Loading...You know that feeling you get when you’re on that terrible amusement park ride, Tower of Terror or Freefall or whatever they call it- where they lift you up and then drop you out of the blue (literally) and your stomach flies up into your heart and your heart flies right out of your mouth?
That’s the feeling I get when I meet my husband’s angry gaze, and that anger is directed at me.
Sheer terror…and a splash of exhilaration. Mostly fear though. Right? Or is it excitement? I never can tell. It’s always just a crap-load of heart-stopping emotion that freezes me right in my tracks.
And speaking of amusement parks, we were at Disneyland when this happened last; my sisters and mother (the usual gang) plus my husband. Just a normal family excursion, no kids. Only- at least for me- it was going to become a lot more than just an excursion.
I’ve always had a problem with my temper. My mother calls it “flying by the seat of my pants” and my husband calls it “being a woman”. My mother encourages it- I can hear her shrill voice now… “We’re independent! Feel your emotions, don’t suppress them! Life is too short!” Whereas my husband, the alpha male of our relationship, is more like “I’ll kick your ass if you raise your voice to me.” And that’s that.
You’re probably wondering how these two people can coexist as two of my family members, let alone go to Disneyland together- you see, my mother has no idea Adam has more power over me than the sun has over the earth. She married twice and divorced twice, deducing from those experiences that all men are unworthy and women should not mingle with them. So, as a result of careful planning and deceit, she thinks my husband is a nice young man that wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Ha.
Back to my temper…it is uncontrollable. It is a separate entity, unchecked by reason and stability. A pain in the ass. In fact, I used to take medication for it- the psychiatrist deemed me bipolar.
Then Adam came along. Adam doesn’t like psychiatrists. It took all his self-control not to dump the entire container’s worth of pills down the drain. Well, not at first…but a year later, he had gained more trust from me than I’d given to anyone before, and the time had come for him to test the love I had for him…I remember the day clearly.
“Do you trust me?” he asked gently.
“Yes, of course, Adam.”
“Then you need to believe me when I tell you this. You are not bipolar, Sam.”
“But the psychiatrist-”
“Screw the psychiatrist. He doesn’t know shit about you. I know you. I know who you are. I know what goes on inside you.”
“I know you do…but…”
“But nothing. You’re done with these, and that’s that. Now you will take them and you will pour them down the drain.”
“Adam…please.”
“I will not have my love find comfort in either the word of a stranger or the supposed healing power of the drugs he subscribes to you. Poor them down the sink, now.”
I still remember the clinking sound of the pills sliding down the ceramic sink.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why would Adam know better than a doctor with a degree?
I don’t know myself. All I know is that I haven’t been to a psychiatrist since, nor have I needed one. The temper, however, still exists, but I’m not bipolar. He was right. So basically you could say that Adam cured me of my supposed bipolar disorder. If not for him, I would still be taking drugs for it today, still experiencing the side effects- the depression, fatigue, lack of energy…
Back to Disneyland. Now that I’ve described my background in a nutshell, you know that I am at the amusement park with my sisters, my feminist mom, and my old-fashioned, dominant husband.
I hate to blame the incident on such superficial things…but I’m going to anyway, because I like putting the blame on other things besides myself. Like the heat- It’s southern California, for crying out-loud. I hate heat. Also, the children…stupid kids. I like kids, I really do- just not in line for Space Mountain, crying and arguing and falling and poking and whining and fighting. And finally, unfortunately, my family…I guess you could say I’m annoyed easily. They have mannerisms, I have mannerisms, we step on each others’ toes- I am hot, annoyed, and easily irritated, and so when we sit down to eat and my concerned husband puts his hand on mine, I shrug it away with a curt, “Don’t.”
Luckily my family is elsewhere, buying food or something, I don’t really remember.
“Sam?”
“Adam!” I exclaim. “For Christ’s sake, let it go.”
Adam withdraws his hand, and I can’t help it- I look up, and search for his eyes. I then realize that I am on the Freefall ride- the anxiety rising as it lifts higher and higher…
And I find Adam’s eyes, dark and flat and furious…the cart stops lifting. It shakes. And then it drops. I am plunging downward as my family returns with food. Adam smiles and makes a curt excuse for the both of us, and I get up and follow him as he expects me to. I hear the funeral march as I walk.
I’m not even conscious of where we’re going. He finds some obscure corner behind some building in an alley that is quiet and empty. When he stops walking, I do as well, and nervously wait for him to speak. I hold my wrist in my other hand, make patterns in the dirt with my foot, and don’t look up from the ground. I feel like a small child up until the moment when he suddenly turns around, grabs me by the waist, and slams me into the wall. Then I feel truly feminine and grown-up, because a very mature, adult warmth begins to gather in my lower region; it is simply an automatic response to being sandwiched between the literal brick wall and the brick wall that is my husband. All I can do is gasp like a fish out of water and struggle weakly.
The worst thing is that he doesn’t even yell. He whispers. And his voice is silky smooth, utterly hypnotic.
“Do you think I enjoy it when you yell at me?” he breathes, tickling my ear. And despite how sexy his voice is, I am still terrified for my life.
“N-no…”
“No what?”
Oh god. “No s-sir.”
“Good girl. Now…despite the fact that I don’t enjoy your yelling, you seem not to care.”
“I do care, sir, I-”
“Shush. Let’s count, shall we? How many times have you lost your temper with me, within the last three days?”
“Um…well, one today, sir…and, uh-”
I yelp when I feel the sharp sting of his hand on my thigh. “Stop stuttering, Samantha. Stand up straight. When I ask you questions, I expect clear answers…” as he says this, I feel my stomach drop when he slowly, teasingly, begins to undo my jeans. First the button, and then he slowly drags the zipper down the seam…
“I’m sorry, sir,” I reply quietly. I force my breathing to stop shaking and close my eyes briefly. When I open them, Adam’s eyes are dark, seductive, and amused.
“I love when you try to compose yourself, love….especially when I-” and his fingers poise themselves at the top of my panties- “do this-” and they plunge themselves in, burrowing into my curls and making me squirm against the wall behind me. I find handholds in the bricks and hold on for dear life.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, sir,” I breathe.
Adam smirks. “Thank you, I am. But this isn’t about me…did you finish counting yet?”
“Uh…”
“In the past three days, did you lose your temper just once?”
“N-no, sir…”
“No? You lost it more than once?”
The bastard. He is being so cruel…but he is so hot. His face is tan and chiseled, as if it’s carved out of stone…his hair is dark brown and slightly curly. I just want to run my hands through it. And his shoulders and neck, so muscular and powerful.
Slap. My thigh stings worse when he slaps it a second time. “Look at me, Sam. Answer the question. Did you lose it twice then?”
I gulp. “No, sir…”
Adam grins an evil grin. “How many times, love?”
“Th-three, sir,” I gasp as his finger trails lightly along my outer lips. My spine is melting, my legs are shaking, and the heat is growing.
“Well at least you’re honest,” he laughs dryly. “And tell me, Samantha, who taught you to be so disrespectful to me? So irritable with your family? So poorly behaved on the happiest place on earth? Maybe I just have a faulty memory. Did I teach you those things?”
He is now stroking in circles, avoiding the center, making me fight to hold back groans and whimpers.
“No…”
SLAP. He laughs when I yelp again.
“No, what…?” he growls.
Fuck. He’s distracting me…I am digging myself deeper and deeper… “No, sir, you did not teach me that.”
“What did I teach you, love?” and- goddamn him- he buries his face in my neck, licking a path up to my ear, breathing hot, heavy air onto those terribly sensitive spots just below my hairline, and at the very tip of my spine, and right below my ear…he knows just where and how to touch me so that I simply melt, weak and submissive, in his capable arms…
But I can’t melt this time…I have to stay conscious…answer his questions…what did he ask?
“You taught me…” -I fumble with coherency- “to behave…and obey…and trust you.”
“Good girl.”
Adam briefly, ever so lightly grazes his finger along my clit. It catches me by surprise and I gasp, lunging forward slightly to find his fingertip again, but he maneuvers it back to the outer lips and continues circling. The agonizingly slow circle, in the wrong spot, but making me wetter and hotter by the second…
“What am I, Sam?”
Oh god. The questions. He loves forcing me to humiliate myself. And he knows that I secretly love it too.
“You are my husband, sir…”
“And?”
“My…master.” I wince, my cheeks going red from both embarrassment and arousal.
“Good girl. And what are you?”
“Your wife, sir.”
Adam laughs. “And? Keep going.”
“Your-” I grimace- “whore. Your toy, sir.” I close my eyes when Adam suddenly rubs up and down, hard, but he slaps my thigh again because he hates when he can’t see my eyes. My arousal is taking over…I open my eyes but I can’t see straight…all thoughts in my head are suddenly focused on two things- his finger, and what’s hidden behind the zipper of my husband’s jeans. But I continue. “Your bitch, sir, your plaything, your dirty slut…”
Adam smiles as he listens to me humiliate myself. “I’ll take over from here,” he decides. “Sam, you’re right. You’re all of those things. My pet, my slave, my bitch in heat, always craving my attention, lighting up when you see me enter the room, overwhelmed with ecstasy when I pet you, always in need of my cock, begging to be fucked even without words- I can see it in your eyes, bitch, the pure need. You will always be my pet, whether I’m sleeping next to you or eating dinner with you or dancing with you or spanking you or collaring you or screwing you.
“But…” he breathes, and finally he touches it again. One hand gropes my breasts while the other fondles my swollen clit. “But…you are my wife. My woman. My love. My life. I love you more than anything, you dirty, sexy, disgusting, needy, beautiful, amazing, wonderful creature.”
He begins to rub harder, and I’m practically panting.
“So what do you have to say for yourself, my wonderful wife?”
“Oh, god, sir…I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…” Sweat rolls down the side of my face.
“What are you sorry for?”
“For losing my temper…I’m sorry for yelling at you, sir, so sorry, I love you so much and I’ll never do it again…please forgive me…”
“I forgive you, love.”
I smile, and he rubs faster and harder, and I grip his forearms tightly. Oh god…
“Adam, master, please…” I finally whimper.
“Yes, love? What do you want?”
“I need to cum, please, sir, may I-?”
Adam kisses me just below my ear, and I shiver. I am desperately trying to hold back the waves of ecstasy, the shattering climax I know is just around the corner.
“You forgot something, love…”
My stomach drops. What? I said sir…I asked permission…what did I do?
“Master?”
“I forgive you, sure, but you seem to have forgotten that I’m punishing you, not rewarding you.”
And with that, his hands are out of my pants and off my body completely. His face is inches from mine when he whispers one more thing.
“The caring husband side of me hates to disappoint you, love…but you’re forgetting my sadistic side. My dominant side. Sorry, love. You raise your voice to me, you pay. And for now, your family is probably waiting for us…but don’t worry, Samantha, my pet, if you behave the rest of the day, I’ll make it up to you tonight ten-fold.”
And with that he kisses me, crudely and ravenously thrusting his tongue into my mouth- making me realize that he is just as hungry as I am. Maybe I have good reason to hope that he will keep his promise. And then he turns and leaves me on the wall, mouth open, pants undone, cheeks flushed, and climax slowly drifting away…I quickly arrange myself to look decent for the public, trying almost successfully to smother my excitement, and catch up to the sadistic bastard that holds the key to my very soul.