Dominating Amy (6 page)

He sat on the edge of their couch, on the middle cushion. She studied him from the doorway. Morning beard shadowed his jaw and strain creased his brow; he held his head in his hands and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. She couldn’t imagine a home without him.

Breathing deep to brace herself, she said, “I’m not perfect.”

Mac’s hands stilled. He looked up at her and frowned. “I never demanded that you be perfect.”

“You tell me I am, and I have to live up to it. I can’t do that. I can’t be flawless, never making mistakes. I’m going to make you mad. I’m going to do the wrong thing sometimes. I’m going to have to fake an orgasm once in a while, and every now and then I forget a check I’ve written and overdraw the checking account. I’m going to get pissed off at the world and take it out on you. I’m not perfect.”

“Amy--”

“Please let me finish.” She scrubbed at her cheeks. Her fingers came away wet with tears.
Crying.
Again.
Mac dragged his hand through his hair, but nodded permission to go on.

“You can’t let me make mistakes without pointing them out to me—without some kind of punishment. I know you don’t want to hurt me, but I need you to acknowledge I’ve done something wrong. If you don’t—if you just take it, roll over and go on with your life, never telling me to stop being a bitch or stop being selfish, or whatever it is I’m doing—if you don’t make me stop when I do it, then I don’t know I’ve done it at all until you’re hurt.”

Her voice broke on the last word. She hid against the doorjamb, clutching the wood as if it
were
a life raft and she was drowning. “Mac, I love you more than life,” she whispered.

“Come here.” It wasn’t a request. His voice was thick and rough, and it cut through her tears. She didn’t want to leave the safety of the door, but she’d asked him to be the order-giver, the law-enforcer of their household, and she forced her feet to move. She stopped with the coffee table between them.

“Not there.
Here.
” He pointed to the space between his denim-clad knees.

She moved again. He leaned back and looked up at her. “You understand what you’re asking of me?”

She nodded.

“You’re asking me to give you rules, and decide whether your choices and behavior are wrong or right. You’re asking me to punish you if you’ve been bad, reward you if you’ve been good.
To shoulder the responsibility for your physical comfort and your mental and emotional
well being
.”
He exhaled slowly, and said, “To make you happy.”

“Yes. No. You already make me happy--”

“No, I don’t. Stop lying to yourself, and to me.”

“I want both of us to be happy. I want you to show me how to make you happy.”

“By abusing you.”

The flat quality of his voice interrupted her anxiety. That was his injured voice, withdrawn and lacking intonation, and it hit hard. She sank to her knees between his legs and reached for his hands. “It’s not abuse!  You won’t be
hurting
me. You’ll be helping.”

“
Helping
this way can turn into hurting very easily.” He rubbed the tips of her fingers against his own and held her hand up, showing the difference in their sizes. “It’s not just a physical risk. It’s an emotional risk, too. You’re inviting me to overpower your body
and
your emotions.”

Another protest came to her lips but she silenced it. Mac balled his hands around hers, molding them into fists, and rested his forehead atop their joined fingers. “Amy, my mother didn’t fight back when Dad hit her. Not because she was weak or afraid, but because she’d given him responsibility for her life. She promised to obey him and be what he needed, and figured if he needed a punching bag, that was her role. I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to turn you into her.”

“You’re a different man,” she whispered.

Mac lifted his head.
“Because I haven’t allowed myself to become him.
I’ve removed the situational conditions that could give me the opportunity. And you want me to make myself vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable isn’t the same thing as weak. You’re the strongest person I know. You can handle this,” she said, willing him to believe in his own strength.

He closed his eyes and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Last night I gave you your first rule.”

Amy’s chest tightened.
“About wearing clothes.”

“That you are no longer allowed to wear clothes when we’re alone, meaning without guests, in our home. Did you misunderstand the rule?”

”No.”
She sighed. “I was pissed off because you weren’t there when I woke up and I wanted to get back at you. I was being a childish brat.”

“You’ve been talking to me about mistakes,” Mac said. “And you’ve told me what role you want me to fill in your life. Is there anything else you want to add?”

She shook her head and stared at the superhero logo on his t-shirt, unsure what the flip-flop in her stomach meant.
Nerves,
not fear. She wasn’t afraid of him.

“Okay. Do you understand the difference between a mistake and an act of defiance?”

“Yes.”

“Explain it to me.”

“A mistake is a genuine error. Maybe caused by forgetfulness or distraction, or just not having the information needed to do the right thing. An act of defiance is deliberately breaking a rule.”

“Very good,” he said slowly. “I am willing to accept this responsibility you’re asking of me, but not before I make myself clear on issues of rules and punishments. First, mistakes are not punishable offenses. If you find yourself making a mistake, we will work on correcting the conditions that led to it. Defiance will be punished, and afterward we’ll work on correcting the urges that prompted you to break a rule. I’ll never admonish you for a genuine error, but I won’t be lenient with deliberate willfulness.

 “As we grow into this, we will mutually decide in which areas you need guidance. For now, though, you will follow one rule, and that is you are to give me every emotion you have. No hiding sadness. No pretending confidence. No faking that you’re turned on. Deciding to fake or hide something isn’t making a mistake. It’s deliberate.

 “You claim you don’t want to do things that will hurt me,” he continued. “Revise your thinking and change ‘hurt’ to ‘deceive.’ Get in your mind and heart a dedication to being truthful with me. Are you unclear on anything so far?”

“No, sir,” she whispered. The small word danced in her stomach like startled butterflies.

He stood and pulled her to her feet, keeping her so close his thighs brushed hers and the fibers of his shirt teased her nipples. The butterfly dance increased its tempo. “So you know what to expect now, and in the future, never forget that in this household, the punishment will fit the intent of the crime.” He put his foot on the edge of the coffee table and shoved it back. “Bend over, Amy.”

Shock widened her eyes and the color drained from her cheeks. Her lips parted, some words forming to forestall him, no doubt. Mac touched his finger to her lips. “You admitted to breaking the rule. Bend over.”

She stepped back into the space he’d cleared for her and bent to hug his thigh. He’d expected her to turn away from him and brace herself on the coffee table; this choice put him at a loss. He focused on controlling himself, but the prospect of spanking his wife, his best friend, made him tremble. Amy wouldn’t miss that, not with her arms wrapped around his thigh and her cheek on his hip. She wouldn’t miss the rock hard bulge that betrayed his arousal, either.

He caressed the length of her back, stroking from her shoulders to the crest of her bottom. He’d forgotten the silky texture of her skin. She had a fair complexion, pale and prone to bruising; he squeezed her left cheek and his thumbprint showed white, then red, against her skin. He didn’t want to hurt her—hitting was synonymous with abuse in his mind. The first slap was light and tentative and it landed closer to the small of her back instead of square on her behind. Amy jumped but didn’t cry out.

Her heartbeat accelerated beneath his free hand. Mac widened his stance and cupped her hip, repositioning her at an angle that gave him access to the full round of her ass. The second slap connected with a resounding crack of flesh on flesh, and left his palm tingling. He flexed his fingers and marveled at the sensation of needles pricking his palm. Sharing her discomfort anchored him more firmly in the moment. It created a strange connection. Amy whimpered and the vibration of her small sound shot through his wrist. Mouth dry, he brought his hand down again, glorying in the hot sting that spread across his skin. She tightened her grip on his thigh and his cock jumped.

He spanked her again, half a dozen times in deliberately timed succession, fascinated by the progression of color from pale cream to deep, angry pink. Her gasps echoed every smack. Amy shook, but except for sharp little breaths and the occasional mew muffled against his hip, she remained silent.

He could spank her until she cried out and begged him to stop. The urge crept in the back of his mind, so strong it made him catch his breath. The prospect of reducing Amy to a red-assed, quivering mess jacked up his heart rate. Would she enjoy it? He balled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to strike her again, but couldn’t chase off a curiosity. His fingers relaxed, slid over the friction-heated curve of her bottom, and brushed her curls in what he hoped was a discreet touch. She arched her back and rubbed against his hand.

She was wet. The discovery nearly undid him. His fingers slid deeper into her cream, drawn to her entrance and the tight, slippery knot beyond.

“Let go,” he said, suppressing a fantasy of slipping behind her, unzipping his fly, and ramming into her.
God
.
Her ass would be so warm against his groin. “Stand up.” His breathing was shallow, testament to his excited state. He prayed Amy didn’t misunderstand his arousal for an interest in abusing her.

She didn’t respond immediately. He patted her hip, and when that didn’t work, delivered a sharp slap to her left ass cheek. The blow startled a jerk from her. “Amy. Stand up.”

Sluggishly, she loosened her grip and straightened. She lost her balance and he caught her before the slight sway turned into a full-out fall. Supporting her with one arm around her waist, he cupped her face and investigated her eyes. The glassy quality and dilated pupils made him frown. Salty tears reddened and puffed the rims. He’d made her cry.
Again.
The realization shook him down to the soles of his feet.

Gradually, her pupils returned to normal and awareness came back to her features. She focused her gaze on his. A flush crept and spread beneath his hands, staining her face in shades of rose. “Mac?” she whispered.

“I’m right here.” He felt foolish saying that, knowing she was looking right at him and knew exactly where he was. He needed to reassure her, though. She looked so fragile and dazed.

“That hurt.”

His heart lodged in his throat. “It hurt me when you decided my explanation for being away wasn’t good enough, and broke your word to stop hiding from me.”

She flinched and dropped her eyes. He steeled himself against the instinct-voice screaming at him to hug her close and whisper apologies, and instead took her shoulders and turned her to face away from him. “Go sit in the corner until I call you.”

Amy hesitated. He gently pushed her toward the east corner of the room. “Nose to the wall,” he added. She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks as she moved to do as he’d instructed. His shoulders slumped, the muscles releasing physical tension he hadn’t been aware of until that moment. While Amy cooled her heels, and her reddened behind, in the corner, he went to splash cold water on his face. Her arousal perfumed his fingers.

Mac braced himself with both hands on the bathroom counter, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t see a monster. That was his normal every day face looking back at him, minus the lines of a sleepless night. He rinsed away the beads of nervous sweat on his forehead and wished the phone would ring. He needed Elizabeth to call back because he couldn’t fumble blindly forever, not and do the job right.

Returning to the living room, he braced his shoulder against the doorjamb and studied her. She knelt stiffly, her hands on her thighs, her nose in the corner as he’d instructed. Her buttocks and upper thighs were still bright, angry red. His erection, gone soft upon discovering her tears, roused itself and pressed eagerly against his fly. Just the sight of her skin, hot from his hands, infused him with a surge of power he’d never known before.

He cleared his throat. “Are you thirsty?”

She nodded. He retrieved a bottle of water for each of them, careful not to touch her when he placed her water on the floor beside her. He moved the tissue box over so she could reach that, too, and stood behind her.

“I went out this morning to have coffee with
Olivieri
,” he said. “I’ve arranged for him to feature you in a knot work demonstration he’s giving this weekend. I’ve also given permission for you to be photographed. You’ll need to buy a mask before the event.”