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Dalton

Chapter 10
him
    Part of me worried I'd come home one day and she'd stop me before I could strip, tell me the game was over, and we'd go back to our vanilla ways.
    I would, if she asked me to.
    I prayed she wouldn't.
    It never failed that my cock hardened every day as I packed to leave work and drove home. I wanted to strip my clothes off on the way to the front door so I could kneel, naked, before her as soon as I walked in.
    I loved the feel of her hands on me as she gently buckled the collar around my neck, the soft snick as the lock snapped into place.
    A weight lifted from me. A physical sensation of lightness that I was home, with my Mistress.
    Where I belonged.
    Where I could relax and forget the day and focus only on her or on what she allowed me to focus on.
    I could spend hours kneeling on the floor beside her, my head resting against her knee, as she sat on the couch with her computer in her lap. I loved it when she tangled her fingers in my hair and kept her hand there, touching me.
    Owning me.
    She wanted me.
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    Domma By Default
    by Tymber Dalton
    Maybe I'd died and I was now in Heaven, because that's what it felt like.
    I always took her hand and kissed it after she collared me.
    It wasn't something she asked of me, it was something I felt I needed to do. I wanted her to know how much I loved her for this, for doing this.
    I knew I was the luckiest bastard in the world.
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    Domma By Default
    by Tymber Dalton

Chapter 11
Her
    My first major meltdown came four months after we took up our new "lifestyle."
    What a fucking euphemistic word that's absolute meaningless bullshit.
    I was on my knees late one Saturday morning in the guest bathroom, trying to fix the goddamn toilet. I couldn't get the supply line detached and yelled for my husband to bring me a pair of Channellock pliers.
    Just as I was about to get up and get them myself, I heard him in the bathroom doorway. Saturdays were always play days, and he wore nothing but his locking leather collar.
    I reached back, my palm open. He laid the tool in my hand.
    A monkey wrench.
    I bit back my sarcasm and tried again. "No. This isn't what I asked for. This is a wrench. I need a pair of Channellock pliers. They look like regular pliers, only they're larger, longer, and the business end looks offset and weird.
    "Okay."
    He took the wrench back and I knew from his tone of voice he felt badly.
    A few minutes later, he returned. "Is this it?"
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    Domma By Default
    by Tymber Dalton
    I turned to look, not really wanting to get up because it'd taken me a minute to wedge myself down there in the first freaking place.
    He held up a pair of needle-nosed vice grip pliers. They looked nothing like Channellocks.
    I closed my eyes and tried to count to ten. I didn't make it past five.
    "Never mind," I whispered, prying myself out of the tiny fucking space between the tub and toilet.
    "No, honey, I—"
    "Never. Mind." I knew I growled it, because he flinched.
    I snatched the vice grips from his hand and stomped out to the garage, spied the Channellocks on the bench right next to the tool bag—he'd had to take them out of the bag—and threw the locking pliers in without caring where or how they went.
    He'd started to follow me and dodged out of my way as I stormed past him through the living room and down the hallway.
    "Honey, I'm sorry."
    I wheeled around. I had to whisper, because if I spoke any louder I'd be screaming. "Don't. Just stay. The fuck. Out of my way."
    He flushed red. I felt like shit and alternately glad that I'd hurt his feelings. This wasn't his fault, not really. I thought I could handle this. On top of everything else, I thought I could do it.
    I was wrong.
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    Domma By Default
    by Tymber Dalton
    I didn't speak to him, didn't look at the bathroom doorway although I sensed his presence as he stood and watched while I swapped out the tank guts. Twenty minutes later it was back together and the water on. No leaks.
    I