Domme By Default

Chapter 9 Her

Mojito Mamas ... Mimosa Mamas ... Margarita Mamas.

I had no idea so many alcoholic beverages started with M.

Why not the Milk Mamas or the Metamucil Mamas?

At the rate my friends were drinking, they'd be the Mylanta Mamas.

This week they'd opted to dub themselves the Martini Mamas. Each had a glass with a different flavored variation before them. I sat back and sipped my iced tea and watched them with a writer's eye. I felt more unconnected from them than I ever had in my life. Was this a result of my inner turmoil, or a natural instinct to stay in control?

There was no way in fucking hell I'd ever admit to any of them what my husband and I were now doing. I would not subject him to their uneducated snickering behind his back. I could care less what they thought of me for doing it, but I damn sure wouldn't have them thinking less of my husband.

On our girls nights, I was invariably the DD—Designated Driver. Not that they ever asked me. I'd always silently volunteered by ordering first, iced tea or coffee or something non-alcoholic. Over the years it became a natural assumption on their part. They trusted me to get them home to their husbands and families in one piece.

I sighed and looked at the ceiling. It had always been like this. The only one I ever drank with when out and about was my husband. And then he was my DD. Even in high school I was the "safe" friend who parents always looked at and smiled, knowing their child would come home safely. Perhaps late, or early depending on your point of view, but safely and not in the back of a squad car. I was the "good girl." I was the one my friends used as a front for their crazy-assed behaviors. I was welcomed not because of my stellar personality or brilliant conversation, certainly not because I was rich, because I wasn't.

But because I was in control.

I could keep them in control, under control, or at the very least from getting too much out of control.

How fucking stupid could I be?

My filter had shifted as I watched my friends laughing and talking. I could be any of their husbands sitting here, waiting for them to finish to drive them home. When they weren't drinking, I was one of the girls. Although...

When Angie's husband was away on business, I was the one she called for advice on the lawnmower or the garbage disposal.

When Jane's husband was still gone on deployment, I was the one she called in the middle of the night when her water heater split wide open and flooded her utility room.

I got the call early one morning when Susan's husband had already left for work and her car wouldn't start.

Caroline frantically IM'd me when she turned on the central heat system and smelled something "funny."

Why she didn't call 911 immediately, to this day I'll never understand. Fortunately it was just normal dust burn off from sitting unused in the Florida heat for a year.

Me.

Not my husband. Not their own male relatives or neighbors.

Moi.

I pretended to smile and nod at another story they thought was amazingly funny in their inebriated state. Frankly, I hadn't paid the slightest bit of attention. I was too stunned.

When I worked for other people, I was the natural leader despite not wanting the role. I always ended up appointed team leader, like it or not. The project manager, even when others volunteered and I sat there praying the boss wouldn't see me. The one everyone joked, "Give it to her, she always gets everything done. You're always so busy I don't know how you have time for it all!"

Well, it had to get done, one way or another.

I never refused, although I could have.

So it should only be natural I ended up with a husband who subconsciously saw me in the same light, right?

Strong.

Safe.

Reliable.

I was so sick of it on a cellular level. I wanted to be taken care of. I didn't want the decisions. I didn't want the responsibility.

It took every ounce of my will to not stand up and silently walk out of there without my friends.

I wanted to go home and hit my husband. Not bend him over the bed and playfully spank him until his ass and my hand both looked like the skin on a MacIntosh apple, but slug him in the jaw and call him a bastard for forcing me into this position.

Which was exactly why I didn't move. I stared into my glass of tea. When the waiter returned, I nodded when he offered me a refill. My friends were still drinking, would be good for at least another round and thirty minutes.

I couldn't go home like this, feeling like this. I needed to calm down.

I needed to regain control.

Part of me hated my husband, for my guilt, for my shame.

I never wanted to be a Domme. I wanted to be a loving wife.

I wanted a strong, dependable husband.

Now I think I understood maybe one reason why our variation of BDSM seemed to be the exception, not the rule.

No matter what Tony or my new acquaintances from the Munch said, it seemed like many dominant women in "the lifestyle" were full-blown Dominatrixes or whatever term they wanted to use for themselves, turning their men into playthings.

At least that's the information I kept finding. I intellectually knew there had to be more to it than that, but a serious lack of information I could relate to left me feeling lost and alone.

Maybe this was why, because eventually some women became aggravated at what they'd been pushed into and took on the role wholeheartedly.

Or, maybe not. I knew some women genuinely enjoyed the full-fledged kink, but I wasn't one of them.

It was difficult to find information on men like my husband, who only wanted to serve, not be used and abused. Even more difficult to find information on women like me who wanted to fill that need for them, not because they wanted and craved the control over their man, but because they wanted to fill that need for their man because they loved him.

I wasn't doing this for me, that's for damn sure.

I finally got my friends out of the restaurant and safely poured into their respective homes. I'd texted my husband before I left the restaurant and told him my approximate return time.

I'd also told him to be waiting for my return.

I opened the front door and he was sitting exactly as I'd instructed, naked, on his knees on the floor, his arms behind him, waiting with an eager smile on his face.

"Did I please you, Mistress?" he asked.

I nonchalantly dropped my purse onto the couch and nodded. How could I ever admit to him what I'd felt earlier? A horrible wave of guilt washed through me. I didn't want to be selfish, I wanted to make him happy.

This made him happy.

"You pleased me," I lied.