around so that I’m lying on my back. My legs are spread wide and bound to the legs of the table. My hands are left free.
“Clothespins,” he says, his eyes glinting. I wink at him. I’m fairly sure that clothespins are Patrick’s favourite toy.
He chuckles at me. “It’s been a while,” he says in self-defence, and I realize he’s right. We haven’t used the clothespins in weeks.
“You have your hands free, Ms. Preston, you know what to do.”
I do. I reach down and daintily pluck at the hem of my slip, pulling it up to my waist. My fingers part my pussy lips for him, and I watch his eyes heat up in response. “So obedient,” he says. He bends down and flicks his tongue over my clitoris as a reward.
Three flicks. I’m rushing towards the edge, the nipple clamps and the riding crop having worked their magic on me. But he pulls his head away before I reach my climax. He shakes his head in rebuke.
I struggle not to whimper in protest. If he says ‘patience’, I swear, I’m going to knee him in the groin.
He watches me with mocking eyes as I force down the sass. There is no fairness in this. In the way he makes me wait for my pleasure, in the way he punishes me for minor mistakes, in the way he’s given me his cock for a few brief minutes before pulling away.
But this isn’t about fairness. This is about needs being fulfilled. In allowing myself to surrender to his firm control, I’m fulfilling my deep-held craving for submission. I’m giving myself permission to let go.
I’m walking into the deep end of the pool, and the warmth of the water envelops my body. When I meet his eyes, I’ve reached a deeper place within me. “Thank you,” I say softly.
The clothespins go on my outer pussy lips. With each one, I make little mewling noises. Each pinch sends a shockwave of painful pleasure through my entire body. Each touch of Patrick’s fingers make me arch towards him. I’m swimming in a hazy sea of lust, and I can’t help myself. I’m not thinking anymore.
“Here,” he says, when he’s done, moving my hands towards my pussy. “I want you to hold these clothespins so that your pussy is open to me.”
Fuck. I am going to combust if he keeps this up. “Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I whisper.
It takes all the self-control I possess to keep my fingers from grazing my clitoris. It isn’t a fear of punishment that keeps me in line at this point. It’s a sure knowledge that if I follow Patrick’s rules, the resulting climax, when he eventually permits it, will be so much better.
I close my eyes and wait, and I feel my leg bindings being released, and the bottom third of the table drops, leaving my ass hanging at the edge.
I watch as Patrick sheds his clothes, and then he moves in the space between my legs. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please…”
He doesn’t make me wait this time. He pushes inside me in one long, unhurried stroke, and I hiss and hold the clothespins out of his way. His dick grinds into me and with each push, I’m jostled up the table, until he grabs me by my thighs and pulls me back.
I hear myself make keening, moaning noises of pleasure as he pounds me. I pull at the clothespins and feel their aching tug on my pussy lips.
Everything is pain. Everything is pleasure. And in this moment, I am free.
Patrick erupts in me with a choked off shout, and though he hasn’t touched my clitoris, I find myself rushing towards the edge, and there’s nothing I can do to hold back. My orgasm rises from deep inside me. The shudders from my pussy take over, until I am completely drained. Through my sated haze, I feel him remove the clothespins from my pussy lips, and his fingers rub and ease the sting.
We aren’t done, of course, not by a long shot. I look over to the table where Patrick laid out his toys, and there’s still the speculum that we haven’t used. And the paddle, and the Jennings gag, and a set of Young forceps.
“Hey, that’s new,” I say about the Young forceps. I haven’t seen those before.
Patrick grins. “Thought I’d mix it up,” he smiles. “I don’t want to get boring.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. Like that could happen.” I reach over and grab his hands, and hold it against my cheek. “Mmm,” I say, content and sated. At least for the next five minutes.
When we are finally done, when the paddle and the gag and the forceps have been used, we move over to our bedroom and lie on the bed, needs sated, bodies curling into each other.
According to my mother, all women grew up dreaming of their wedding day, and the way I’m forcing Lisa into a laid-back affair is quite simply cruel. She told me this earlier on the phone.
“My mother,” I begin, and I feel her tense. “She thinks I’m doing you a disservice by wanting a low-key wedding. That you deserve to have a big fancy wedding, and I’m depriving you of one.”
I don’t think I am. But more than anything in the world, I want Lisa to be happy, and I’ll do whatever it takes.
I stroke her arm and kiss her shoulder, and she purrs. “God no,” she says. “I saw Sara wilt under the stress of her wedding planning, remember? And she had a wedding planner and everything. The entire thing is insane. I like our beer-and-curry idea. It feels like our style.”
“If you wanted the big production, would you tell me?” I press. My mother is trying to pit us against each other. I know it; I have a lifetime of recognizing the manipulation of my parents. Normally, I’d just ignore them.
“Of course, Patrick,” she replies instantly. She giggles. “I’ll leave you a note on the bathroom sink.”
I smack her ass for that bit of sass, and she laughs again and wriggles it against me. “One more week,” she says softly. “Then the wedding’s over, your mother will stop nagging me, and we’ll be in Europe.”
“Mmm,” I say. I can’t wait.
The woman always gets the last word, right? So here’s mine.
It’s the little things that make me realize how much I love Patrick.
When he wakes up in the morning – and he always wakes up earlier than me – it’s the fact that he always makes breakfast and coffee for me.
If we have a problem, there’s no tip-toeing around. He’s direct, and I am as well. There was a time early on in our relationship where many of our problems were caused because we didn’t talk to each other. Lesson learned.
Patrick’s mother is one speed-bump in our happily-ever-after. There’s sure to be more. But we trust each other, and we talk to each other, and we know that we have each other’s back. We are a team. A pretty invincible team, if I say so myself.
He’s not in bed when I wake up the next morning, and I smell coffee in the air. Smiling, I go to the bathroom, and I see the note propped by the sink.
‘Follow-up appointment,’ it says. ‘April 11.’
The day before our wedding, when my stress levels are sure to be peaking. I laugh out aloud. Finding a pen, I scribble my response in the back. ‘Yes, Dr. Anderson.’
I can’t wait.
Hello, I’m Tara Crescent. By day, I’m a mild-mannered corporate drone in Toronto, but by night, I’m limited only by my imagination; I sit and I type, and I am a daring writer of BDSM, erotica and romance.
I’m a huge believer in happily-ever-after, but tempered by real life, where happily-ever-after is possible, but takes work. My favorite kind of romance stories are ones that are somewhat believable; I like strong men and women who know what they want out of life, and are driven to get it.
In my spare time, I write of course. I also read, garden, travel, cook, and almost never clean. I just started watching Walking Dead on Netflix (zombie erotica, anyone?), and I’m impatiently awaiting the next episode of Doctor Who. (I would kill for a TARDIS.)