Domme By Default

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?"

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.

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 left all the tools and old parts on the bathroom floor, washed my hands, and pushed past him.

"Clean that up."

He jumped to it.

I wanted to sob.

He was taking care of that while I changed clothes and quickly threw a few things into an overnight bag. He was still out in the garage putting my tools away when I walked out the front door, bag, purse, cell phone, and laptop case in hand.

I thought I'd calm down before I reached Tampa International, but I didn't.

When the captain announced we were touching down in Denver, I buckled my seat belt and wondered how many messages I'd have on my cell phone when I turned it on. It was eight hours later. My husband had to be worried.

I'd checked my overnight bag. I turned on my cell while waiting in baggage claim.

Ten messages.

Each sounded more worried than the last. The final one, three hours earlier, nearly broke my heart. I wanted to drop to my knees right there and cry.

"Please call me. I'm so sorry I disappointed you. I want to do better, I promise I'll try harder." Desperate. Pleading.

I sat in my rental car and considered my next move. I didn't know if Tony would be at work or not. I opened my laptop and used the aircard to log in to IM.

He was there.

Hey there, he greeted me.

I need to talk to you.

What's wrong?

I mean, I need to talk to you. Can I please meet you somewhere?

There was a long gap before his reply. You're in Denver?

The airport.

What happened? Do you have your cell?

I sent him the number. Seconds after I did, my phone rang from a number I didn't recognize.

The deep, smooth, soothing voice almost immediately calmed me. "What happened?"

I broke down sobbing, hating myself for doing this, imposing on someone I really didn't know that well and running from my responsibilities.

I never did get the story out. I was too busy crying. When he got me calmed down he gave me directions. I dug a notepad out of my laptop case and wrote them down.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he promised. "I've got to finish up a couple of things, you'll probably beat me there by at least twenty minutes. Just get a table, leave your name with the hostess."

"Thanks, Tony," I sniffled.

"It's okay," he said, soothing me. "I'll see you shortly."

I found the restaurant without any trouble. There was a decent hotel across the street, so at least I wouldn't have far to go late at night.

I sat there nursing a rum and Coke when I noticed a man walk in. Dark brown hair, dressed neatly in khaki slacks and a chambray shirt. He talked to the hostess, who pointed me out.

Maybe it was knowing who and what he was. Maybe it was my nerves.

Maybe it was my second rum and Coke.

But I felt it. The secure confidence. No swagger, no strut.

Just a quiet self-assurance he wore like a cloak. He could have been a computer programmer or a graphic artist or even a lawyer.

I had to look like hell and wished I'd at least taken a shower before running away from home.

He stopped across the table from me and smiled, kind and gentle, concerned. I wanted to burst into tears right there.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded.

He walked around to me and leaned in, hugged me. "It's okay," he whispered in my ear. "You're not losing your mind."

He took his seat across from me as I harshly laughed.

"Sure fucking feels like it."

The waitress walked over and took his drink order. I noticed he ordered coffee.

When we were alone again he reached across the table and placed his hand over mine, gently squeezed. "What do you need from me?"

I didn't know. To be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead. All I knew was that I had to get away for a while. I needed to get my fucking head on straight before I did something and hurt my husband, literally or figuratively.

When I looked up I realized his eyes were an incredibly deep shade of green. Combined with his quiet power, it felt impressive to me. He waited for my answer.

"Tell me how to get my head on straight."

He smiled, full of kindness. "Why don't you start from the beginning?" he suggested. "What happened?"

I took a deep breath and started from the beginning. The waitress interrupted me for our dinner order. I wasn't hungry, but I knew if I didn't eat something I'd need Tony to pour me into the check-in desk across the street. I ordered fettuccini Alfredo, hoping they couldn't screw it up and figuring it would be easy to choke down.

He listened without interrupting. When I finished about the time our food arrived, he studied me for a minute before speaking.

"You don't have to do this, you know. You can sit him down and tell him you need things to go back to the way they were. It has to be a two-way street."

I shook my head. "You don't see the look in his eyes when we play. It's like he's a new man. I can't take that away from him. He enjoys it so much."

"But you're not having fun." He looked at me. "Are you?"

I thought about it. "Sometimes," I admitted. I thought about it longer when Tony didn't reply. "I enjoy that he enjoys it. I like that I can make him feel that good. That part I really enjoy."

"It's a powerful feeling, isn't it?" he quietly asked.

I nodded.

"Everyone's in it for their own reason. But being able to make someone feel like that," he said, his voice low but still somehow strong, "is very powerful. To fulfill someone's desires, to give them the feelings they want to experience, to in essence, make their dreams come true."

I snorted. "Fairy fucking godmother."

He laughed, a low, warm sound that stirred something inside me I knew should remain dormant.

He wore no wedding ring and I stupidly realized for the first time I'd flown halfway across the country to meet with a man who was practically a stranger, and no one knew where the hell I'd gone except Delta, American Express, and Avis.

Proving yet again why he was the more experienced Dom, he studied me. "You didn't come here for a play date." It was a statement, not a question.

I shook my head.

"I didn't think so. I'm glad to hear it, because frankly, I couldn't have given you that right now anyway."

I breathed a sigh of relief. He smiled again.

"You're safe. Although I might need to see you to your hotel."

I laughed, feeling the buzz of the rum course through me.

No, I wasn't driving anywhere anytime soon.

I'd put my phone on silent and glanced at it halfway through the meal. The restaurant was open twenty-four hours, and it was now after ten local time.

Was my husband sitting on the couch with the phone in his hand, praying I'd call? Was he waiting on the bed for me, hoping I'd walk through the door any minute?

Had he fallen asleep?

I jumped, startled, as my phone lit up again.

Question answered.

Tony silently held out his hand and I passed my phone to him. He stood. As he walked away from the table, out the front door, he answered the call.

The longest twenty minutes of my life. I was glad Tony had at least finished his meal so it wasn't going cold. Tony returned and handed the phone to me.

I didn't know what or how to ask, so I didn't.

"He's worried," he finally said.

"I kind of guessed that."

He leaned back in his chair. "Don't you want to know what I told him?"

Unable to meet the weight of his gaze, I looked at my phone and shrugged.

He leaned forward so his voice wouldn't carry. "I'm not your Dom," he whispered. "I can't be that for you. Not like this, at least. Not under these circumstances."

"I don't want that from you. I just need..."

What? What did I need?

Tony helped. "Grounding?"

I nodded. Good as word as any.

I took a deep breath and met his eyes again. "I need to learn how not to hurt my husband, even when I really want to."

"I thought you weren't into pain play."

"I'm not," I whispered.

He slowly nodded, understanding. "You're afraid you're losing control."

"I wanted to fucking punch him. I wanted to order him onto the floor and kick the living shit out of him." Tears silently coursed down my cheeks and I wiped them away. "I was so fucking angry. I mean, goddammit, over a pair of fucking Channellocks!" I was hissing by the end of my tirade and I sat back, took a deep breath. "Is it too fucking much to ask to have a husband who knows a pair of Channellocks from a pair of vice grips? Most women don't know a goddamned wrench from a pair of pliers, and here I am having to teach my husband!"

"But you didn't teach him."

My jaw opened, then snapped shut.

Tony's eyes burned into me and I realized how right he was.

I hadn't taught him at all. I never had.

"You know these things," he patiently explained, "but you can't expect him to know something he hasn't been taught."

More fucking guilt. He was absolutely right.

I felt the tears again, close to the surface. I really didn't want to break down sobbing in a strange restaurant in front of a strange man in a strange town two thousand miles from home.

He reached across the table again and gripped my hand. "I told him who I was, and I told him basically where you are and that you're safe and that you'll call him in the morning. I also took the liberty of telling him he didn't do anything wrong, and that you would give him instructions when you call him, but he was to go to sleep and you wanted him to carry out his day tomorrow until he heard from you."

I nodded. And my husband would do just that, knowing him.

He was a good sub.

The bottom line was I felt mad, guilty, put-upon, and cheated out of what other women had.

But what did they have? Husbands who cheated on them, or who were too busy working to pay attention to them?

Husbands who could fix things but who didn't give a damn about their day? Husbands who didn't make their wives the center of their universe as mine so obviously had?

We talked for another hour and I felt guilty I'd pulled Tony away from his life despite his kind reassurances to the contrary. It was nearly midnight by this time and my rum buzz was a thing of the past. Still, he insisted on driving me across the street to the hotel. He waited until I was safely checked in and we agreed to meet for a late brunch downstairs at the hotel restaurant the next day.

I took a long, hot shower. Because I hadn't brought any sleeping clothes, I crawled into bed naked with CNN Headline News playing on the TV to drown out other noises. I felt exhausted to my very core and still couldn't sleep. My husband's hurt eyes haunted me. My guilt that a perfect stranger had to tell him where I was.

What was he thinking? Did he assume I'd flown out here to sleep with Tony?

More guilt.

I'd made no secret about talking with Tony. I had to get my information somewhere, and figured if we were in this together, there was no reason to hide what I was doing from my husband. There was nothing to hide.

There had to be more to their conversation than what Tony told me. Twenty minutes was a long time to say what he told me.

I'd have to ask him in the morning.